Chapter Twenty-Two: An Enemy's Armor
It was a bountiful offer, those short moments of peace and quiet that Revolver Ocelot then granted them all before rising from his chair in the corner of the room and grinning broadly, shattering their peaceful dreams and hopes. Socrates had been clothed, and sat at the end of the table, his colleagues from Philosophy standing behind him. "Now, we must set our plans in motion," Ocelot said, addressing everyone.
"Socrates, as soon as we have taken care of the first trade, we can move onto your end of the work." Ocelot checked his pocket watch and grinned, putting it back into his pocket. "They will be here in no more than a half an hour. We can't have them waiting," he said, his eyes falling over Mimic who sat without motion in a nearby chair. "Farrel," he continued, "setup a transmission with the Pentagon. We must sort out any last minute arrangements." Farrel nodded and then touched Socrates on the shoulder before backing out of the room.
Socrates looked up at Ocelot. "Tell me, Shalashaska. Why are you helping Philosophy?" Ocelot looked back at him with a discouraged sneer on his face. He mumbled a few words that no one was able to make out and then put on a smile as he explained his intentions for becoming involved with the Hell Cell and the Perfect Cell.
"Power is what I crave," he put it rather simply. "Power is my motivation." His words were not off mark. He didn't hold an elaborate plan, but instead he wished for power, and the odds were on his side: anyone who possessed the Perfect and Hell Cells would surely be recognized as a man of power, and in the future, anyone who did not, would be recognized as a slave. Snake cringed at Ocelot's answer and went on observing the room as Socrates continued to interview his new colleague.
"Do you fear your craving has misguided you?" Socrates asked, pushing away from the desk and taking a stand at the end of the table. Ocelot cocked his head, an odd look on his face...a fake face. It was innocence, and anyone who knew Ocelot knew he was nothing but sinful. There wasn't a drop of innocence in him. He was all cruelty. That was all he stood for.
"I believe that my craving is controllable," he proclaimed, nonchalantly, stepping toward Socrates as he spoke. "I have managed to harness my own ambition in the past, and this is no different. With power, I am not blinded. It is a dull light...one only bright enough to draw me to it. Once it is a lantern in my palm, it is my own, and I become the beacon. The lantern becomes my fist, my tool. No...no, my craving has not misguided me." Socrates stopped walking, as did Ocelot, and they both stood there in wait, their eyes drawn to each other's eyes. Ocelot saw green, while Socrates saw red...the fires of hell licking at his heart. Of the two, Socrates was misguided. Ocelot was insane...driven insane by his own trepidation, by his own dying soul. The difference? Socrates was a messenger: Ocelot was his master. Even as Ocelot stood there, his power in appearance no greater than Socrates', it was apparent that he was in control. Whether either of them knew it, Ocelot's wish was
Socrates' command.
"The link's up," Farrel called, stepping into the room to notice the fairly awkward moment. Socrates watched Ocelot who looked around him to nod in assurance of his request. "I'll patch you through to them on the main intercom system," Farrel said, retreating into the other room again. Socrates watched Ocelot closely.
"Do not lose sight of our goal," he said, but Ocelot ignored him altogether, turning to the company and waving his revolver at them. "Don't let me hear a sound from you," Ocelot said, the company's eyes glued to his weapon.
Farrel stepped back in, making a gesture to Ocelot with his hand. Ocelot nodded and began pacing back and forth as if the Pentagon was sitting before him. "Good morning, Senator," Ocelot growled. There was a moment's hesitation on the other end, and some sort of feedback error that delayed the response, but when one did come, it was firm.
"One chopper. Four extraction agents, two pilots, one sniper, and a bag of cash," the man said before taking a breath. "Pull something funny, and your money vanishes." Ocelot snickered at his threat.
"Please, Senator, don't take me for a fool," he chuckled. "As long as your end of the deal holds, mine does the same. Now, Senator, make sure that sniper isn't in the chopper when they try to land, or else you'll have one very large crime scene to investigate following our rise to power."
"So you have the Perfect Cell?" The Senator stated almost triumphantly. Ocelot grunted.
"You would like to know...but until the trade has passed, the lights must remain off," Ocelot pursued. "Get the sniper off of the chopper. Over and out, Senator." Farrel disconnected the transmission before the `Senator' had a chance of returning conversation, and Ocelot quickly turned to Mimic who sat, his eyes wide, but his body without sign of movement. "Move him to the first floor. I want our choppers in the air, patrolling the area. Make sure he's sleeping well enough when they drop in. I don't want our friend pulling the trigger on a gun that shouldn't be there, but no doubt, if they sense anything funny...Desperado," Ocelot said, soldiers swarming Mimic and carrying him kicking and struggling out of the room. "Desperado, could you move to the Spire?" He waited until Mimic was gone, and the door was closed. "There should be a Stinger in a closet...third floor. I don't want them leaving with a sniper in their back seat. As soon as we turn our backs, we'll all have
bullet-holes in the back of our heads." Desperado nodded, understanding Ocelot's request.
"You think they're really gonna throw him out and let him hitch-hike home?" Snake commented, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Ocelot looked at him with a frenzied delight.
"He speaks," he said, laughing. "You see, Snake, we're going to shoot them down so that the sniper, who will still be in the chopper, doesn't get the chance to pop us a few. And whether they drop him off or not, that helicopter wont make it back to the capital." Snake shook his head in disgust.
"So, now we wait?" he questioned.
"Actually, Snake, yes. We wait until the trade is successful, and then we move to the basement and observe as our good friend Socrates constructs the Hell Cell. And then," Ocelot grinned, "we have a little fun." Snake recognized the glint of enjoyment in Ocelot's eyes, and could sense torture on the brink. Even if there was nothing for him to get from Snake, Ocelot would still put him through a series of rigorous torture exercises. He enjoyed it. He laughed as he killed. He had FUN committing murder. He was sick.
"Desperado," Ocelot queued for him to begin out the door, and at his tone, he stepped into the hall and disappeared on his way to the Spire where he would watch and wait. The helicopter would be there soon. "Let us move to a more suitable room, from where we can watch the trade," Ocelot insisted, and they slowly moved out of the conference room and into a window-walled room that looked over the helipad at the entrance of the building. Socrates and his Philosophy friends took a few more minutes to catch up, but were soon standing beside them as they looked over the snow. Snake looked over to Mei Ling who was subtly crying, having seen where Operator was laying earlier. The bloodstain was faint, but it was there. Snake was mesmerized. The lights...spotlights were searching in every direction, watching like glowing eyes in the middle of night. With the first light of day, which just barely snuck over the tops of the mountains, Ocelot took sight of a helicopter moving toward
them in the distance, and he could see out of the corner of his eye, a body resembling the Ninja's being covered in a white sheet on a stretcher.
"The corpse is accounted for," Ocelot muttered as the helicopter came closer. The morning's first light would remain just as faint for almost an hour until the sun had risen over the peaks and the valleys, and only then would they see the truth shine through. Secrets still lay dormant, and as light was born, the chariot of death neared Mimic, Desperado's eyes set into the morning sky.
There was a crackling sound emanating from Ocelot's hip. Quickly, he drew his radio and answered the call. "Yes?"
"It's Desperado," he replied. "They're coming in slow."
They waited. The moment seemed to last a lifetime for Desperado, but he had experienced many. He was a sniper, a quick-shot, and a Rambo. He had experienced every scenario, every situation, and this one was no different. Still, the chopper moved slower than they expected, confirming the belief that a sniper was onboard, honing in on any and all possible targets. Desperado watched...he waited.
"Keep your eyes peeled," he said, watching intently, as the helicopter moved over the helipad and slowly descended, moving in a circle as it dropped. Three soldiers stood beside Mimic's covered body at the edge of the helipad, and every spotlight in the area was watching the chopper as it slowed and touched down on the pad. Otacon shook his head and Jack watched, hoping that the sniper would put a hole through Ocelot's forehead, as he stood right beside him. He wished so badly for the sniper to get a good shot.
Desperado wavered not an inch from his target. As the door slid open, and an extraction team checked the body, uncovering it, and nodding their heads, gesturing for someone to bring forth the money. Desperado saw them. There were four men on the ground...who would bring out the money if they were the only ones there?
Desperado pulled the trigger of the Stinger, the glass wall shattering around him as the missile sped toward the chopper. Quickly, before it impacted, Ocelot's eyes shot up to Desperado in disbelief and one shot was fired from the depths of the chopper. As the helipad was covered with flames, and smothered in a sea of burning red and orange, the glass wall that separated the company from the bitter cold broke in one 2 inch x 2 inch hole. Everyone turned their heads, and falling into the arms of Ocelot was Otacon, a bullet stuck in his chest. An enemy's armor...
It was a bountiful offer, those short moments of peace and quiet that Revolver Ocelot then granted them all before rising from his chair in the corner of the room and grinning broadly, shattering their peaceful dreams and hopes. Socrates had been clothed, and sat at the end of the table, his colleagues from Philosophy standing behind him. "Now, we must set our plans in motion," Ocelot said, addressing everyone.
"Socrates, as soon as we have taken care of the first trade, we can move onto your end of the work." Ocelot checked his pocket watch and grinned, putting it back into his pocket. "They will be here in no more than a half an hour. We can't have them waiting," he said, his eyes falling over Mimic who sat without motion in a nearby chair. "Farrel," he continued, "setup a transmission with the Pentagon. We must sort out any last minute arrangements." Farrel nodded and then touched Socrates on the shoulder before backing out of the room.
Socrates looked up at Ocelot. "Tell me, Shalashaska. Why are you helping Philosophy?" Ocelot looked back at him with a discouraged sneer on his face. He mumbled a few words that no one was able to make out and then put on a smile as he explained his intentions for becoming involved with the Hell Cell and the Perfect Cell.
"Power is what I crave," he put it rather simply. "Power is my motivation." His words were not off mark. He didn't hold an elaborate plan, but instead he wished for power, and the odds were on his side: anyone who possessed the Perfect and Hell Cells would surely be recognized as a man of power, and in the future, anyone who did not, would be recognized as a slave. Snake cringed at Ocelot's answer and went on observing the room as Socrates continued to interview his new colleague.
"Do you fear your craving has misguided you?" Socrates asked, pushing away from the desk and taking a stand at the end of the table. Ocelot cocked his head, an odd look on his face...a fake face. It was innocence, and anyone who knew Ocelot knew he was nothing but sinful. There wasn't a drop of innocence in him. He was all cruelty. That was all he stood for.
"I believe that my craving is controllable," he proclaimed, nonchalantly, stepping toward Socrates as he spoke. "I have managed to harness my own ambition in the past, and this is no different. With power, I am not blinded. It is a dull light...one only bright enough to draw me to it. Once it is a lantern in my palm, it is my own, and I become the beacon. The lantern becomes my fist, my tool. No...no, my craving has not misguided me." Socrates stopped walking, as did Ocelot, and they both stood there in wait, their eyes drawn to each other's eyes. Ocelot saw green, while Socrates saw red...the fires of hell licking at his heart. Of the two, Socrates was misguided. Ocelot was insane...driven insane by his own trepidation, by his own dying soul. The difference? Socrates was a messenger: Ocelot was his master. Even as Ocelot stood there, his power in appearance no greater than Socrates', it was apparent that he was in control. Whether either of them knew it, Ocelot's wish was
Socrates' command.
"The link's up," Farrel called, stepping into the room to notice the fairly awkward moment. Socrates watched Ocelot who looked around him to nod in assurance of his request. "I'll patch you through to them on the main intercom system," Farrel said, retreating into the other room again. Socrates watched Ocelot closely.
"Do not lose sight of our goal," he said, but Ocelot ignored him altogether, turning to the company and waving his revolver at them. "Don't let me hear a sound from you," Ocelot said, the company's eyes glued to his weapon.
Farrel stepped back in, making a gesture to Ocelot with his hand. Ocelot nodded and began pacing back and forth as if the Pentagon was sitting before him. "Good morning, Senator," Ocelot growled. There was a moment's hesitation on the other end, and some sort of feedback error that delayed the response, but when one did come, it was firm.
"One chopper. Four extraction agents, two pilots, one sniper, and a bag of cash," the man said before taking a breath. "Pull something funny, and your money vanishes." Ocelot snickered at his threat.
"Please, Senator, don't take me for a fool," he chuckled. "As long as your end of the deal holds, mine does the same. Now, Senator, make sure that sniper isn't in the chopper when they try to land, or else you'll have one very large crime scene to investigate following our rise to power."
"So you have the Perfect Cell?" The Senator stated almost triumphantly. Ocelot grunted.
"You would like to know...but until the trade has passed, the lights must remain off," Ocelot pursued. "Get the sniper off of the chopper. Over and out, Senator." Farrel disconnected the transmission before the `Senator' had a chance of returning conversation, and Ocelot quickly turned to Mimic who sat, his eyes wide, but his body without sign of movement. "Move him to the first floor. I want our choppers in the air, patrolling the area. Make sure he's sleeping well enough when they drop in. I don't want our friend pulling the trigger on a gun that shouldn't be there, but no doubt, if they sense anything funny...Desperado," Ocelot said, soldiers swarming Mimic and carrying him kicking and struggling out of the room. "Desperado, could you move to the Spire?" He waited until Mimic was gone, and the door was closed. "There should be a Stinger in a closet...third floor. I don't want them leaving with a sniper in their back seat. As soon as we turn our backs, we'll all have
bullet-holes in the back of our heads." Desperado nodded, understanding Ocelot's request.
"You think they're really gonna throw him out and let him hitch-hike home?" Snake commented, drawing the attention of everyone in the room. Ocelot looked at him with a frenzied delight.
"He speaks," he said, laughing. "You see, Snake, we're going to shoot them down so that the sniper, who will still be in the chopper, doesn't get the chance to pop us a few. And whether they drop him off or not, that helicopter wont make it back to the capital." Snake shook his head in disgust.
"So, now we wait?" he questioned.
"Actually, Snake, yes. We wait until the trade is successful, and then we move to the basement and observe as our good friend Socrates constructs the Hell Cell. And then," Ocelot grinned, "we have a little fun." Snake recognized the glint of enjoyment in Ocelot's eyes, and could sense torture on the brink. Even if there was nothing for him to get from Snake, Ocelot would still put him through a series of rigorous torture exercises. He enjoyed it. He laughed as he killed. He had FUN committing murder. He was sick.
"Desperado," Ocelot queued for him to begin out the door, and at his tone, he stepped into the hall and disappeared on his way to the Spire where he would watch and wait. The helicopter would be there soon. "Let us move to a more suitable room, from where we can watch the trade," Ocelot insisted, and they slowly moved out of the conference room and into a window-walled room that looked over the helipad at the entrance of the building. Socrates and his Philosophy friends took a few more minutes to catch up, but were soon standing beside them as they looked over the snow. Snake looked over to Mei Ling who was subtly crying, having seen where Operator was laying earlier. The bloodstain was faint, but it was there. Snake was mesmerized. The lights...spotlights were searching in every direction, watching like glowing eyes in the middle of night. With the first light of day, which just barely snuck over the tops of the mountains, Ocelot took sight of a helicopter moving toward
them in the distance, and he could see out of the corner of his eye, a body resembling the Ninja's being covered in a white sheet on a stretcher.
"The corpse is accounted for," Ocelot muttered as the helicopter came closer. The morning's first light would remain just as faint for almost an hour until the sun had risen over the peaks and the valleys, and only then would they see the truth shine through. Secrets still lay dormant, and as light was born, the chariot of death neared Mimic, Desperado's eyes set into the morning sky.
There was a crackling sound emanating from Ocelot's hip. Quickly, he drew his radio and answered the call. "Yes?"
"It's Desperado," he replied. "They're coming in slow."
They waited. The moment seemed to last a lifetime for Desperado, but he had experienced many. He was a sniper, a quick-shot, and a Rambo. He had experienced every scenario, every situation, and this one was no different. Still, the chopper moved slower than they expected, confirming the belief that a sniper was onboard, honing in on any and all possible targets. Desperado watched...he waited.
"Keep your eyes peeled," he said, watching intently, as the helicopter moved over the helipad and slowly descended, moving in a circle as it dropped. Three soldiers stood beside Mimic's covered body at the edge of the helipad, and every spotlight in the area was watching the chopper as it slowed and touched down on the pad. Otacon shook his head and Jack watched, hoping that the sniper would put a hole through Ocelot's forehead, as he stood right beside him. He wished so badly for the sniper to get a good shot.
Desperado wavered not an inch from his target. As the door slid open, and an extraction team checked the body, uncovering it, and nodding their heads, gesturing for someone to bring forth the money. Desperado saw them. There were four men on the ground...who would bring out the money if they were the only ones there?
Desperado pulled the trigger of the Stinger, the glass wall shattering around him as the missile sped toward the chopper. Quickly, before it impacted, Ocelot's eyes shot up to Desperado in disbelief and one shot was fired from the depths of the chopper. As the helipad was covered with flames, and smothered in a sea of burning red and orange, the glass wall that separated the company from the bitter cold broke in one 2 inch x 2 inch hole. Everyone turned their heads, and falling into the arms of Ocelot was Otacon, a bullet stuck in his chest. An enemy's armor...