Winston's voice, craggy with age but timbre like an antediluvian oak, boomed over the loudspeaker. "OPEN FIRE!"
Snake dove forward, behind an outcropping of sienna bricks the size of tumbled pillar segments. The rifle vomited fire, reports like aural whipcracks synchronised to succeed each other on the order of halfseconds. Volleys of bullets, in bouts of three, tumbled like violent steel cyclones burrowing through air thinner all the time. His breath came out in disappearing mist clouds, surrounding by a drizzle so consistent he was soaked. The gun in his hands bucked, kicking at his shoulder, his palm, clawing for purchase with a demonic resolve to leap from his hands, muzzle attempting to leap everywhere but straight. He steadied it carefully even as sight and sound were being slowly diminished by the constant flashing and cracking of round after round being blown out like malicious bees escaping a hive.
Lara watched him perform quietly from her bedroom window overlooking the course. He'd been at it for over an hour, and she stood leaned against one window pane with rapt attention as to his ability.
Otacon had gotten up early, five or six, and had bid them good luck. They'd agreed to follow him to the states in the coming days, a week later at most, so Lara gave him a hug (and Snake a sketchy, informal salute) before shuttling him off into a chauffeur's care. He would be flying out some miles south of the city on a private runway, arranged by carefully choreographing another identity and chartering a private pilot's services to Switzerland, before a commercial flight back to the States under another assumed name. Snake had mentioned it to Otacon before having come to England, as a non-EU country might be easier to escape pursuit through.
Secretly Lara was pleased to be alone with Snake. The night prior had left her with as many questions as she had to begin with, each one leading to a more pertinent one. It was only the retrospection the fews hours distance from the evening had lent her that he had pointedly steered the conversation away from himself for the most part, giving her information and letting her lead them both away. She admired the cleverness of it. Or would have if it wasn't so obnoxious.
Otacon had pulled her aside briefly before his departure.
"Is everything okay? I hope he didn't give you too much trouble."
"Trouble, Hal?" she had asked. "What do you mean?"
"I came out to the library this morning and there were bloody bandages all over the table."
She had laughed, told him they'd had a nice chat, and that Winston left her wing alone in regards to cleaning until late morning, in case she had decided to sleep in, and that the only problem Snake had given her was some gauze to dispose of.
Once Otacon had gone, she ran a brief errand in the city, before letting Snake (and Winston, who reflected respectful skepticism of her new business partners) know that The Man Who had run of the grounds, and should he need anything, he was to feel free to explore, with exception to locked doors and her bedroom.
Upon her return, Winston informed her that he had eaten a breakfast of steak and eggs, and promptly disappeared to the wood-chip running track that disappeared into the woods surrounding the estate. In her office, she also had two callers. First, from a man who wanted to know if she would be available to speak of some sponsorship opportunities for a sports drink of some type, which she promptly deleted.
The second was from Francis.
She heard his voice, and feeling a mix of guilt, light self loathing, and repulsion by his brashness, she deleted both of his messages.
When she returned from her bedroom after a short shower and change, that's when she heard the gunfire outside, in the obstacle range.
The obstacle range was a series of cover points arranged outdoors near the topiary maze, a combination obstacle course, its central path laced with hazards like fallaway pits filled with mud, moving hazards like foam beams that would protrude suddenly from any given wall in an attempt to trip or hinder movement, and complete with moving targets that would pop from cover points with small apparatuses made to fire small plastic pellets designed with fiber microhooks so they clung to cloth like velcro. The human-sized targets spread across a series of small pop-up inlays, placed on a rail mount system so they could (within reason) move dynamically forward and past various edifices, as well strafe.
Snake had, presumably with Winston aid, borrowed one of the rifles she kept for practice and had asked him to turn on the course. Only at its outset when she noticed him, he had repeated the course once already, and looked, while determined, to be having the time of his life. He moved with speed and grace in a way that surprise her, not in the least bit stylish save for the economy of motion with which he moved. The very act of moving, the manipulation of simple muscles, seemed practiced.
Upon completion of the last round, she went downstairs, and out into the garden. Winston had left the observation tower mounted above the course's perimeter and Snake was examining his weapon.
"Having fun with my toys, I take it?" She traipsed behind him, opened the glass cabinet mounted along one brick wall at the course's outset, and took a pistol from the shelf inside.
"This is a high caliber weapon. It's made with combat in mind." He was examining the slide mechanism of it, checking its modified iron sights for imperfections.
"I've no doubt. I take it you think I should stock my course with live persons, then? Any volunteers?"
"Cute. No, I mean what are you doing to warrant this sort of fire power?" He placed the rifle back in the same shelving cabinet Lara had taken her pistol from.
"Would you believe I enjoy Guy Fawkes day reenactments? I've got them for protection, Snake, what else? Sometimes I run into unsavoury characters. Sometimes those unsavoury sort have big guns and big pecs and don't like girls like me running around taking what belongs to them and their big—"
"I get it."
"I don't think you do." She held the gun out to him, handle first. "Snake, really, I'm not an amateur. I understand you might think civilians might not have a need for this sort of thing, but there are people who do what I do, but for profit."
"Profit? From… digging around graveyards?" He took the pistol and checked its chamber, its magazine. Empty.
"You've really turned on the charm today," Lara said. Snake muttered an apology. "Apology accepted. Your opinion of my vocation aside, yes, there's rather a lot of fellows determined to make a large sum from the collection of antiquities and relics. Call it avarice, or lust, or just megalomania, they are people with far too much money, and time, and are willing to—"
"Basically buy what amounts to historical artifacts." Snake loaded his firearm. "I didn't mean anything, I was just surprised. You don't seem like the guns-first-questions-later type."
"Good of you to think so, because I'm not. But being well versed in a broad education does wonders, I think." Winston had come over with a small printout of Snake's performance, and she snatched it before Snake could reach for it. Lara did not tell him that his performance surprised her. She was enjoying that she might have actually caught him off-guard. "Thank you, Winston. I don't enjoy shooting another human being, Snake, but the alternative is significantly less pleasant. They're essentially mercenaries. They've been paid to do a job, and it is certainly easier to shoot someone of my disposition than reason a bargain of some diplomacy."
Snake nodded. "I know the type. Dogs who'll do most anything for money. I should know, I've done jobs with people like that."
Lara tsked her tongue at him in mock derision, and he swatted at her shoulder.
"Now that we've established that nasty business, how about a little competition?"
Lara smiled at Winston and motioned to the observation tower.
Snake let a smirk creep up the side of his face, and reached for the rifle cabinet.