The Snakemobile was a majestic beast—in this one respect, heavy-duty
machinery had been good to Snake. A sky-blue Buick hardtop, dating from the
days when they'd made 'em to really LAST: specifically, when they'd made
'em like military troop transports with AM stereos. It ran like a garbage
truck and swayed unnervingly in high wind, but once it got up to speed it
could churn through three late-model cars and a dairy cow without an
appreciable loss in momentum. Snake had parked it as far as possible from
the main press of parking spaces surrounding Otacon's apartment building.
He didn't want door dings.
They didn't get far. Down the stairs, across the first lot, halfway to the car—already Raiden was looking perkier—there was a BREEP BREEP that echoed from nearby walls. A few crows worrying at a hamburger wrapper under a sodium-vapor lamp several yards away startled and flapped off.
"That you, Snake?" asked Otacon, tapping at his neck.
"Not me."
Raiden winced. Somehow, Rose had figured out how to turn up the volume on his ringer. He swatted his nanos to life. "Rose?"
"That's right, Jack," said the familiar voice. Rose's CODEC daemon, even if it was a monotonal green, looked to be developing a dangerously purple cast to the cheeks. "I assume you've all been kidnapped, or called away on some other impossibly urgent mission? Something that absolutely requires you LEAVE YOUR GIRLFRIEND IN A STRANGE MAN'S BATHROOM?"
Otacon waved a hand urgently. "Liquid," he mouthed soundlessly. Snake provided a thumbs-up. Raiden stared. "What the hell?" he mouthed in return.
"Liquid. Bowling alley."
Raiden rolled his eyes, and made a complicated gesture that suggested, in quick succession, that Otacon could cram an unspecified object through a narrow, unyielding pore, and that he, Raiden, would in short order turn from a living breathing menace to repressive governmental regimes and idly meandering grunts into a steaming pile of organ tissue minced fine enough to pass through open-weave cheesecloth, and further that Snake, as indicated by a double-jointed wriggle of thumb and index finger, would in all likelihood end up at a potluck in a decorative aspic mold with parsley garnish.
"I've got to remember that one," murmured Snake appreciatively.
"JACK?" demanded the inorexable voice from Raiden's treacherous nanomachines. "I'm waiting, Jack."
"Ah, right. Snake got a call." With a sigh, Raiden shrugged. What the hell? He wasn't good at winging it. "Apparently there's some intelligence that Liquid, or a part of him-" an encouraging nod from Otacon—"has been traced to a location downtown near a bowling alley. There's, ah…also a possibility…"
"A possibility of what? Are you all right?" Rose's daemon no longer looked at risk for burst capillaries. Could she actually be buying it?
"Possibility that he may also have somehow compromised a Denny's in the same area," Raiden finished. His daemon managed to keep a straight face—but every finger on both hands was crossed. He was actually rather proud of himself for that one.
A pause. Snake's eyebrows raised in question, and dropped back into his habitual scowl as Raiden swatted a preoccupied hand at him.
"Well, be careful."
"I will. I'll see you at home."
Raiden waited a few seconds. Then a few more, for good measure. And then, finally, he smacked underneath the other ear, the spot that turned the damned things OFF. And he grinned.
"We okay?" ventured Otacon.
"We are cleared for bowling and post-bowling replenishment of rations," Raiden announced smugly. The last time he'd tried to pull one that fast, he'd needed diazepam.
Snake grinned. "Not bad, kid," he allowed. Otacon made an exultant noise best characterized as hoot-like and ventured a couple of chicken-hops. "Let's go."
The inside of the Snakemobile smelled like smoke, and crusty old badass, but to Raiden it was the sweet smell of liberty, transgression, and being out past 10 pm on a weeknight.
"Next stop," growled Snake, "Century Bowl and Late-Nite Lounge. Buckle your damn seatbelt, Otacon."
*******************
Okay, so they didn't quite get to the alley this chapter. Soon, I promise. Thanks for staying with me!
They didn't get far. Down the stairs, across the first lot, halfway to the car—already Raiden was looking perkier—there was a BREEP BREEP that echoed from nearby walls. A few crows worrying at a hamburger wrapper under a sodium-vapor lamp several yards away startled and flapped off.
"That you, Snake?" asked Otacon, tapping at his neck.
"Not me."
Raiden winced. Somehow, Rose had figured out how to turn up the volume on his ringer. He swatted his nanos to life. "Rose?"
"That's right, Jack," said the familiar voice. Rose's CODEC daemon, even if it was a monotonal green, looked to be developing a dangerously purple cast to the cheeks. "I assume you've all been kidnapped, or called away on some other impossibly urgent mission? Something that absolutely requires you LEAVE YOUR GIRLFRIEND IN A STRANGE MAN'S BATHROOM?"
Otacon waved a hand urgently. "Liquid," he mouthed soundlessly. Snake provided a thumbs-up. Raiden stared. "What the hell?" he mouthed in return.
"Liquid. Bowling alley."
Raiden rolled his eyes, and made a complicated gesture that suggested, in quick succession, that Otacon could cram an unspecified object through a narrow, unyielding pore, and that he, Raiden, would in short order turn from a living breathing menace to repressive governmental regimes and idly meandering grunts into a steaming pile of organ tissue minced fine enough to pass through open-weave cheesecloth, and further that Snake, as indicated by a double-jointed wriggle of thumb and index finger, would in all likelihood end up at a potluck in a decorative aspic mold with parsley garnish.
"I've got to remember that one," murmured Snake appreciatively.
"JACK?" demanded the inorexable voice from Raiden's treacherous nanomachines. "I'm waiting, Jack."
"Ah, right. Snake got a call." With a sigh, Raiden shrugged. What the hell? He wasn't good at winging it. "Apparently there's some intelligence that Liquid, or a part of him-" an encouraging nod from Otacon—"has been traced to a location downtown near a bowling alley. There's, ah…also a possibility…"
"A possibility of what? Are you all right?" Rose's daemon no longer looked at risk for burst capillaries. Could she actually be buying it?
"Possibility that he may also have somehow compromised a Denny's in the same area," Raiden finished. His daemon managed to keep a straight face—but every finger on both hands was crossed. He was actually rather proud of himself for that one.
A pause. Snake's eyebrows raised in question, and dropped back into his habitual scowl as Raiden swatted a preoccupied hand at him.
"Well, be careful."
"I will. I'll see you at home."
Raiden waited a few seconds. Then a few more, for good measure. And then, finally, he smacked underneath the other ear, the spot that turned the damned things OFF. And he grinned.
"We okay?" ventured Otacon.
"We are cleared for bowling and post-bowling replenishment of rations," Raiden announced smugly. The last time he'd tried to pull one that fast, he'd needed diazepam.
Snake grinned. "Not bad, kid," he allowed. Otacon made an exultant noise best characterized as hoot-like and ventured a couple of chicken-hops. "Let's go."
The inside of the Snakemobile smelled like smoke, and crusty old badass, but to Raiden it was the sweet smell of liberty, transgression, and being out past 10 pm on a weeknight.
"Next stop," growled Snake, "Century Bowl and Late-Nite Lounge. Buckle your damn seatbelt, Otacon."
*******************
Okay, so they didn't quite get to the alley this chapter. Soon, I promise. Thanks for staying with me!