Author's Note: This chapter was reedited once, for spelling, continuity, and minor additional material.

The rest of the week was spent mired in boredom, a series of tedious chores that needed tending to, with few intervals between. First was a run with the press, casual and authoritative, regarding her adventures. Was it difficult being a woman in her field, was she rebelling, was she repressing, did she fancy ever being in a biopic, did she regard other studies as being too costly, too stuffy, too casual, did she enjoy any imitators, did she listen to praise detraction retraction or slander. The day after that was an argument with the typesetter, since she wanted a slightly larger font and gliclee imprint for the deluxe edition that would raise the cost of the book, so she argued instead for a lessened quantity that would serve everybody's purpose. Later still that week was a fly-by-night meeting in London with a board of individuals wherein she had to argue the methods of a paper published two years ago, having to defend the tactics used to wrest objects from artifact poachers.

Then there was the charity ball.

The morning after her return, and her night with Francis, she had spent what little free time she had reflecting on their intimacy, if it could be called that. There was a residual sensation like guilt somewhere floating about her thoughts that made her feel like she'd tossed back a dirty cocktail, a gutburn that lingered in the caverns of her ribcage like loathing. It had been brief and filthy, satisfying like aniseed mingling incense. Her thoughts made her feel preteen and petty, exacerbated by her surroundings of top shelf bourgeoisie. There were bright sparklings and clinking bourgeois and she felt so out of place, she left early, tired with formality and bored by her immaturity.

Francis had not filled something, but left instead only knowledge instead that there was a space.

On Saturday, meeting Mr. "Danziger," she realised that maybe she'd lucked into just what she might need.

"I'll have black pinto on wheat, lightly buttered, please. Oh, and chinese green tea with no cream, no sugar, thank you. Hal?" Lara handed back her menu.

"Uhm, a croisant and a scone, please. Coffee, lots of sugar and milk. Nastasha?" He gave back the menu and began cleaning his hornrimmed glasses.

"Black coffee, straight, an ashtray, and some eggs, please, scrambled. Thank you." Nastasha produced a pack of cigarettes and gave their menu to the waiter.

Lara played lightly with the rose at the middle of the wrought iron table. They were the only people at the cafe's terrace, and dawn was a lovely throat beyond the cobbles and the looming brick edifices surrounding them. They were on the outskirts of a downtown street, closer to low-rent flats and the river than to anything remotely urbane. If they had been in the 1910's, almost nothing would have looked amiss. There were the beginnings of passersby and bicyclists moving about, but they had most of the early morning, and the entirety of the outdoor dining, to themselves.

"Lovely venue, by the way. Thank you both for the invitation. I take it you two have already spoken, though." Ms. Romanenko had begun her second cigarette of the morning. A rail-thin blonde on the cusp of forty with no interest in formality and a light czech accent. Lara liked her as soon as they'd introduced themselves, after the older woman had extended her hand and gripped Lara's firmly, like a colleague.

Hal placed his glasses back on the ridge of his nose. "Yes, and no."

"I'm afraid I know only that there was a proposition to be made?"

"Well, yes, and no." Hal pressed his glasses back up, the tic's resurgence. "We had a few questions for you, actually, and after that we can proceed."

"Sure, I'm not opposed to that much at least."

Nastasha, cigarette planted in the corner of her mouth and arm crooked over the table's corner, leaned forward. "Are you opposed to something a bit less... public than your more recent activities?"

"Uh? I'm not sure I understand." Lara wrinkled her nose and raised an eyebrow. The waiter came back, caraffe with water and three glasses. After the awkward pause, Hal clasped his hands and proceeded.

"What we're asking, and I guess this'll make this breakfast a lot shorter depending on your answer, is you operate strictly legally?"

Lara paused. Considered. "I suppose that depends."

Nastasha and Hal exchanged brief, furtive smiles. It was Nastasha who let out a small laugh. "Harasho. A fine answer, miss. I would trust nothing less. I'm afraid we're being rather secretive-"

"My, I'll say."

"-but I hope you'll trust Mr. Danziger and myself in that it's all necessary. Our work is going to be public very soon, and with involvement in the United Nations not long after.""United Nations? I'm sorry, I'm afraid I certainly must have missed a beat. Are the two of you from the American government?"

"No." Both in unison.

Lara was becoming slightly annoyed by this odd doublespeak. "Look, I'm not much of a diplomat, so I'm going to have to insist that we dispense with the lot of this and get straight to things as they are, if that's alright with both of you?"

There was another prolonged pause and Lara was certain they were silently weighing their options. It was Hal who figuratively stepped forward first.

"We need an investor, and an agent. We're activists. Of a sort." Before Lara could quip; "or we will be. And not for the environment, or against governments, or technology. We're not fighting nations or wars or politicians." He took a deep breath, looked at his hands, lingering there. For a moment, Lara saw guilt. "We're fighting holocaust.""Holocaust?""Of a nuclear scale. We have good reason to believe there's going to be an illegal proliferation of a dangerous nuclear war device that's been unprecedented. And almost nobody knows it's going to happen, and if something isn't done..." Hal looked to the table.

Their food arrived. It was the only piece of sound any of them made, the adjustments of ceramic and silverware.

Lara gently set a hand on Hal's arm. The sleep was warm to the touch in the chilled air. "I'm afraid I'm not sure I can help either of you without this being a very frank sort of discussion, but if it's any consolation, you've got my full attention."

Nastasha stirred her coffee. "Mm. What Hal is trying to say is what we're doing is nothing short of espionage of the highest sort. And although we'll be on the books, it's not legal, strictly speaking."

"This... weapon? Is it an agent of some sort, or release system?"

Nastasha's gaze seemed to investigate Lara in very short order before deciding in her favor. The Czechan snubbed out her cigarette, and the act's malice did not seem imaginary. "No. This is a mobile nuclear platform. Unlike launch sites or flying vehicles, it is a bipedal 50-foot-tall combat-capable tank with surface-piercing nuclear armament and designed for mass production. It has equal chance of decimating infantry on war fronts as well as national stability.

In short, it's a superweapon unlike anything else. And it has to be stopped."

A kingfisher glided to the cobbles nearby, sweeping in silence between them. It pecked the ground, mocked them with its nonchalance.

Flew off.

Nastasha continued. "Its development has a... troubled history, dating back to the seventies. Working prototypes have reached critical stages in development at various times only to be destroyed, lost, sabotaged, dismantled, or otherwise made inoperable. But a year ago, its creation came to a head, with an American weapons manufacturer backing its creation and beginning live tests. If not for a last-minute intervention, it might already be seeing mass production."

"Manufactured by whom?"

Hal took over. "ArmsTech, a major defense contractor. Who and what they are seems vaguely irrelevant, save for that they've been involved in a lot of dirt that I don't care to think about. Your, uh, toast is getting cold."

"Oh, thank you." Lara took a bite and hardly finished before asking, "Does this weapon, this thing, have a name?"

Lara did not relish the silence that hung again, like a noose.

"Metal Gear," Hal said.

The rest of the morning was spent talking about the specifics of the weapon, and of their involvement in understanding it. Most of it had been brush strokes, as Nastasha had produced from a small briefcase a typed manuscript that had been passed over the table. Lara had been told it detailed a military operation freeing an island from terrorists, of which they had been participants. Other questions couldn't be answered by the manuscript, Lara was sure, so after they had gathered most of the heavy lifting out of the way, she began probing for logistics more tangible.

"This is... fascinating. Scary, awful, but fascinating. So what's next? What are you two-"

"Four.""I'm sorry?"

Hal produced three photographs from a small manilla envelope Nastasha had set on the table. The first two were of a middle aged man in frontal and profile photograph, the second frontal headshot of an asian woman in her early twenties, and Lara sulked at the last photo: its face was down and looked only blank to the other three. "There's four of us. Well, I suppose three is closer to the truth. One can't really take a public stance." Hal tapped the middle aged man. "He was involved in a commanding position at the incident last year. He's still with the government, too, so he's not freelance like us."

"Ah, I see. Working from the inside, eh?" Lara had polished off her toast. They had been talking for hours, and her view of the situation was only now coming to something resembling shrugged. "I'm not entirely sure that's it, but it can't be far off. There's also a technical analyst, but she's only twenty, so she can't contribute much outside of trying to help advise us." He slid over the photo of the young woman.

Lara picked it up, scanning the glossy paper in the warm light wafting between stone buildings. "She's pretty. But... advise? You mean with... well, with sabotage?" The two of them grew quiet. "I mean, that's what's being put on the table here, isn't it? I can't imagine bad publicity alone will be enough to make this go away."

Hal nodded. "I guess we're just jittery about saying it aloud. Yeah, I suppose that's as good a phrase as any. Her name's Mei Ling. She with the US Solder Systems Center. The officer I was talking about was Roy Campbell. You'll hear about him in there, too." Hal gestured at the thick sheaf of paper.

"I've no doubt. I haven't asked either of your stakes in this."

Nastasha had worked herself down to half a pack. Her tenth cigarette smelled just as unpleasant as her first. "I participated in the incident, under request from the American Defense Intelligence Agency. I, mm, also have a bit of a personal vendetta against nuclear weapons."

"I don't blame you. Awful bloody things. And you, Hal?"

Nastasha leaned back and closed her eyes. Hal, for his part, could not meet Lara's. For the second time, Lara reached out to him, placing her palm on his sleeve. "Hal? Are you alright?"

"I... I was chief operations engineer and project leader." He let out a long sigh, bit one lip, and moved in his chair with the discomfort. When he removed his arm from beneath Lara's hand, she pretended not to take notice of his awkwardness. "I had been working for ArmsTech since college, more or less. They paid full tuition and gave me as much or as little wriggle room as I wanted. I had no idea, if you can believe it, that it wasn't for defense; so much of TMD tech is embroiled in the same umbrella. And it's not like I didn't help stop it."

Lara watched Hal squirm under accusations she hadn't lobbed, and let the subject pass. "I see. That's four of you, and the fifth?"

From Nastasha's lips, long billows of smoke exhaled. "The founder of this idea, you mean?"

"Founder?" She turned to Nastasha. "Then this wasn't Hal's idea."

Nastasha nodded. "Yes. Philanthropy, as an idea, is not. He sought us out one by one, Hal first. Hal might have brought your name up to him, but it was his go ahead to attempt to recruit you. " She hesitated, unsure of how much to divulge.

"I owe him my life," Hal said.

Nastasha nodded. "Yes. He destroyed Metal Gear itself singlehandedly."

"You're kidding." Lara felt her heart take a small leap. Her throat tightened. "Didn't you say it was almost fifty meters high?"

"Mhmm." She said it like it was nothing.

"Earlier, when you said you needed another..." Lara dug for the term. "'Agent.' He's the other one, isn't he?"

Another nod."He's the one they sent in alone on the island to rescue its hostages and stop the uprising."

Nastasha handed the last photo to Lara. She flipped it.

On its front was a man maybe as much as ten years older than herself. Clean shaven, stern, short hair. The photo was dated as being a year old. There was no text save where his eyes had been: There was only a long black bar that read "DO NO DISTRIBUTE: U.S.D.O.D.," and a name in the lower right hand corner that she spoke aloud.

"Solid Snake."