"NPR?" Otacon fiddled with the radio's analog tuning knobs. It replied with
alternate squawks of too-loud financial news and wet-sounding static. He
suspected the radio was allergic to him. It only qualified as electronic
equipment by dint of the fact that there was, intermittently, some form of
current running through it. "Doesn't this thing get music stations
anymore?"
"Lost the aerial," said Snake. "Deer."
"-Deer-?" asked Raiden from the back seat.
"Look, kid. When you repeat what I just said over the CODEC, it's cute. When you're within conversational distance in an enclosed space—a car, for example—it gets old."
"Sorry," came the petulant response. Otacon checked the rear-view mirror. It was as much a mystery to him as to anyone else what Raiden's actual age was, but there was no denying the fact that he was making nose-prints on the inside of the window. Ah, well. Highly trained black-ops professionals had to get their juvenile kicks somewhere.
"You were making that up about Liquid, right? I'm just –checking-, you know." Snake flipped the wipers on as a gritty drizzle speckled the windshield.
"Well, yes." The long-habitual straightening of glasses. "As near as I've been able to tell, Liquid was pretty much reduced to his component amino acids."
"I'll make you a bet, then," offered Snake, tugging the beast around a tight right turn. "Five bucks says he's there, waiting. A scrap of cuticle managed to survive and attached itself to some poor bastard, and he's made his way here for the sole purpose of interfering with our plans to bowl."
"You're on. You're also nuts."
Snake grinned.
"You don't even have five dollars on you, do you?"
"No. But he does." Snake jabbed a thumb at the backseat.
"I'm –not- giving you five bucks, Snake," Raiden insisted, crossing his arms.
"Giving? Pfeh." Snake turned his head to spit by way of emphasis, but realized, alas, that the window was still rolled up. So much for exposition. "It wouldn't be the first time you didn't like me getting something out of your pants."
Otacon blinked. This was news.
"Huh?" Raiden made a quick inventory. Wallet, check. Keys, check. Eight dollars and sixty-three cents, check. Lime-flavored lip balm, check. "What the hell did you ever get out of my pants, you old bastard?"
"You," Snake chuckled. God, but he'd set that one up –smooth-. He was still grinning when they pulled into the cracked parking lot of the bowling alley.
It wasn't much. The sign was almost as big as the front of the building, and in the dark its racing lights sent epileptically strobing shadows over the parking lot. CENTURY BOWL, it proclaimed yellowly as a blue bowling ball rolled perpetually toward three pins it would never reach, AND LOUNGE. 'Lounge' was picked out in cursive letters with lurid red bulbs, as though to suggest it was a cosmopolitan haven of sex and dissipation. It had decent cheese-fries.
"See? No Liquid." Levering himself out of the Snakemobile, Otacon swung a long arm around expansively. "No Ocelot. No eight-story automated killing machines. –Somebody- owes me five dollars."
Raiden shut his door harder than was strictly necessary.
"Give it to him later," said Snake, heading for the front door. "I'm going to get some shoes."
Raiden jogged after him, but stopped in his tracks after clearing the car's tail end. He caught Otacon's elbow. "Hang on a second," he hissed. "If he doesn't have five bucks on him, how the hell is he going to rent shoes?"
"Wait for it," Otacon advised sagely, pointing. "You'll notice he's not going in the front door."
"He's not going in the door at all. Around the side, into the alley with all the Dumpsters…" Raiden craned his neck for a better angle. "Oh -God-, he's not…is he?"
"Actually, he is. It's going to get better. Keep watching."
Raiden did. He wouldn't have been able to tear his eyes off the proceedings if he'd wanted to, not even with barbecue tongs. There was no way Snake was stripping off his clothes—revealing his off-green stealth suit—and making a start on the ascent up the whitewashed brick wall toward a wheezing kitchen- exhaust vent. He shook his head. This was obviously another elaborately contructed VR sim. Had to be. But why would they have bothered to put dried mustard down the front of Snake's suit?
"There he goes," murmured Otacon, with a hint of pride in his voice. Snake had pried up one corner of the grating over the vent and slipped inside. Raiden pinched himself—hard.
"I have to grab his clothes," said Otacon apologetically. "I'll meet you inside. Don't worry—if he doesn't get the chance to infiltrate –something- at least twice a month, he gets a rash."
*********************************
Next chapter: the wait is over! Actual BOWLING! Rejoice!
"Lost the aerial," said Snake. "Deer."
"-Deer-?" asked Raiden from the back seat.
"Look, kid. When you repeat what I just said over the CODEC, it's cute. When you're within conversational distance in an enclosed space—a car, for example—it gets old."
"Sorry," came the petulant response. Otacon checked the rear-view mirror. It was as much a mystery to him as to anyone else what Raiden's actual age was, but there was no denying the fact that he was making nose-prints on the inside of the window. Ah, well. Highly trained black-ops professionals had to get their juvenile kicks somewhere.
"You were making that up about Liquid, right? I'm just –checking-, you know." Snake flipped the wipers on as a gritty drizzle speckled the windshield.
"Well, yes." The long-habitual straightening of glasses. "As near as I've been able to tell, Liquid was pretty much reduced to his component amino acids."
"I'll make you a bet, then," offered Snake, tugging the beast around a tight right turn. "Five bucks says he's there, waiting. A scrap of cuticle managed to survive and attached itself to some poor bastard, and he's made his way here for the sole purpose of interfering with our plans to bowl."
"You're on. You're also nuts."
Snake grinned.
"You don't even have five dollars on you, do you?"
"No. But he does." Snake jabbed a thumb at the backseat.
"I'm –not- giving you five bucks, Snake," Raiden insisted, crossing his arms.
"Giving? Pfeh." Snake turned his head to spit by way of emphasis, but realized, alas, that the window was still rolled up. So much for exposition. "It wouldn't be the first time you didn't like me getting something out of your pants."
Otacon blinked. This was news.
"Huh?" Raiden made a quick inventory. Wallet, check. Keys, check. Eight dollars and sixty-three cents, check. Lime-flavored lip balm, check. "What the hell did you ever get out of my pants, you old bastard?"
"You," Snake chuckled. God, but he'd set that one up –smooth-. He was still grinning when they pulled into the cracked parking lot of the bowling alley.
It wasn't much. The sign was almost as big as the front of the building, and in the dark its racing lights sent epileptically strobing shadows over the parking lot. CENTURY BOWL, it proclaimed yellowly as a blue bowling ball rolled perpetually toward three pins it would never reach, AND LOUNGE. 'Lounge' was picked out in cursive letters with lurid red bulbs, as though to suggest it was a cosmopolitan haven of sex and dissipation. It had decent cheese-fries.
"See? No Liquid." Levering himself out of the Snakemobile, Otacon swung a long arm around expansively. "No Ocelot. No eight-story automated killing machines. –Somebody- owes me five dollars."
Raiden shut his door harder than was strictly necessary.
"Give it to him later," said Snake, heading for the front door. "I'm going to get some shoes."
Raiden jogged after him, but stopped in his tracks after clearing the car's tail end. He caught Otacon's elbow. "Hang on a second," he hissed. "If he doesn't have five bucks on him, how the hell is he going to rent shoes?"
"Wait for it," Otacon advised sagely, pointing. "You'll notice he's not going in the front door."
"He's not going in the door at all. Around the side, into the alley with all the Dumpsters…" Raiden craned his neck for a better angle. "Oh -God-, he's not…is he?"
"Actually, he is. It's going to get better. Keep watching."
Raiden did. He wouldn't have been able to tear his eyes off the proceedings if he'd wanted to, not even with barbecue tongs. There was no way Snake was stripping off his clothes—revealing his off-green stealth suit—and making a start on the ascent up the whitewashed brick wall toward a wheezing kitchen- exhaust vent. He shook his head. This was obviously another elaborately contructed VR sim. Had to be. But why would they have bothered to put dried mustard down the front of Snake's suit?
"There he goes," murmured Otacon, with a hint of pride in his voice. Snake had pried up one corner of the grating over the vent and slipped inside. Raiden pinched himself—hard.
"I have to grab his clothes," said Otacon apologetically. "I'll meet you inside. Don't worry—if he doesn't get the chance to infiltrate –something- at least twice a month, he gets a rash."
*********************************
Next chapter: the wait is over! Actual BOWLING! Rejoice!