A Matter of Perspective

Johnny Sasaki, curiously the only guard making the rounds inside Groznyj Grad's underground dungeon, stretched to ease the cramps in his muscles. It was a welcome change from the cramps that normally resulted in him making a wild dash for the nearest bathroom, but it was still pretty unpleasant to experience. The tendons in his neck stood out, the marginal amount of muscle in his arms rippled, and he began to sweat under the balaclava concealing his face. Outside, the afternoon sun was beginning its downward journey toward the horizon, heralding the beginning of evening – not that the guard knew or cared anything about it.

It was, however, of immeasurable importance to the prisoner who would soon be making his escape from the dank prison in the darkest hours of the night... of course, not that Johnny knew anything about that, either.

Johnny had only just caught a glimpse of the prisoner's arrival earlier that day, due to a particularly nasty struggle he was having on the Porcelain Throne around the time his buddies – if you could call them that; no other soldier in the compound would be caught dead declaring himself Johnny's friend – threw the jail gates open, deposited their "cargo," and slammed them closed again. Johnny wondered at the special circumstances surrounding his relocation, as Colonel Volgin's wrath almost never allowed for POWs – unless your definition of "POW" went on to include a corpse that had been defiled beyond recognition on every imaginable level.

He opened his mouth, attempted to defuse the tense situation with friendly words. Yet he never got as far as uttering "Hey, there," or "What's up?" – the abdominal tremors were sweeping over him again, this time to an agonizingly painful degree. He grit his teeth and dark shadows converged on his trembling form as...

"Ohh, no," he moaned. "It's coming out!"

BLEAARRRGGHH

"Gotta get to the toilet!"

HOOOGGGHHH

"Made it!"

BRAAAAAAAAAP

"Still coming out!"

PREEEEEEEEEET

"Eeeeaaaaauuuuugggghhh! ...Phew, I'm done."

He gazed into the bowl, simultaneously disgusted and impressed. "Wow. That's a record." He began waving his hands in an attempt to clear the air, which he noted with amazement had next to no effect on the miasma; even now it seemed to be rising into the air and suffusing the cracks in the ceiling with its stench. "Will this thing even flush...?"

GLUGLUGLUG

Apparently not. Ah, well, I'll get to it later, the guard thought, immensely cheered that – for a few hours, at least – the constant bouts of diarrhea his body was given over to dealing with at a moment's notice would no longer trouble him.

Timidly Johnny crept out of the bathroom. He hoped he hadn't made a scene. The last thing he wanted was to look like a fool in front of "the American dog," as the other soldiers had derisively called the prisoner. He peered across the harshly lit hallway into the cell in which the prisoner had presumably made up a bed for himself. All seemed to be well. The prisoner was lying on his bunk, hadn't budged an inch...

"Hello?" he began tentatively. "Hello?"

The prisoner remained completely immobile. Silence.

"Are you dead?" Johnny said after a beat.

The stranger's reply was to hold up his hand and wave two fingers in the air. No, I'm not dead. The guard exhaled a breath of relief.

When the prisoner continued to ignore further prompting on Johnny's part, he abruptly switched to his native language of English. The guard's Russian wasn't all that good to begin with, and he doubted the haggard, beaten-up stranger could understand anything else of what he was trying to get across. It was, unsurprisingly, a liability for which the other soldiers constantly harangued him.

Among other things, he thought, sighing. The sound of flushing toilet water echoing throughout the prison halls only seemed to confirm his undisputed status as a buffoon.

"Hey, you gonna eat that?" he said when he saw that the prisoner hadn't touched the third helping of vampire bat meat he had tossed through an opening in the bars. So far the stranger had thrown back every scrap of food he'd been offered over the last few hours, only to be happily picked off by the guard at his discretion. The stranger's response to the question was to heave the can of tasteless meat – damn, but he was strong! – through the bars where it made a hollow ringing sound upon connecting with Johnny's skull.

"Oops." These were the first words the stranger had breathed all day except for the times when he'd been whispering into the radio attached to his chest, which Johnny didn't count. His delight that, for once in his life, someone had actually regretted hitting him was immediately offset by pain and dizziness. "Ouch!"

"I'm not hungry," the prisoner offered in a tone that was at once gruff and apologetic. "Help yourself..."

"Thanks a lot!" Johnny said, abandoning all thoughts that he might well be suffering a head concussion. Once the stars and tweetie birds had cleared from his vision, he sank onto the hard floor and turned to face the stranger with an expression of open curiosity. In one hand he clutched the can, while in the other he feebly attempted to twirl his shotgun (the gun was mostly for show; the Colonel and others didn't trust Johnny to know how to handle a real weapon, and unfortunately for him they were right).

The man staring back at him, to his untimely shock, had sustained far more damage than he'd first imagined, and his right eye was ruined beyond repair. What did the Colonel DO to him? Johnny thought, and much to his shame, a moment passed in which he envisioned the prisoner decked out in an eye patch and pirate threads. Shaking himself, the guard marveled at the man's seemingly limitless reserves of strength, as he hadn't cried out or whimpered once as Johnny's comrades had unceremoniously shoved him – wounds, bruises, injured eye and all – into the prison cell. This was a Tough Guy, and he said as much.

"Actually, the name's Snake," the prisoner said. He paused to adjust the bandana that was tied around his forehead. "What's yours?"

"Johnny!" the guard replied. He remained perplexed by the demeanor of the man who, for all intents and purposes, was no longer a stranger to him. People usually regarded Johnny with one of three emotions: loathing, pity, or amusement. Snake was perplexing in that he resorted to none of these. What's more, he seemed to be genuinely interested in whatever sorts of things the guard had to contribute in the forthcoming conversation.

That's probably because he doesn't know me very well, Johnny thought sadly, casting a sidelong glance at the toilet a little ways off. Although, what have these last few hours done except show him what a loser I am?

For the next several minutes, Johnny was forced to do most of the talking, Snake's excuse being that it hurt his mouth too much to do so himself. Normally this wasn't a problem for him – and it still wasn't – but he was far more interested in hearing Snake's story and how he had ended up in the Groznyj Grad prison than in relating his own personal struggles with an irritable bowel ("A victory against that is like a victory against polio," he explained to Snake, who remained taciturn with some difficulty upon hearing this statement). The most Johnny knew about Snake was that he was a CIA operative, and that he was supposed to keep close tabs on him... but curiosity and eagerness to ward off the inevitable pangs of loneliness that accompanied his profession, as always, won out in the end.

"You're not such a bad guy after all," Johnny said at one point. His words belied the fact that he had never thought of Snake as a bad guy in the first place. The next sentence he tried to utter with severe dignity, despite his personal feelings. "I guess not all Americans are dogs."

Snake blinked with his good eye. "You mean it?"

Johnny cleared his throat nervously; he hadn't anticipated that reaction. He felt bad, but continued to maintain the façade: "Yes, well, because I used to be American, as well. Too. Uhhh..."

There was a moment of awkward silence, before Snake asked, "You lived there?"

Oh, to heck with it, the guard thought. Honesty was the best policy, after all. "Sure did," he replied. "Before the war started." His voice grew wistful. "I even had a wife and kid."

"You must be pretty lonely," Snake observed.

"Yeah," Johnny said, turning away. His reply was so faint that the prisoner had to strain to hear it. He looked back, and the sympathy he saw in Snake's face gave the guard the courage to continue. "Actually, I am REALLY lonely. My cousin and I came here together a few years ago. He was never really a friend, but he at least kept me company and even understood me a little bit. Ever since he died, I've been all alone. Do you know what that feels like?" he asked at the last, a pleading note in his voice.

"Yes, I do," Snake said quietly. His hand, as if guided by instinct, went to the bandana on his head. "What's your kid's name?" he said, quickly changing the subject.

"Johnny," the guard said. "It's a tradition in my family that all the first-born sons be named Johnny." He pulled a picture out of his back pocket and gazed at it longingly. "Oh, this is him," he explained when he saw the prisoner looking at the back of the photo with sudden, intense interest. "And my wife." He slipped it through the bars to Snake. "My dad's a Johnny, and my son's son will probably be a Johnny, too."

"A whole clan of Johnnies," Snake remarked wryly.

The guard nodded and heaved a sigh that came from the toes of his boots. "Why do we have a Cold War anyway...?"

Snake looked at him questioningly.

"I mean, our two countries used to be such good friends. But then the United States ruined everything with their ridiculous ideas for postwar security and their overbearing capitalist ideology. Not my words," he quickly amended when he saw the prisoner's eyebrows knit into a V-shape. "It's just what my cousin and I were told." His shoulders shrugged, as he continued in a voice lacking in conviction. "And now I'm supposed to see Johnny and Maria as my enemies, just because they're American. But I can't make myself believe that, not in a million years! – and now, I don't even have a reason to fight. That's why I've been relegated to guard duty. I'm a lousy soldier." Johnny's head sank in dismay at his plight.

Snake said nothing for a long time, peered out at him intently from behind the bars. Finally he put the picture down at his side and began to speak. But there was a tinny, rehearsed quality to it that didn't make Johnny feel any better.

"Listen. Whether a country is in the right or not, or you've got emotional attachments – these things should never trouble you during a war. Politics ultimately determine who you face on the battlefield," Snake intoned solemnly. "They're a living thing, always changing with the times. Yesterday's good might be tomorrow's evil. The Cold War is a prime example of that. You're right; America and Russia were great friends. But now, because of the times, all that's changed.

"To that end, a soldier has to follow whatever orders he's given. It's not his place to question why or look for a reason. He's a political tool, nothing more. Right and wrong have no place in his mission. He has no enemies and no friends, only the mission. That's what being a soldier is all about."

Johnny listened. A sickening feeling arose in the pit of his stomach, but he didn't dare make a move. Snake continued:

"There's a saying in the Orient: 'Loyalty to the end.' That means devoting yourself to your country, no matter the current leaders or the prevailing political beliefs. Because what determines the mission isn't people, it's the times. People's values change over time, and so do their leaders and politics. So there's no such thing as a true enemy. The enemies we fight are only in relative terms, constantly changing with the times. Conversely, so are our friends."

"My stomach hurts," the guard moaned, but Snake ignored him. He appeared to be lost in what he believed to be the truth of his own words.

"The only thing we can believe in with absolute certainty is the orders we're given. The mission. As long as you always remain 'loyal to the end,' there's no point in believing anything about the conflict you're engaged in. Nor in anyone, for that matter..."

"That's how I'm supposed to be a soldier?" Johnny asked helplessly.

"Yeah. Otherwise you just become another man with a gun."

"If that's true, then I don't wanna be a soldier," Johnny said petulantly, clutching his abdomen. He knew what camp he was in. "That's horrible."

"Why?" Snake said evenly. "I thought you were halfway to figuring it out when you said you couldn't see your family as enemies" – he handed the picture back to the guard – "no matter what Russia said about America. You see, neither countries are really right about each other being evil, not in an objective sense. It's all politics. You have to harden yourself to your own feelings or get lost in the flow."

"And you don't have a problem with that?" Johnny said accusingly.

His question had the same effect as if he had picked up his shotgun and threatened to pump the prisoner full of lead. Snake's eyes – Er, eye, Johnny mentally amended – grew wide, and the muscles in his jaw tightened. "Being a lousy soldier isn't the end of the world," he finally said laconically.

"Do you even believe it? All that other stuff?" Johnny pressed.

"I..." Snake hesitated. Does he have someone that he cares about, like I do? Does he have a family? the guard wondered. "I don't know," he finally conceded.

"Then why say it?"

Snake's face remained drawn with indecision, then flushed a deep crimson. He looked away. "Because... the person who said it to me. She..."

She? "Who? Your girlfriend? Your mother?" Johnny guessed.

"Something like that," Snake said quickly, dismissively, though Johnny didn't know which guess he was confirming. Then he looked thoughtful. "I don't know why she said that to me. She never said things like that before. Then again, 'before' was a long time ago. 5 years, 80 days, and 4 hours ago, to be exact..."

Johnny didn't understand, but thought it best not to say anything else on that point. After a moment, he said:

"I think some things, at least, ought to remain absolutely true. Oh, maybe not about one country being supremely evil and another being supremely the opposite, but, y'know... things like love, and glory, and... friendship" – he looked quickly to see if Snake had turned his face back toward him; he had – "only because it seems right. I don't want it to be reduced to a matter of perspective."

"Does absolute truth even exist?" Snake asked, as if he genuinely wondered at the answer.

"I think so. I mean, if you just said there was no such thing as absolute truth, there'd be no logic to prove it was absolutely true. And then everything just starts turning in on itself after that."

"Well, those things probably only exist in heaven, anyway," Snake said.

"Really?" Johnny said. "Well, then I'd like to think I'm in heaven right now."

"Huh? Why's that?"

"Because you're my friend." Johnny smiled underneath his mask.

"Really?" Snake smiled back. "Then how about letting me out of here?" He sounded as though he already knew the answer.

"Sorry, I can't." The guard shook his head rapidly. "I still have a duty to serve this country. And I can't pretend that your words about absolute loyalty had NO effect on me." He stood up and briskly shouldered his weapon. "When the war is over, I'll rejoin my family in America and start over. Maybe I'll make my own heaven!"

"A heaven outside of heaven," Snake murmured. "An outer heaven..."

"What's that?"

"Nothing." Snake shrugged, then gestured to a package of cigars sticking conspicuously out of one of Johnny's pockets. "Can I have one of those?"

"Of course," the guard replied. He handed them over to the prisoner – no, scratch that, his friend – who accepted them gratefully before assuming the same mystified expression that had crossed his face upon seeing the back of the picture. Johnny began to explain.

"These cigars? Yeah, they're yours," he said with a grin. "I was going to give them back to you. I figured that, even as rough as I'VE got it, you must have it a whole heck of a lot worse. I can always go back to my place in time for dinner, but you..." He sighed and shook his head. "Well, anyway. I filched them from your equipment when the Colonel wasn't looking. It's the least I can do."

"Thanks," Snake said. He removed a cigar from the package, but didn't light it. "I think I'll save this for later."

"Suit yourself," Johnny said. He winced at the GLUGLUGLUG sound of water suddenly overflowing the toilet bowl a little ways behind him. "You, ah... you don't think I'm weird, do you?"

His friend, who was still staring at the cigar in his hand in a pensive manner, started at his question. "Yeah, a little bit," he said noncommittally. "But there's nothing wrong with that."

"Gee, thanks," Johnny said without irony. "You know, you're the first person on the other side of the Atlantic to treat me like an equal. Who'd have thought it would be an American?"

"I hear ya." Snake grinned. "Folks here aren't too friendly to me, either."

"We maligned types need to stick together." Johnny made as if to clap Snake on the back, then remembered they were separated by a few dozen iron bars. Instead, he briefly clasped his friend's hand. Then he whistled a jaunty tune as he set about looking for the toilet plunger.

Twenty minutes later, he had managed to successfully stamp out most of the acrid odor left over from his untimely trip to the bathroom. The toilet was also in proper working condition again, though he doubted it would remain that way for long. Still, he couldn't keep the smile off his face. He had made a new friend in Snake, and life was grand.

"Hey, Snake, how're you holdin' up – "

He stopped dead in his tracks, checked an exclamation of incredulity as Snake calmly stood outside the cell door. He put his hands up in a gesture of nonviolence, advanced toward the guard.

"Don't move," he said.

Johnny immediately disobeyed. He reached for the nearest weapon on his person – the toilet plunger – but never got a chance to brandish it as Snake took one step and suddenly appeared by his side. Wrapping one arm around his neck, holding him fast, he whipped out the cigar that Johnny had given him. A strange, noxious spray flowed into his eyes. Surprised beyond measure, he dropped the plunger and Snake let him go.

The spray took effect almost instantaneously. Johnny's knees were reduced to rubber and he swayed, like a tree that had been cut and was ready to fall. The image of Snake standing over him with a mournful expression, along with the details of the prison, began to dissolve. They ran down the edges of his vision like a rain-soaked painting.

Thump.

When Johnny came to, he couldn't help but feel as if he had been dropped headfirst into a black hole. His head throbbed with pain. The fluorescent hall lights had been busted; smashed glass was littered everywhere. A terribly oppressive feeling stifled the air, leaving him claustrophobic and struggling for breath. He looked around in confusion.

Snake was gone.

In the darkness he could just barely make out the figures of two of his superiors. He stumbled to his feet, saluted clumsily.

"Sasaki! What the hell happened?" one of them thundered. He held a lantern in his hand, illuminating his infuriated features and bringing into focus the other soldiers who had stormed into the prison.

"I don't know," Johnny replied weakly.

"Idiot!" The guard vanished precipitously.

Johnny hung his head in shame, as others bearing lanterns arrived to interrogate him. The guard explained to them in a wavering voice how he had just gone to plunge the toilet (many of them nodded and exchanged knowing looks on this point) when he caught sight of the prison door flung wide open, as well as the prisoner himself standing just a few feet in front of him.

"After that, I... I can't remember anything."

Casting him baleful glances, the soldiers examined Johnny's body to see if he had been seriously injured. He had not. With disappointed murmurs, they quickly divested themselves of Stupid Sasaki's presence and disappeared up the winding staircase. He was left by himself to grieve – not only for his incompetence, but also for the loss of his only friend in the world.

The guard's melancholy was interrupted by the chafing sensation of paper pressing up against his thigh. Puzzled, Johnny withdrew a tiny sheet of paper upon which was scrawled a brief message to him. He began to read.

Dear Johnny,

Like you, I believe in 'loyalty to the end.' I came here on a mission, and I plan on seeing it through to its success. Which means I'm not quite above stealing the frequency that opens the door and knocking you out with Cigar-Gas Spray. (Sorry.) In a better world, this wouldn't happen.

Speaking of which: should I ever make it out of Russia alive, I'll help you to build that heaven of yours.

– Your friend, Naked Snake

Johnny stared at the note in a daze, reading it over and over without really comprehending the words. Finally everything clicked. He touched the bump on his head gingerly, noting that his fingers came away with blood on them. It had all been orchestrated by Snake to look as if the two had fought each other, with him being knocked unconscious at the end. That way he wouldn't be punished for shirking guard duty – or, worse – "aiding and abetting the enemy."

There was still the matter of the note, however. Neither of them could risk having it found. Ignoring the nausea that suddenly overcame him in waves, Johnny stuffed it into his mouth and ate it. Then he rejoined the rest of the soldiers outside, where the entire Groznyj Grad compound had entered a state of lockdown in the hopes of arresting the enemy's escape. They'd never find him, Johnny thought. He was a Tough Guy. Gratefully, he gulped draughts of cool air.

Reconstructing those few, final moments in which Snake must have set about writing the letter, Johnny imagined his friend being forced to adopt an attitude that vacillated between genuine sorrow and firm resolve. He knew exactly what the other soldier was going through, having experienced the dilemma himself time and time again. But then again, maybe neither of us are really soldiers, he thought. At least in the sense that we don't want to be political tools. Maybe someday we can become a different kind of soldier – a free soldier – and determine for ourselves which causes are worth fighting for.

Johnny drew a deep, shuddering breath, and a tear – concealed, as were all signs of his emotions, underneath a government-issued balaclava – slowly slid down his cheek. Amid the ado consisting of horn blaring and alarms and shouting, he silently saluted and gazed into the black clouds.

"Godspeed, Naked Snake. And farewell..."

His face puckered in agony as his stomach rumbled and his bowels shifted.

"Oh, no! Not AGAIN..."