Chapter Twenty-Seven: Raindrops
It was like a blur, that moment. It all happened so fast, but to Snake it lasted a lifetime, and as he stood there, gazing into the light that weigh heavy, floating oddly in the air, his legs were weakened, his body succumbing to the feeling of numbness and dizziness. Figures appeared as blobs, bobbing eerily through the see of light, making jerky movements this way and that as his eyes strained to make sense of the moment. He could see two men directly ahead. One stood, that was Ocelot, and the other seemed to be sitting at a desk or something of the sort, his arms outstretched, and floating above them – the Hell Cell. That, was Socrates, his hand working furiously around it, dropping these chemicals into it, swiping his hands over it…only when it was complete did its objective take effect. So, as long as it was not whole, he could add or subtract from the ball of energy, anything he deemed necessary. The task was painstaking, but Snake had arrived near the end of its construction, sparing him a lengthy observation in which he would surely grow weary and uninterested in the production.
He sensed the light growing stronger, and he could feel someone beside him who he remembered to be Formal. Even when he turned, examining Formal, he could not put the blob together. Everything was a blur. The walls in the lab had vanished, it seemed, for they only reflected the light, and all else that sat in the room was unimportant. As he stood there in wait, he thought he could hear footsteps returning, but when he turned to see if anyone was coming for him, coming for someone, Formal corrected him, and turned him back to the show, the light once again consuming him.
Ideas, it seemed, were captivating him, controlling him, as he watched. Ideas from whom or from what, he couldn't tell, but images kept flashing in his mind. Their back was blue, and in that sea of uniform color was a series of white lines. They shot up, down, left right, in every direction as the light continued to burn. Snake realized something had changed, though. Ocelot no longer stood where he had moments ago, but Socrates was still hard at work, paying attention to nothing but the job at hand. Ocelot seemed to have slipped his mind. 'Something,' Snake thought, 'something is wrong.'
The images returned, but he quickly swatted them away. Ocelot was no longer in the room, and whatever those transmissions were, those bursts of images, they were certainly not as important as Ocelot. 'Where?' Snake asked himself, his eyes darting this way and that. Formal seemed fearful of his knowledge, and followed his eyes closely, being sure not to let them stumble across anything he was not to see. 'Where?!' he cried in his mind, his fists growing tense and his will to move growing stronger. 'You cant. You have to stay here,' he told himself, trying to calm the desire within. 'Now just look around.' His eyes wandered, but he saw nothing…nothing that indicated Ocelot's presence, but he could see something on the desk beside Socrates. It was a lump of black, but something red seemed to be glowing on its side. The images returned then, and he fought them, but they consumed his every thought. There was nothing he could do to end them. It was the will of another. Another who had control. Control. Ha. Snake never seemed to have control.
The light grew brighter still, and the images flashed over his eyelids rapidly, attempting to burn themselves into his eyes, but they failed. The light seemed to be defeating them, destroying them, beating them away from Snake's mind. It was like two armies. Each sought a different goal, and as time passed, they found themselves at a miserable stalemate. Snake saw the images, and he saw the light, but at no time did he see more than the light or more than the images. The meat, the heart, of what they sought could not be presented, for they cancelled each other out, making the task impossible.
It was then – when the images began to grow increasingly vivid, and began to pry into Snake's mind, consuming him completely – that the light seemed to explode. Only, unlike a true explosion, the light flashed, but did not retreat after a few seconds. Instead, it shone bright, and as it did, the images disappeared, and the lab had returned. No longer sitting at the desk, Socrates was on his feet, his right hand held out in triumph, and his other holding a syringe in caution. The light was so bright now that the lump on the desk seemed to disappear, and the gleeful face that Socrates wore was washed out in shadow. Still, his smile was not the focus of the moment, but instead the light, the orb, and the syringe. The three things could only exist with each other, and as Socrates stood there, his left hand shaking, he lowered the orb, lifted the syringe and held them inches apart. His left hand now above his right, he shivered as his left thumb squeezed down on the end of the syringe. That was when the final drop of the Hell Cell left the source and closed the door. There was no turning back. The liquid, whatever it was, fell through the air slower than a feather, and everyone who was present, whether they were within the room or beyond its limits, waited in anticipation be it fear or joy.
It drifted, the liquid, light refracting through it. Unlike the rest of what lay within the room, it appeared to shimmer, and in the eve of impact it glowed with a magnificent beauty, like a crystal set in the centrifuge of a lamp. Then, the beauty disappeared, and a hell was awakened.
The single drop collided with the cell, and the brilliant light that the orb had once emitted, burned away, turning the dark shade of blood. Everything shifted in the room, and a wave of shadows traveled through the room in an instant. It was then that something similar to 'normal' returned. The light was no longer bright, and now Socrates was as vivid as ever, only the color of his clothes and his skin stained with the shade of red, as was everything in the room. Slowly, Socrates lifted a small octagonal cage, and pulled his right hand out from under the cell, letting it drop into the cage, trapping its light inside. The smile on Socrates' face was sickening, and Snake wanted to kill him right there. Right then. But it seemed that job had been reserved for another.
As he started toward him, Formal attempting to halt him, something flew by the two of them, and in a blur, struck Socrates' side, sending a torrent of blood over the desk. Socrates cried out, his arms flailing, and as he dropped to the floor, the cage left his hand and a figure stepped out from behind the wall to Snake's right, catching it in it's hand. The figure turned. Ocelot. Then, the blur that stood above Socrates seemed to sharpen, and Snake fell back a short ways when he recognized who it was. Frank. Grey Fox. The Ninja.
"Surprised to see him?" Ocelot asked, provoking Snake's anger. Snake started forward, but Ocelot whipped out a revolver, held it to his chest, and made a gesture for Snake to turn. He did so in shame, and saw four soldiers standing around three very memorable friends. Mei Ling, Naomi, and Jack stood there, helpless. They could have made it on their own, but not in such a scenario. Ocelot had the upper hand on them all along.
"What the hell?!" Snake turned back to Ocelot, his eyes narrowing in on the Ninja who stared back at him and stepped up beside Ocelot who was smiling with such satisfaction that Snake had never felt. "Frank," Snake muttered, but the Ninja simply turned and kneeled beside Socrates who was barely moving, his hand at his side.
"You never seem to catch on," Ocelot said, turning calmly back to the Ninja and pacing about the room. It was then that Snake was able to see something unique about the Ninja. He was shaking like before, only he was containing it somehow. He was trying to hide it, it seemed. When he looked up from Socrates, the Ninja seemed to cower back in fear as Ocelot pulled forth his glimmering pocket watch. "You see…your friend is my puppet." Ocelot pushed the minute knob and the Ninja grabbed his head, writhing in fury and pain. Ocelot enjoyed watching him twist and turn like he did, but for Snake and the others to hear him well, he could not be trying to talk over those terrible cries. Henceforth, he pushed the knob again, and the Ninja fell weak like he had every time prior. "Surely you came to ponder why anyone would use HIM as a specimen, and more importantly how he was fitted with all of his gear while sitting in a morgue." He waited, expecting someone to answer, but the only reply was Naomi's quick move to Mei Ling's arm, her face buried in her shoulder. "He was PLACED there, SET there…by me." Snake was confused. Ocelot continued pacing.
"Of course I had expected Socrates to show some sort of resistance to my sudden control of Philosophy, and the only way to revive him, and get him to build the Hell Cell without enabling him to continue leadership would be to eliminate him…but, not only him: EVERYONE who stood in opposition to my final plans. As long as a threat existed – beyond the one that you provided, giving me the audience I needed to continue – my plans were not safe, and neither was Hell's Outpost." He stopped where he was, and then pivoted toward the company, stepping close to Snake as he spoke.
"So you see, I needed the best warrior I could find and one who could cripple the trust and efficiency of my audience once again. I needed leverage, and Frank Jaeger, Grey Fox, the Ninja…he was my key. Remember? Think back," he said, waiting for the company to process the information before continuing. "Rogue did not die of an explosion. Had that been the case, I too would have perished. No…the Ninja was there with you, Snake. You saw him on the spot, right where you found that blood, and those insides.
"Now, think of Little Mary. Just as she was in the act of foolishly bringing death upon our friend Jack, the Ninja appeared. What did he do, Snake? He killed her." Ocelot was grinning. "And now, this. Socrates completed the Hell Cell, and the moment he did, the Ninja was upon him. Every instance fits into the equation, the formula. He is my puppet, my attack dog. He has no control over himself. He does only what I ask of him." Naomi was unable to control her anger, but as she lashed out, Snake stopped her, holding his arm in front of her. He didn't want her taking the bullet.
"You…bastard," a muffled voice choked. Ocelot turned and looked down to see Socrates, his eyes wide and blood dripping from his mouth. "Farrel…Formal…help me," he coughed, but the only reply was a series of footsteps as Farrel and Formal moved over him, odd smiles on their faces. Socrates lost all hope in the moment, horror spreading over his wretched face. "You…you are…in league with this man?"
"We will get a few grand out of you," Farrel joked. "And a small share of the world. We will be gods."
"Yes," a foreign voice spoke with the movement of Formal's lips, "this is a deal only you were foolish enough to turn down."
"Mary held true…Mary and the others…they held true to me…not…not you," Socrates forced himself to speak, and then something he had never experienced before, began. He cried. Tears dripped down his cheeks like a river, and Ocelot ignored him.
"Let us not dwell over the past. This is one thing that no one will come to reverse, Socrates. Your death is final." Ocelot looked up to Snake who was furious. "Don't you worry, Solid Snake. Your friend waits just a room away. With this man's untimely death will be your friends well-deserved revival."
"Don't…don't let me…die," Socrates wept, his tears meeting with the cold floor, drowning him in sorrow. Ocelot looked down on him, his revolver in hand, and frowned.
"Tears…like raindrops on a summer's day. To their song, children dance, and to your own, I will also." Ocelot lowered his revolver and with a loud, startling crack, Socrates was dead.
It was like a blur, that moment. It all happened so fast, but to Snake it lasted a lifetime, and as he stood there, gazing into the light that weigh heavy, floating oddly in the air, his legs were weakened, his body succumbing to the feeling of numbness and dizziness. Figures appeared as blobs, bobbing eerily through the see of light, making jerky movements this way and that as his eyes strained to make sense of the moment. He could see two men directly ahead. One stood, that was Ocelot, and the other seemed to be sitting at a desk or something of the sort, his arms outstretched, and floating above them – the Hell Cell. That, was Socrates, his hand working furiously around it, dropping these chemicals into it, swiping his hands over it…only when it was complete did its objective take effect. So, as long as it was not whole, he could add or subtract from the ball of energy, anything he deemed necessary. The task was painstaking, but Snake had arrived near the end of its construction, sparing him a lengthy observation in which he would surely grow weary and uninterested in the production.
He sensed the light growing stronger, and he could feel someone beside him who he remembered to be Formal. Even when he turned, examining Formal, he could not put the blob together. Everything was a blur. The walls in the lab had vanished, it seemed, for they only reflected the light, and all else that sat in the room was unimportant. As he stood there in wait, he thought he could hear footsteps returning, but when he turned to see if anyone was coming for him, coming for someone, Formal corrected him, and turned him back to the show, the light once again consuming him.
Ideas, it seemed, were captivating him, controlling him, as he watched. Ideas from whom or from what, he couldn't tell, but images kept flashing in his mind. Their back was blue, and in that sea of uniform color was a series of white lines. They shot up, down, left right, in every direction as the light continued to burn. Snake realized something had changed, though. Ocelot no longer stood where he had moments ago, but Socrates was still hard at work, paying attention to nothing but the job at hand. Ocelot seemed to have slipped his mind. 'Something,' Snake thought, 'something is wrong.'
The images returned, but he quickly swatted them away. Ocelot was no longer in the room, and whatever those transmissions were, those bursts of images, they were certainly not as important as Ocelot. 'Where?' Snake asked himself, his eyes darting this way and that. Formal seemed fearful of his knowledge, and followed his eyes closely, being sure not to let them stumble across anything he was not to see. 'Where?!' he cried in his mind, his fists growing tense and his will to move growing stronger. 'You cant. You have to stay here,' he told himself, trying to calm the desire within. 'Now just look around.' His eyes wandered, but he saw nothing…nothing that indicated Ocelot's presence, but he could see something on the desk beside Socrates. It was a lump of black, but something red seemed to be glowing on its side. The images returned then, and he fought them, but they consumed his every thought. There was nothing he could do to end them. It was the will of another. Another who had control. Control. Ha. Snake never seemed to have control.
The light grew brighter still, and the images flashed over his eyelids rapidly, attempting to burn themselves into his eyes, but they failed. The light seemed to be defeating them, destroying them, beating them away from Snake's mind. It was like two armies. Each sought a different goal, and as time passed, they found themselves at a miserable stalemate. Snake saw the images, and he saw the light, but at no time did he see more than the light or more than the images. The meat, the heart, of what they sought could not be presented, for they cancelled each other out, making the task impossible.
It was then – when the images began to grow increasingly vivid, and began to pry into Snake's mind, consuming him completely – that the light seemed to explode. Only, unlike a true explosion, the light flashed, but did not retreat after a few seconds. Instead, it shone bright, and as it did, the images disappeared, and the lab had returned. No longer sitting at the desk, Socrates was on his feet, his right hand held out in triumph, and his other holding a syringe in caution. The light was so bright now that the lump on the desk seemed to disappear, and the gleeful face that Socrates wore was washed out in shadow. Still, his smile was not the focus of the moment, but instead the light, the orb, and the syringe. The three things could only exist with each other, and as Socrates stood there, his left hand shaking, he lowered the orb, lifted the syringe and held them inches apart. His left hand now above his right, he shivered as his left thumb squeezed down on the end of the syringe. That was when the final drop of the Hell Cell left the source and closed the door. There was no turning back. The liquid, whatever it was, fell through the air slower than a feather, and everyone who was present, whether they were within the room or beyond its limits, waited in anticipation be it fear or joy.
It drifted, the liquid, light refracting through it. Unlike the rest of what lay within the room, it appeared to shimmer, and in the eve of impact it glowed with a magnificent beauty, like a crystal set in the centrifuge of a lamp. Then, the beauty disappeared, and a hell was awakened.
The single drop collided with the cell, and the brilliant light that the orb had once emitted, burned away, turning the dark shade of blood. Everything shifted in the room, and a wave of shadows traveled through the room in an instant. It was then that something similar to 'normal' returned. The light was no longer bright, and now Socrates was as vivid as ever, only the color of his clothes and his skin stained with the shade of red, as was everything in the room. Slowly, Socrates lifted a small octagonal cage, and pulled his right hand out from under the cell, letting it drop into the cage, trapping its light inside. The smile on Socrates' face was sickening, and Snake wanted to kill him right there. Right then. But it seemed that job had been reserved for another.
As he started toward him, Formal attempting to halt him, something flew by the two of them, and in a blur, struck Socrates' side, sending a torrent of blood over the desk. Socrates cried out, his arms flailing, and as he dropped to the floor, the cage left his hand and a figure stepped out from behind the wall to Snake's right, catching it in it's hand. The figure turned. Ocelot. Then, the blur that stood above Socrates seemed to sharpen, and Snake fell back a short ways when he recognized who it was. Frank. Grey Fox. The Ninja.
"Surprised to see him?" Ocelot asked, provoking Snake's anger. Snake started forward, but Ocelot whipped out a revolver, held it to his chest, and made a gesture for Snake to turn. He did so in shame, and saw four soldiers standing around three very memorable friends. Mei Ling, Naomi, and Jack stood there, helpless. They could have made it on their own, but not in such a scenario. Ocelot had the upper hand on them all along.
"What the hell?!" Snake turned back to Ocelot, his eyes narrowing in on the Ninja who stared back at him and stepped up beside Ocelot who was smiling with such satisfaction that Snake had never felt. "Frank," Snake muttered, but the Ninja simply turned and kneeled beside Socrates who was barely moving, his hand at his side.
"You never seem to catch on," Ocelot said, turning calmly back to the Ninja and pacing about the room. It was then that Snake was able to see something unique about the Ninja. He was shaking like before, only he was containing it somehow. He was trying to hide it, it seemed. When he looked up from Socrates, the Ninja seemed to cower back in fear as Ocelot pulled forth his glimmering pocket watch. "You see…your friend is my puppet." Ocelot pushed the minute knob and the Ninja grabbed his head, writhing in fury and pain. Ocelot enjoyed watching him twist and turn like he did, but for Snake and the others to hear him well, he could not be trying to talk over those terrible cries. Henceforth, he pushed the knob again, and the Ninja fell weak like he had every time prior. "Surely you came to ponder why anyone would use HIM as a specimen, and more importantly how he was fitted with all of his gear while sitting in a morgue." He waited, expecting someone to answer, but the only reply was Naomi's quick move to Mei Ling's arm, her face buried in her shoulder. "He was PLACED there, SET there…by me." Snake was confused. Ocelot continued pacing.
"Of course I had expected Socrates to show some sort of resistance to my sudden control of Philosophy, and the only way to revive him, and get him to build the Hell Cell without enabling him to continue leadership would be to eliminate him…but, not only him: EVERYONE who stood in opposition to my final plans. As long as a threat existed – beyond the one that you provided, giving me the audience I needed to continue – my plans were not safe, and neither was Hell's Outpost." He stopped where he was, and then pivoted toward the company, stepping close to Snake as he spoke.
"So you see, I needed the best warrior I could find and one who could cripple the trust and efficiency of my audience once again. I needed leverage, and Frank Jaeger, Grey Fox, the Ninja…he was my key. Remember? Think back," he said, waiting for the company to process the information before continuing. "Rogue did not die of an explosion. Had that been the case, I too would have perished. No…the Ninja was there with you, Snake. You saw him on the spot, right where you found that blood, and those insides.
"Now, think of Little Mary. Just as she was in the act of foolishly bringing death upon our friend Jack, the Ninja appeared. What did he do, Snake? He killed her." Ocelot was grinning. "And now, this. Socrates completed the Hell Cell, and the moment he did, the Ninja was upon him. Every instance fits into the equation, the formula. He is my puppet, my attack dog. He has no control over himself. He does only what I ask of him." Naomi was unable to control her anger, but as she lashed out, Snake stopped her, holding his arm in front of her. He didn't want her taking the bullet.
"You…bastard," a muffled voice choked. Ocelot turned and looked down to see Socrates, his eyes wide and blood dripping from his mouth. "Farrel…Formal…help me," he coughed, but the only reply was a series of footsteps as Farrel and Formal moved over him, odd smiles on their faces. Socrates lost all hope in the moment, horror spreading over his wretched face. "You…you are…in league with this man?"
"We will get a few grand out of you," Farrel joked. "And a small share of the world. We will be gods."
"Yes," a foreign voice spoke with the movement of Formal's lips, "this is a deal only you were foolish enough to turn down."
"Mary held true…Mary and the others…they held true to me…not…not you," Socrates forced himself to speak, and then something he had never experienced before, began. He cried. Tears dripped down his cheeks like a river, and Ocelot ignored him.
"Let us not dwell over the past. This is one thing that no one will come to reverse, Socrates. Your death is final." Ocelot looked up to Snake who was furious. "Don't you worry, Solid Snake. Your friend waits just a room away. With this man's untimely death will be your friends well-deserved revival."
"Don't…don't let me…die," Socrates wept, his tears meeting with the cold floor, drowning him in sorrow. Ocelot looked down on him, his revolver in hand, and frowned.
"Tears…like raindrops on a summer's day. To their song, children dance, and to your own, I will also." Ocelot lowered his revolver and with a loud, startling crack, Socrates was dead.