In Afghanistan, the middle of the night is a unique experience. The stars fill the sky like stadium lights, illuminating your entire field of vision. The sudden change from steaming hot day to frigid night has the air almost tingling with static energy. Even standing still you can feel that charge flowing through you, exciting your pores and making your muscles flex involuntarily. Or maybe that's just the anticipation of battle.

Leaning against the rail of the roof of an old mosque, the warrior known as Solid Snake - to any person who knew he even existed-exhaled a puff of cigarette smoke. He trailed the smoke with his eyes as it ascended to the sky, hungrily trying to merge with the ancient air. He moved his gaze to take in the peeling plaster of the mosque walls. He eyed the faded colors, visible now from the glow that permeated the entire city of Kundahar, and thought they were beautiful.

He stubbed out his cigarette underneath the age-old railing and put the butt in his pocket. As he snuck across the roof garden he went through a mental list-for the umpteenth time- of everything he had and everything he needed to pick up from hidden caches throughout the building. He silently crossed to an archway with stairs leading down below.

His soft- soled boots made only a cat's whisper on the sandstone steps as he descended to a hallway on the fourth floor of the building, pausing with his back to a corner. His correspondent agent had informed him there would be no one awake on this floor, but better safe than sorry. That had been one of his father's favorite lines.

He heard no sound save for some snoring from the room he was leaning against, so he rounded the corner. The hallway was brightly lit from candles in sconces along the wall, and Snake hurried to the far end of it. He paused only to look at the worn carpet underneath his feet. The rug he walked along depicted naked women and bearded men in some sort of archaic orgy.

"Imaginative," Snake mouthed to himself.

He reached the far end of the hallway and was about to follow the stairway down to the next floor when instinct told him to stop. Someone was right around the corner, less than two feet away from him.

The shape hadn't made any sound at all, but Snake knew he (or she) was there. He sidled up against the wall, trying to determine who was around the corner. May be your imagination, he thought.

No sooner had this thought occurred to him that the person peeked its veiled head around the corner, eyes bulging when they focused directly on Snake. It was a young Taliban guerilla, full of unfocused hatred. He held an AK-47 assault rifle.

He moved the gun towards Snake fast. Snake caught the barrel in the palm of his hand, preventing the soldier from raising it; with his other hand he had his knife out of its scabbard and into the Afghan's throat before he even grabbed the barrel.

The man was dead immediately. Snake held his next breath, and let the body down gently, kneeling with it as if he were a priest baptizing a new convert. He used the knife to support the dead weight until its face was laying against the concrete, then pulled his blade free and wiped it on the inside of the man's scarf, where it wouldn't show. A bright stain on the back of what could appear otherwise to be a sleeping drunk was a red flag to investigating guards.

Snake crouched against the wall, considering his options as quickly as he could. He had been surprised, and in a one-man mission, there was no room for surprises. These types of jaunts had to be planned for months; every last detail-down to the amount of flies in the head-was supposed to be known. The soldier had been waiting at the top of the stairs. For him?

"Probably." He said aloud. "And I bet there's more below, drinking chai and eating falafel."

He chuckled. All things considered, he was screwed.