Chapter Six: Blueprints
Otacon slouched behind the wall of hedges and sighed. There were too many things nagging him, and he could deal with none of them as long as he was stuck where he was. He thought about contacting Snake, but immediately shot the idea back down for two reasons. One, the most obvious, he would distract Snake from his mission, and two, transmissions to the Rockies can cause the security at the Pentagon to wonder.
So, after he had quite simply ruled out all of his other options, he sat. It was evident to him, now, that sitting was about the only thing he could do in his present situation. Sit. And wait. And so, he did. But, passing the time was a terrible task. He tried to play games in his head, or think of how Snake would handle the problem, and then his mind wondered into a different area: one he hadn't explored since abandoning the Metal Gear Rex project on Shadow Moses Island. Everything was blue, and on the blue began bold, white lines that quickly formed a scale: One inch equal to every meter, were the words above it. Then, his eyes took over and began tracing the body of something oddly familiar, yet so distant.
He sent the white lines up, then down, then to the right, down, back up, and to the left. Slowly, but surely, whatever he was trying to construct, was taking form before him. Memories of the past flooded his mind as a machine in his head worked furiously to process the thoughts and filter them into a presentable image that sat on the blue page.
The noises from outside of his imagination forced him to realize that a search party had entered the courtyard. He 'minimized' his drawing and watched through eyes that seemed so far away. Beyond the hedges were four soldiers, their bodies wrapped in black bulletproof material, and their arms cradling AKU-74's. The black of their guns caused Otacon to fall back into his drawing and the blue suddenly washed out his vision of the outside world, once again.
The white streaked the page. Up, down, left, up, left, down a ways, right, up, left. A new line began. It went right, down, right, up, left, up, right, down, left. It also ended, and he moved to another part of the page, in hopes of blotting it with the white also, swallowing up its dark sea of color. All time faded and with it, Otacon's realization of the world around him. Everything he once knew deteriorated, leaving only the blue page, the white lines, and a few memories to model after.
Timothy Farrel, CIA agent for six years, and prime source of information regarding the Patriots as well as Philosophy, burst from the Pentagon's hallways and found himself in the open, green courtyard, where Otacon had reported he was hidden. Farrel's eyes scanned the area and stopped on seven figures, huddled by the doorway on the other side of the courtyard.
Four of them stood out from the others as they wore bullet-proof material about their bodies, and in their arms slept very powerful weapons: AKU- 74's. Farrel had been trained in the field of weaponry when he had entered the agency, and since then, he had made it his duty to memorize any and all military equipment available. He had been specifically assigned to cases involving militaristic conflict, and thus, his expertise was a necessity, not a luxury.
Knowing that taking a look around the courtyard hedges would come off as a little peculiar, Farrel quickly debunked the possibility, and slowly walked forward, to the center of the lawn. His eyes held firmly on the soldiers at the opposite end of the courtyard, he continued, and slowly pulled his cell phone from his pocket. As he walked, he punched in Otacon's number, and verified it. Then, he waited, as Otacon had done for him.
The white lines did not waver their courses over the blue pages as the phone rang in Otacon's pocket. He was too caught up in thoughts to realize that it rang, or that the soldiers who stood not far away, heard it.
Farrel watched from where he was, and saw the soldiers begin to peer over their shoulders and took notice to how they quickly woke their guns and held them at alert. In an instant, he turned off his cell phone, and watched as their amazement slowly subsided. Sighing, he headed back the other way, and raised his phone to his ear yet again. He pressed a few buttons and a voice flowed into his ear.
"Charles Tailor," the man said, and Farrel quickly replied.
"Charlie, it's Tim."
"Oh! How are things goin'?"
"Not good. I need some help."
"Yea? What with?"
"I need a transport, now."
"I thought you took your car. Aren't you at the Pentagon?"
"Yea. But, I'm having a little trouble. I need air transport."
"Tim, you know I don't control that sorta thing."
"But you know the people who do. Now, can you get me a chopper, or not?"
"I."
"Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"All right. I'm in the courtyard. I need someone here in three minutes." He hung up, thrust his cell phone into his left pocket, and checked his watch. "Three minutes. I hope ya pull this through."
The blue page had not moved from Otacon's gaze and still, white, bold lines continued to run across the vista as if fire was biting at their tails. As time went by, the lines began to clearly outline something. Considering the scale it was relatively large, but its actual form was yet to appear without haze.
The white lines did not cease. Left, down, left, down, right, up, left, up, right, up, left, down, left, up, right, down, right, up, left, down. The line ended and a new one began. The pattern did not change. A line was used, and then another began. That one ended; the next appeared. Still, the image that Otacon was trying to make out of their intersections and gaps, was not yet taking form. It had become no clearer in the last three minutes that Farrel stood in the center of the courtyard, than it had in the moments before.at least, to the average citizen it would appear to have been unchanged. This was not true.
Farrel looked down at his watch. Three minutes had passed. The search party had dispersed throughout the inner halls of the Pentagon, and the other three men had lit their cigarettes and set them neatly into their mouths, lightly clenched by their dry, chapped lips. They laughed and looked onward at Farrel. He matched their gaze and the four of them stood, without straying from one another. Time passed, but they did not.
One minute went by. Nothing happened. Two minutes passed. They did not move. Three minutes. Silence. Four. Five. Six. All were the same, and all the while, Otacon was keeping to himself, drawing his thoughts on paper. How foolish.
Then, just as the three soldiers turned their faces from Farrel, an increasingly loud noise, one that had been growing during their standoff, exploded as a "Night" chopper entered the air space above the Pentagon. Otacon did not hear the noises. He stayed in his blue odyssey and as the Night weighed downward, the three soldiers caught a glance from the pilot to Farrel. One of them pulled out his radio while the others held their guns at alert and hurried to where Farrel stood.
Farrel shot a glance back up at the pilot and a rope fell down for him; the helicopter only meters above. Farrel gripped the rope and braced himself as the chopper lifted off of the ground. The two soldiers who had made their way near the center of the courtyard only aimed. They did not shoot one bullet from the pitch-black barrels of their guns. They only watched.
Farrel did not try to move any higher up the rope, but instead, motioned for the pilot to take the helicopter back down near the hedges that sat against the wall of the Pentagon. The soldier standing by the door put away his radio and pulled forth his weapon as the helicopter came back down. He took aim at Farrel, but did not shoot.
"Identify yourself!" The soldier shouted and Farrel motioned for the helicopter to move closer to the hedges. Then, the chopper raised into the air, let out more rope, and Farrel reached into the hedges to feel the untidy hair of Otacon at his fingertips. With one tug, Otacon woke from his hazy, unconsciousness and stood, revealing himself to the other soldier who quickly turned his gun to him.
"I'll take it from here, soldier," Farrel said, and he moved up on the rope to give Otacon room. Just as Otacon gripped the rope and the chopper moved into the air, four soldiers burst out from the halls of the Pentagon, just behind the other, and aimed into the sky.
"Dammit, man! Why didn't you take them out?!" One of them yelled, but he lowered his gun as did the others. The chopper had gotten too far. Were they to shoot it down, more trouble could be caused, taking more lives. They worked directly under the Patriots. They did not pursue their target, but instead they too watched as Farrel moved into the hull, and stretched a welcoming hand out for Otacon who followed him into the chopper's interior.
Farrel fell against a wall and took a deep breath. Then, he playfully pushed Otacon who did nothing. In Otacon's mind, he was finishing his drawing that had miraculously built itself before him in a matter of minutes. Slowly, he made the last few lines that connected the last few gaps, and when he looked at the picture as a whole, he too fell against a wall of the helicopter. He sighed.
The blueprints of his dream were complete.
Otacon slouched behind the wall of hedges and sighed. There were too many things nagging him, and he could deal with none of them as long as he was stuck where he was. He thought about contacting Snake, but immediately shot the idea back down for two reasons. One, the most obvious, he would distract Snake from his mission, and two, transmissions to the Rockies can cause the security at the Pentagon to wonder.
So, after he had quite simply ruled out all of his other options, he sat. It was evident to him, now, that sitting was about the only thing he could do in his present situation. Sit. And wait. And so, he did. But, passing the time was a terrible task. He tried to play games in his head, or think of how Snake would handle the problem, and then his mind wondered into a different area: one he hadn't explored since abandoning the Metal Gear Rex project on Shadow Moses Island. Everything was blue, and on the blue began bold, white lines that quickly formed a scale: One inch equal to every meter, were the words above it. Then, his eyes took over and began tracing the body of something oddly familiar, yet so distant.
He sent the white lines up, then down, then to the right, down, back up, and to the left. Slowly, but surely, whatever he was trying to construct, was taking form before him. Memories of the past flooded his mind as a machine in his head worked furiously to process the thoughts and filter them into a presentable image that sat on the blue page.
The noises from outside of his imagination forced him to realize that a search party had entered the courtyard. He 'minimized' his drawing and watched through eyes that seemed so far away. Beyond the hedges were four soldiers, their bodies wrapped in black bulletproof material, and their arms cradling AKU-74's. The black of their guns caused Otacon to fall back into his drawing and the blue suddenly washed out his vision of the outside world, once again.
The white streaked the page. Up, down, left, up, left, down a ways, right, up, left. A new line began. It went right, down, right, up, left, up, right, down, left. It also ended, and he moved to another part of the page, in hopes of blotting it with the white also, swallowing up its dark sea of color. All time faded and with it, Otacon's realization of the world around him. Everything he once knew deteriorated, leaving only the blue page, the white lines, and a few memories to model after.
Timothy Farrel, CIA agent for six years, and prime source of information regarding the Patriots as well as Philosophy, burst from the Pentagon's hallways and found himself in the open, green courtyard, where Otacon had reported he was hidden. Farrel's eyes scanned the area and stopped on seven figures, huddled by the doorway on the other side of the courtyard.
Four of them stood out from the others as they wore bullet-proof material about their bodies, and in their arms slept very powerful weapons: AKU- 74's. Farrel had been trained in the field of weaponry when he had entered the agency, and since then, he had made it his duty to memorize any and all military equipment available. He had been specifically assigned to cases involving militaristic conflict, and thus, his expertise was a necessity, not a luxury.
Knowing that taking a look around the courtyard hedges would come off as a little peculiar, Farrel quickly debunked the possibility, and slowly walked forward, to the center of the lawn. His eyes held firmly on the soldiers at the opposite end of the courtyard, he continued, and slowly pulled his cell phone from his pocket. As he walked, he punched in Otacon's number, and verified it. Then, he waited, as Otacon had done for him.
The white lines did not waver their courses over the blue pages as the phone rang in Otacon's pocket. He was too caught up in thoughts to realize that it rang, or that the soldiers who stood not far away, heard it.
Farrel watched from where he was, and saw the soldiers begin to peer over their shoulders and took notice to how they quickly woke their guns and held them at alert. In an instant, he turned off his cell phone, and watched as their amazement slowly subsided. Sighing, he headed back the other way, and raised his phone to his ear yet again. He pressed a few buttons and a voice flowed into his ear.
"Charles Tailor," the man said, and Farrel quickly replied.
"Charlie, it's Tim."
"Oh! How are things goin'?"
"Not good. I need some help."
"Yea? What with?"
"I need a transport, now."
"I thought you took your car. Aren't you at the Pentagon?"
"Yea. But, I'm having a little trouble. I need air transport."
"Tim, you know I don't control that sorta thing."
"But you know the people who do. Now, can you get me a chopper, or not?"
"I."
"Yes or no?"
"Yes."
"All right. I'm in the courtyard. I need someone here in three minutes." He hung up, thrust his cell phone into his left pocket, and checked his watch. "Three minutes. I hope ya pull this through."
The blue page had not moved from Otacon's gaze and still, white, bold lines continued to run across the vista as if fire was biting at their tails. As time went by, the lines began to clearly outline something. Considering the scale it was relatively large, but its actual form was yet to appear without haze.
The white lines did not cease. Left, down, left, down, right, up, left, up, right, up, left, down, left, up, right, down, right, up, left, down. The line ended and a new one began. The pattern did not change. A line was used, and then another began. That one ended; the next appeared. Still, the image that Otacon was trying to make out of their intersections and gaps, was not yet taking form. It had become no clearer in the last three minutes that Farrel stood in the center of the courtyard, than it had in the moments before.at least, to the average citizen it would appear to have been unchanged. This was not true.
Farrel looked down at his watch. Three minutes had passed. The search party had dispersed throughout the inner halls of the Pentagon, and the other three men had lit their cigarettes and set them neatly into their mouths, lightly clenched by their dry, chapped lips. They laughed and looked onward at Farrel. He matched their gaze and the four of them stood, without straying from one another. Time passed, but they did not.
One minute went by. Nothing happened. Two minutes passed. They did not move. Three minutes. Silence. Four. Five. Six. All were the same, and all the while, Otacon was keeping to himself, drawing his thoughts on paper. How foolish.
Then, just as the three soldiers turned their faces from Farrel, an increasingly loud noise, one that had been growing during their standoff, exploded as a "Night" chopper entered the air space above the Pentagon. Otacon did not hear the noises. He stayed in his blue odyssey and as the Night weighed downward, the three soldiers caught a glance from the pilot to Farrel. One of them pulled out his radio while the others held their guns at alert and hurried to where Farrel stood.
Farrel shot a glance back up at the pilot and a rope fell down for him; the helicopter only meters above. Farrel gripped the rope and braced himself as the chopper lifted off of the ground. The two soldiers who had made their way near the center of the courtyard only aimed. They did not shoot one bullet from the pitch-black barrels of their guns. They only watched.
Farrel did not try to move any higher up the rope, but instead, motioned for the pilot to take the helicopter back down near the hedges that sat against the wall of the Pentagon. The soldier standing by the door put away his radio and pulled forth his weapon as the helicopter came back down. He took aim at Farrel, but did not shoot.
"Identify yourself!" The soldier shouted and Farrel motioned for the helicopter to move closer to the hedges. Then, the chopper raised into the air, let out more rope, and Farrel reached into the hedges to feel the untidy hair of Otacon at his fingertips. With one tug, Otacon woke from his hazy, unconsciousness and stood, revealing himself to the other soldier who quickly turned his gun to him.
"I'll take it from here, soldier," Farrel said, and he moved up on the rope to give Otacon room. Just as Otacon gripped the rope and the chopper moved into the air, four soldiers burst out from the halls of the Pentagon, just behind the other, and aimed into the sky.
"Dammit, man! Why didn't you take them out?!" One of them yelled, but he lowered his gun as did the others. The chopper had gotten too far. Were they to shoot it down, more trouble could be caused, taking more lives. They worked directly under the Patriots. They did not pursue their target, but instead they too watched as Farrel moved into the hull, and stretched a welcoming hand out for Otacon who followed him into the chopper's interior.
Farrel fell against a wall and took a deep breath. Then, he playfully pushed Otacon who did nothing. In Otacon's mind, he was finishing his drawing that had miraculously built itself before him in a matter of minutes. Slowly, he made the last few lines that connected the last few gaps, and when he looked at the picture as a whole, he too fell against a wall of the helicopter. He sighed.
The blueprints of his dream were complete.