Snake, Otacon and Metal Gear belong to Hideo Kojima, although spiritually they belong to all of us, man. What, they don't? Fine! Then this is only half a chapter that ends abruptly! You'll have to wait for chapter nine to read any more sex! HA!
Smoke
It was seven in the evening, getting dark and raining heavily when they disembarked in Bristol. Otacon was starting to get a headache from lack of caffeine, and had to stuff the laptop under his jumper as they ran for the bus. Snake fumbled momentarily with the handful of unfamiliar change in the pocket of the jacket the girls had given him, eventually picking out the right money for the fare. The driver pulled away before they sat down, the soldier conscientiously avoiding the front seats reserved for the infirm and elderly and making his way to the middle of the bus.
Otacon looked out of the windows at the orange streetlights and white headlights, smeared by the rain into sweeping blurs. He was thirsty and his temples throbbed, and he let the side of his body press against Snake's as he flipped open his computer and briefly examined the next stage of their travel plan.
"Leave it," said the soldier, quietly. He'd memorised it all on the flight while his partner dozed. Running his thumb over the locker key in his palm, he asked, "You alright?"
Otacon was pretty sure that he meant, are you nervous? To which the answer was nearly always yes, rendering the condition itself unhelpful. He closed the laptop again, wanting to conserve battery. "Feels odd to be here," he admitted.
"Jet lag?"
"Something like that."
The train station the bus took them to was less than a hundred metres away from a MOD laboratory, a large and incongruous construction of glass and bright white concrete that stuck out from the houses crowding it on either side like weapons-developing sore thumb. Snake stared at it for a few seconds, then suburban scenery surrounding it.
"Jesus. What happened here?"
"What do you mean?"
"There's a weapons lab in the middle of town. Some kinda complicity between the locals and the scientists? Are these employees' houses? Don't they know what this building is?"
"No, I, I think it's supposed to be like this." They went into the station, which had been built in a similar fashion and looked more like an airport than the airport had done. "England has a population density of two hundred and forty per square kilometre, that's pretty tightly packed. Things are going to be close together."
They brought tickets from a machine, then had to hurry up the stairs to the platform. The train was already packed with commuters, so they just stood in the vestibule. Snake felt twitchy from being close to so many scientists, but the ride only lasted a few minutes. They got off and shuffled towards the stairs with the rest of the crowd, slowly filtering past the two conductors checking tickets.
The soldier gazed around the small station, made doubly dark by the failing light and the grime-covered skylights. "Bath Spa. Isn't that a tautology?"
"Blame the Romans." Otacon clutched onto his laptop and followed the larger man down the stairs and into the wet, cobbled street. Dodging the chaotic traffic of the car park, they crossed the road to the bus station.
"This is getting bizarre," complained Snake, as he knelt to open the locker. "Is anything in this country more than twenty minutes away?"
"It's just good infrastructure."
He grunted, sliding the heavy sports bag out of its metal box. "Ought to rent a car. I don't like messing about with public transport."
"Why don't we?" Otacon asked.
"I thought you read our brief? The clonettes' contact isn't keen on cars."
"Clo-?" The programmer shook his head. "What the heck is wrong with you, Snake?"
He ignored his partner and stood up, focussed on balancing the angular, heavy weight of his new burden over his shoulder without looking like he was carrying a bag of artillery. "You think their local branch left this for us, or a stooge?"
Otacon started to automatically defend the girls, then frowned. "You checked it over, didn't you?"
"I looked at it. That's not enough to be sure. I need you to make a scanner or something to check for nanomachines and tampering." He reached for his cigarettes, saw the 'no smoking' signs plastered on the walls, and growled at the rainy night.
Standing beside him, Otacon watched Snake's display of shortening temper, not directed at him for once. He thought the ex-government operative was fighting a deep sense of mistrust. Being sent half way around the world on the say-so of a mysterious ally clearly didn't sit easily with him. Otacon sighed, wished he could do something useful, but after the warnings he'd been given, he didn't dare try the wi-fi network. The laptop was starting to get heavy in his arms. He wanted to move closer to Snake, to close his eyes and lean against the larger man – not so much taller, but muscular and strong, like leaning against a warm wall – but he knew he couldn't, not in public. It wasn't even an unspoken rule, just an inhibition of his.
Their bus arrived, and they boarded in silence. When the driver grinned at Snake's accent and his pronunciation of "Corsham", Otacon winced and expected him to explode. Instead, he smiled and got her to repeat the word until he had it right. They sat down, the engineer feeling suddenly, unaccountably jealous.
It was their longest journey yet at thirty minutes, and largely in silence. The road wound out of the city and into an abrupt, short patch of countryside, still dotted with houses, points of light in the rolling hills. He wondered if the tiny hamlets had place names, or if the cities just never stopped, slowly spreading into one another. They passed more ominously incongruous buildings like the MOD laboratory beside the train station, an airfield, an army base, unspecified barbed-wire fenced compounds.
It was too dark to read the street signs, so Otacon was surprised when Snake leaned over and pressed the bell. The bus pulled to a halt at the next stop, and they got off.
"Now what?" Asked Otacon.
"We wait to meet the contact," Snake replied.
"Oh. Well. At least it's stopped raining."
They stood in a pool of orange streetlight by the edge of the road. It was freezing cold. The engineer thought he'd dressed appropriately, but his teeth were starting to chatter. Snake lit up a cigarette, and Otacon couldn't muster the vitriol to lecture him, although he did manage a theatrical cough. Suddenly, the soldier glanced up. A figure was shambling across the wet grass towards them. It was a man wearing baggy, torn clothes, his hair matted into dreadlocks. It didn't take much of an appraising glance for Snake to dismiss the intruder as someone wanting to catch a bus and sink back into his state of relaxed readiness.
So he was completely unprepared when the stranger stuck out his grimy hand and said, "Hi, Philanthropy?"
Snake ground his back teeth together. This was the kind of security breach that would require necks to be snapped. He considered starting with Otacon's when the man stepped forward and shook the proffered hand. "I'm Otacon."
"Ezra," said the unwashed hippie, and wandered back towards the nearest block of flats. "Let's get inside, looks like it might rain again any minute."
They followed him into the building. When they entered the foyer, it was a snapshot of 1970's social architecture, cracked cream tiles and the heat-dipped black plastic handrail peeling from the steel of the banister that curved its angular way up the side of the stairs. When they entered the man's flat, it was like walking into a dingy squat.
It was dark. It smelled of damp and dogs and cigarette smoke. Instead of a doormat, there was a carpet of unopened envelopes. The hall was full of abandoned junk – parts of a broken pushchair, cracked plastic kitchen fittings, an umbrella with its nylon skirt torn and all its ribs exposed. They followed the man past the door to the kitchen, which was hanging off its hinges, and into the living room.
"Take a seat," said Ezra. "I'll put the tea on, then we can get down to business."
The man disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Snake and Otacon looking around for something to sit on. Beneath the window was an aged sofa, its torn cushion-cases long ago covered with a sun-and-moon print blanket. Against the wall was a futon, broken and constantly stuck as a bed. Purple rugs hid the horrors of its mattress, and a miscellany of unmatched pillows was heaped upon it. Everything in the apartment was covered in a thick layer of particulate detritus, but Snake found the thought of sinking into the grubby depths of the sofa particularly unappealing. His expressionlessness tightening, he sat down on the edge of the futon. It creaked.
Otacon, who had spent many years at university, was more comfortable with this environment. Intrigued, he studied his surroundings. There was an unravelling rag rug on the floor, and Tibetan prayer flags wrapped around the curtain pole, while a computer sat on the grimy carpet in the corner of the room. Bookcases, some rickety chipboard, some expensive looking solid wood, all scavenged from skips, lined all the available wall space. They were stuffed with books in various languages. The ones with titles in English were called things like "The Gaia Theory", "The Backpackers Bible", and "Self Sufficiency – Your Key to Surviving the Collapse of Civilisation."
"Do you think this is just a base, or does someone really live here?" He wondered out loud.
"Why don't you ask your new hippie friend?" Growled Snake.
Otacon finally noticed Snake's stony glower of disapproval. "Hey," he murmured, prodding the man's tense shoulder. "What's wrong?"
"What's wrong? This is a massive breach of security-"
The hissed diatribe would have continued, if Ezra hadn't returned with chipped mugs of steaming green liquid, which he distributed to his guests. Snake regarded the tea as if it were toxic, but Otacon accepted gratefully. Ezra sat down on the sofa with his mug in both hands, and said, "So how do you know the collective?"
"The girls? We, uh, we helped them out one time." His throat was dry, and he sipped his tea. "Oh, wow, this is good."
"It's yarrow."
"Oh, yeah? Because I usually drink coffee, so I can't even taste herbal tea, but this is pretty nice."
The man nodded sagely, making his dreadlocks sway. "That's your body trying to accept what's good for it. Most commercial herbal teas are nothing more than dilute squash, but yarrow's very cleansing."
"I can believe that, this smells sorta clean," agreed Otacon.
"I collected it myself. It grows wild all over the place."
"Wow, cool."
Snake was about to scream when the conversation abruptly got back on track.
"But the collective, yeah. After our public gatherings were banned, they turned up at my door one evening. At first I was freaked out about how much they knew, but they've got red hair."
"Red hair? What the hell does that have to do with anything?" Asked Snake, narrowing his eyes.
Ezra gave him a reproving look. "People with red hair are naturally spiritually powerful. Not to mention how much positive energy they're gathering by never speaking."
"They can't speak, they've got no vocal chords."
"Well, that wouldn't stop them from whispering, or using some artificial means. The collective really understands the power of the written word." The man waved a long-nailed hand in a dismissive gesture. "Anyway, the point is that their information was good. It was the proof that we'd been trying to find for years." He turned around and rummaged between the sofa cushions for a sheaf of papers, which he handed to the Americans.
"Project Still," read Otacon. He flipped through the pages, photocopies of schematic diagrams shrunk down to A4 size, lists of manufacturing sites and dates and photographs of shadowy outlines that would only be identified by someone who had seen the machines in all their quasi-cloaked glory. "This is red hot stuff. Why haven't you given it to the authorities?"
"The authorities!" Ezra's eyes widened, and he leaned forward in his seat. "Which authorities? The authorities who made public gatherings for the form of peaceful protest illegal? The authorities who opted out of the European convention of human rights so they could arrest people and hold them for an indefinite length of time, for no given reason?"
Otacon blinked; he thought they'd just left that country. "The press, then."
"The press? You mean the newspapers? They're owned by multinational conglomerates, who decide what to print based on how many papers it'll sell." He didn't sound angry, only grim. "Even if someone decided it was a newsworthy story, nobody who read it would believe it. Only an idiot believes what the mass media tells them."
The engineer gulped, remembering a time when he had been that idiot. "Well... What about your organisation? There must be more than just you working on this."
Ezra raised his eyebrows and pressed a finger to his lips. "Being head of an organisation carries a heavy sentence these days. We're nothing more than a collection of like-minded individuals. The others will be here soon."
Snake sat in silence throughout the exchange. He could understand the tone of Ezra's speech, could recognise the feeling that froze your guts when you realised that every small, seemingly unconnected move your enemy had made up until this point was simply to cut off your escape when they pulled away the curtain and revealed their master plan.
"Wait," said Snake, abruptly. "The.. the collective said the new Metal Gear isn't a government project, but funded by disgruntled businessmen. I can see why they'd get sick of this regime, but has government policy designed to gag the citizens backfired, or what? What the hell is going on here?"
"Of course it's not a government project," replied Ezra, looking blank. "The Ministry of Defence isn't connected to the government. They make their own decisions about what to research. Politicians come to them for advice, not the other way around. I mean," the man laughed, "You can't have someone who's only qualification is that they've been elected deciding military policy."
The soldier gave a disgusted growl, and would have interrogated Ezra on his democratic double standards, when there was a knock at the door. He tensed, hand dropping to the gun under his sweater. Behind him, he could hear Otacon's startled intake of breath, feel him shift his weight to get behind cover.
Unperturbed by the reaction of his guests, Ezra got up and shambled to the door. It was his associates. A young woman with long, dark pink hair and a tall man with a beard walked into the living room, followed by a big black mongrel dog. The dog was thin and shaggy, and snuffled at the carpet for crumbs while the two humans sat down and introduced themselves.
"I'm George," said the man, nodding to Otacon but largely addressing Snake. "I'm going to be your support on this mission. Computers and radios are as good as useless here, they're monitoring everything, so the more low-tech the better. You'll be going in with a paper map and a stack of photographs."
"And I'm Kate," said the woman with the pink hair. "I'm mostly here because women are never revolutionary terrorists. It's a really effective smokescreen," she said brightly. "If we ever need a little extra cover, I bring my daughter along."
"Wow." Managing to be completely oblivious to the slow tightening of Snake's jaw, Otacon leaned forward so the dog could sniff his hands. "I guess that would work. How old is she?"
"Eight months."
Ezra brought more tea, and said he'd start cooking.
"We'd better get down to it, then," said George. He took the notes on Project Still, flicked through them until he found a map of the compound. "There's a camera blind spot here, and they don't make patrols of the outer perimeter, so this'll be our infiltration point. We've been cutting the barbed wire on top of the fence, so you'll be able to get through. After that, it's just a matter of avoiding the guards and the cameras. They've got dogs, too." He glanced up at the mercenary. "Think you can do it?"
Snake gave an affirmative grunt. "And what'll you be doing while I stroll through the most heavily guarded military base in England?"
"It's not a military base," the man corrected him. "It's an MoD base. And I won't be doing anything except waiting for you. Sorry, man. If we could do it ourselves, it'd already have been done."
"What about me?" Asked Otacon, without looking up from scratching the ears of the unkempt black mongrel.
"Sorry, man," repeated George. "Any technology more complex than a mechanical pencil can be seized and searched without a warrant. If you can help him without using a computer, mobile phone or radio, go ahead."
"Hmm." The engineer kept his head down, stroking the animal's rough coat and thinking. "How far away is the base from the town?"
"It's not, it's surrounded by houses."
"Then there must be a constant jumble of civilian communication signals. If I could keep the output low and hide amongst the background noise-"
"It's too big a risk." Kate glanced at Snake, then back to Otacon. "It's your arse on the line, so it's up to you. But if I were you, I'd sit this one out. You're only going to be putting the mission in danger."
He looked up at his partner. Snake found the man's expression hard to read, something that had nothing to do with his glasses and everything to do with his own feelings on the matter. "I think you should stay here," he said, eventually. "Work on re-encrypting the stuff on your laptop. We've still got to get out of this country again."
Ezra walked in. "Food's ready," he informed the assembled crowd. It was brown rice, and lentils cooked with tomato paste. Otacon ate as if he were starving. The last real food he'd had was the hoi sin mink rolls, and they were a long time ago. More herbal tea was served, although Snake's request for plain water was fulfilled. The battle-hardened mercenary, who would readily devour a ten-year-old MRE, was suddenly struck with the repellent certainty that the bowls they were eating from had only been rinsed out with cold water since their last use.
After the meal, he tightened his sneaking suit and readied his weapons while George went over the maps with him. It wasn't a complicated mission, apart from the swarms of guards. There was nothing to get worried about. There was no reason to get annoyed that Otacon seemed too caught up in conversation with his new friends to do any more than wave and say, "good luck."
As they walked out, the freshness of the countryside night air hit him, and he took a few deep breath to clear his head of dirty hippie hovels. So the clone-girls had some disgusting allies. What else could you expect from a bunch of subhuman ferret-wranglers. Time to get his head in the game. "Let's go, where's your car?"
George just gave him a blank look.
They left the concrete yard, criss-crossed with washing lines, and walked down the street. There was an A-road, screened with hedges. Past that was the perimeter fence of the base.
Snake glared at it. "You spent years setting this up, right? How did you get a base of operations two hundred metres away from a secret weapons lab?"
"Nothing's set up, man. That's just where the Council houses are. I only live here 'cause I used to have a really bad heroin problem."
The mercenary just stared at him for a long moment.
"Don't worry man, I've been clean for years," amended George, hurriedly. "Ever since this dealer broke my legs. You wanna get over the fence now, or what?"
Despite the unshakable feeling that this was only going to end badly, Snake climbed the chain-link fence. His mission support pointed out where they'd surreptitiously cut the rusty barbed wire, and he got through with only a few minor scratches. He dropped noiselessly to the ground and turned back to George, who was lying in the ditch by the side of the road and covering himself in newspapers.
"Hey, what the hell are you doing?" Growled Snake. "What if someone drives past and sees you?"
"They'll assume I'm drunk."
"Yeah, and what if they stop?"
George gave a muffled snort of laughter. "I'm your cover. If the guards suspect anything, I'll throw stuff at the fence."
"What kind of a plan is that? They'll know something is going on!"
"Nah, I'm here, like, three nights a week."
Cursing all drug-addled drains upon society, Snake drew his M9 and moved towards the base.