Chapter Eight: FACtion
The sun was moving still, and the temperature was showing no signs of relenting. Jack and Snake's boots clapped the sidewalk as they went by, and the heat suffocated their bodies, pushing sweat from them and letting it slide over their skin. They had been on the boats nearly an hour and a half ago, and all ready the sun was eating away at them, devouring their energy and weakening their senses. They were victims of the heat.
"Well, the temperature is still hovering up there in the mid-eighties," a voice called, and Jack and Snake stopped, turning to their right to see a display window housing nearly fifteen large televisions. On them, a man with dark brown hair sat in a suit at a news desk, rattling off how miserable it was. "You know, Jon, it doesn't feel like eighty. More like ninety to me," he said smiling. The camera moved to a meteorologist who stood in front of a digitally rendered background that watched over the state of New York.
"That's right, Mike," the man exclaimed, pointing out spots on the map. "For the past couple of years, the weather has been very similar around this time. What we have in the western part of New York is a very dry heat, but over in Manhattan we're encountering terrible humidity. We've been having trouble contacting our reporters in Manhattan, but the reports we've received from neighboring areas like the Bronx are mentioning some sweltering conditions. We don't expect this to clear up until late tonight, when the temperature drops. It should be somewhere around 56 degrees…somewhere in the mid-fifties. But, tomorrow is supposed to be hotter." The man put on a discerning face. "Well, happy 4th of July, everyone, and back to you Mike." The camera returned to the man at the news desk and Jack turned to Snake in bewilderment.
"They didn't mention the invasion," he commented, his face screwed up. Snake nodded, having noticed the same thing, and turned to Jack after surveying a couple sentences of the news reporter's continuation.
"Yea," Snake frowned. "The Patriots must be censoring the news reports."
"But didn't Otacon say something about a Special Report issue of The Manhattan Resident?" Jack questioned, and Snake hesitated. He looked at the pavement in question, and then turned his head back up to Jack.
"He did," he replied.
"Hmph…we need to get in touch with him." Jack insisted, but Snake shook his head subtly, and put a crease in the left corner of his mouth, a way of displaying his disapproval.
"I've got a feeling he has a lot more to worry about. There's certainly some tension between him and the UFAC regarding the position we're in. He doesn't' need us putting our lives in his hands every time we hit a dead end. He worries enough about us as it is."
"Otacon? Worry? Hah!" Jack said sarcastically, resting his hands on his hips and throwing back his head to act out an overly exaggerated cackle like an old man would do trying to amuse his grandchildren.
"Right," Snake snickered, "let's just head for the warehouse. Maybe it's best we complete our mission with the UFAC before going off and saving Manhattan." Jack nodded tentatively, and then staring at him in question.
"We've all ready driven a quarter of the way up Manhattan," Jack claimed. "We should have decided on this before we came up here and almost got blown to pieces!" Snake looked at him uneasily, remembering the UFAC agent when the flames roared over his body…terrible.
There was a ring in their ears then, and the two looked at each other anticipating Otacon's hurried orders. Not wanting to put him back into the situation, they thought not to answer, but Snake felt it rude not to. "Hello?" he asked, and Jack moved into the conversation also. There was heavy breathing from the other end, and Snake realized instantly that Otacon had not contacted them.
"Hello…Solid Snake," the voice called, feeble and worn. The person barely seemed alive, but there was an obvious furiousness subjected toward Snake upon hearing it, and the two things put together led Jack to only one possible solution.
"Formal," he answered in a disrespectful tone. Gritting his teeth, he looked to Snake as the voice began to laugh. Snake shook his head, shooting down Jack's yearning to interrupt with foul statements and vulgar accusations. 'Let him talk,' Snake mouthed, and Jack nodded reluctantly.
"Jackie boy, is that you?" he questioned. Jack could not contain himself.
"I killed you --!" he began, and Snake swiftly raised his hand, signaling for Jack to stop. He did. Formal continued.
"Yes, it is you," the foreign voice called, "and yes, this is I. Or rather…it is he, for his voice belongs to another."
"Dead?" Snake questioned, and Formal laughed.
"He is not dead, and neither am I, Snake. I," he paused, "I am very much alive. In fact, I have yet to be harmed by a bullet…Jack."
He waited, expecting Jack's immediate outburst of rage, but it did not come in words. Instead, he had pulled a Hammerli 280 from within his jacket and had fired one shot through the display window to their right, and a television flickered off as smoke rose from it's shattered front. Snake grabbed Jack's upper arms and threw him against the window, lightly enough to avoid breaking it. Seeing his face, Jack had become frightened more than ever. He stood there, his arms forced behind his back, and was let free when Snake had forced the Hammerli from his hand and had pushed him into the TV Shop and closed the door behind them. Bystanders frantically scurried about, and some reached pay phones to call for the police. Snake and Jack stared at each other, their ears listening intently as the foreign voice returned.
"Nothing to say, Jack?" Formal provoked him. "Very well then. Let me get on to the more important matters. I would very much appreciate seeing you on the third floor of the IN-Tech building. It's on the northeast corner of the Franklin and Hudson intersection. Will you be able to make my acquaintance?" Snake looked at Jack who nodded without hesitation.
"We'll be there," Snake replied.
"Oh, and one thing," Formal started, preventing Snake from closing the transmission. "I want Jack." Jack's eyes lit up with excitement just then, but Snake watched him, weary of how to take the statement. "No offense to you, Snake, but I believe he and I have some catching up to do." The foreign voice hinted at amusement, and Jack was ready. Whenever. Wherever. "Until then."
"Until then," Jack answered quickly, and they closed the transmission.
"My…my TV! You bastards!" a man cried, moving out from behind a storage closet in the back of the shop. Snake turned to the man and quickly raised his SOCOM to the man's chest. He stopped where he was, and threw his arms in the air.
"Sorry about that," Snake commented, turning away from the man and heading out the door after slipping his SOCOM back into its holster. "The economy is screwed anyway," he called aftr exiting the shop, and the clerk fell onto the floor in exhaustion.
"One more gun is pointed at me," he said, trying to catch his breath, "and I'm gonna drop dead." He took a deep breath, and exhaled, sending it through the room as people hurried by outside. By that time Jack and Snake had both gone out of site, and the streets were quiet again.
The coffee house was dim and quiet still, but some sunlight had managed to slip in through the wall of windows. Still, there were no more than three other men or women sitting at the tables, enjoying their coffee and their sandwiches, but more people were moving on the streets beyond. The Customer sat patiently in his seat, and as he heard an annoying creaking noise from the rear of the room, he turned his head.
Out of the bathroom stepped the same beautiful woman, her jean shorts sagged below her hips, and exposing more of her underwear than before. She had a crazed look about her face; one of absolute bliss, and her hair fell down to her shoulders, bouncing with her step. Her lips were a glossy red, and her beautiful eyes fell over The Customer, a smile forming on her face as she walked behind the service counter. She fell against the counter; her body tired. Tossing a string of hair out of her face, The Customer grinned and turned back to his computer, typing something into the computer as a voice erupted in his ear.
"Sir?" the voice called, and he fumbled to turn away from the service counter, cupping his hands over his ear and his mouth. "Sir?!" the voice called louder.
"I'm here," The Customer answered. "What is it, Colonel?" He shot a look back at the service counter, and entangled his eyes with the waitress'. Smiling quickly, he turned away.
"The news," he started, his voice shaky, "the news isn't making its way out of Manhattan. No one but the people of this city knows anything of the invasion." The Customer seemed somewhat amused by this, chuckling subtly.
"The Manhattan Resident is still getting the word around."
"But sir, if we want to end the Patriots, we have to disclose them to the public. This public is too small of an audience," the colonel insisted, but The Customer shook his head.
"Who controls the flow of media?" he asked.
"The Patriot," the colonel answered.
"Somewhat, but there is another who watches even closer," The Customer proclaimed. "Still, take this as a sign. Now, at least we know that old Shalashaska is still alive and kicking." The colonel grinned, but deep within he was still frightened that their plans were failing. "Now, send in a notice to The Manhattan Resident. This bombing is something the people need to know."
"Won't it only frighten them?" the colonel nodded.
"It's better they hear it from us than from bystanders," The Customer indicated.
"But how will they know it is us?" the colonel questioned. The Customer sat for a moment, thinking long and hard, and then, after taking another look at the beautiful waitress, he returned a response.
"Sign it from FACtion."
The sun was moving still, and the temperature was showing no signs of relenting. Jack and Snake's boots clapped the sidewalk as they went by, and the heat suffocated their bodies, pushing sweat from them and letting it slide over their skin. They had been on the boats nearly an hour and a half ago, and all ready the sun was eating away at them, devouring their energy and weakening their senses. They were victims of the heat.
"Well, the temperature is still hovering up there in the mid-eighties," a voice called, and Jack and Snake stopped, turning to their right to see a display window housing nearly fifteen large televisions. On them, a man with dark brown hair sat in a suit at a news desk, rattling off how miserable it was. "You know, Jon, it doesn't feel like eighty. More like ninety to me," he said smiling. The camera moved to a meteorologist who stood in front of a digitally rendered background that watched over the state of New York.
"That's right, Mike," the man exclaimed, pointing out spots on the map. "For the past couple of years, the weather has been very similar around this time. What we have in the western part of New York is a very dry heat, but over in Manhattan we're encountering terrible humidity. We've been having trouble contacting our reporters in Manhattan, but the reports we've received from neighboring areas like the Bronx are mentioning some sweltering conditions. We don't expect this to clear up until late tonight, when the temperature drops. It should be somewhere around 56 degrees…somewhere in the mid-fifties. But, tomorrow is supposed to be hotter." The man put on a discerning face. "Well, happy 4th of July, everyone, and back to you Mike." The camera returned to the man at the news desk and Jack turned to Snake in bewilderment.
"They didn't mention the invasion," he commented, his face screwed up. Snake nodded, having noticed the same thing, and turned to Jack after surveying a couple sentences of the news reporter's continuation.
"Yea," Snake frowned. "The Patriots must be censoring the news reports."
"But didn't Otacon say something about a Special Report issue of The Manhattan Resident?" Jack questioned, and Snake hesitated. He looked at the pavement in question, and then turned his head back up to Jack.
"He did," he replied.
"Hmph…we need to get in touch with him." Jack insisted, but Snake shook his head subtly, and put a crease in the left corner of his mouth, a way of displaying his disapproval.
"I've got a feeling he has a lot more to worry about. There's certainly some tension between him and the UFAC regarding the position we're in. He doesn't' need us putting our lives in his hands every time we hit a dead end. He worries enough about us as it is."
"Otacon? Worry? Hah!" Jack said sarcastically, resting his hands on his hips and throwing back his head to act out an overly exaggerated cackle like an old man would do trying to amuse his grandchildren.
"Right," Snake snickered, "let's just head for the warehouse. Maybe it's best we complete our mission with the UFAC before going off and saving Manhattan." Jack nodded tentatively, and then staring at him in question.
"We've all ready driven a quarter of the way up Manhattan," Jack claimed. "We should have decided on this before we came up here and almost got blown to pieces!" Snake looked at him uneasily, remembering the UFAC agent when the flames roared over his body…terrible.
There was a ring in their ears then, and the two looked at each other anticipating Otacon's hurried orders. Not wanting to put him back into the situation, they thought not to answer, but Snake felt it rude not to. "Hello?" he asked, and Jack moved into the conversation also. There was heavy breathing from the other end, and Snake realized instantly that Otacon had not contacted them.
"Hello…Solid Snake," the voice called, feeble and worn. The person barely seemed alive, but there was an obvious furiousness subjected toward Snake upon hearing it, and the two things put together led Jack to only one possible solution.
"Formal," he answered in a disrespectful tone. Gritting his teeth, he looked to Snake as the voice began to laugh. Snake shook his head, shooting down Jack's yearning to interrupt with foul statements and vulgar accusations. 'Let him talk,' Snake mouthed, and Jack nodded reluctantly.
"Jackie boy, is that you?" he questioned. Jack could not contain himself.
"I killed you --!" he began, and Snake swiftly raised his hand, signaling for Jack to stop. He did. Formal continued.
"Yes, it is you," the foreign voice called, "and yes, this is I. Or rather…it is he, for his voice belongs to another."
"Dead?" Snake questioned, and Formal laughed.
"He is not dead, and neither am I, Snake. I," he paused, "I am very much alive. In fact, I have yet to be harmed by a bullet…Jack."
He waited, expecting Jack's immediate outburst of rage, but it did not come in words. Instead, he had pulled a Hammerli 280 from within his jacket and had fired one shot through the display window to their right, and a television flickered off as smoke rose from it's shattered front. Snake grabbed Jack's upper arms and threw him against the window, lightly enough to avoid breaking it. Seeing his face, Jack had become frightened more than ever. He stood there, his arms forced behind his back, and was let free when Snake had forced the Hammerli from his hand and had pushed him into the TV Shop and closed the door behind them. Bystanders frantically scurried about, and some reached pay phones to call for the police. Snake and Jack stared at each other, their ears listening intently as the foreign voice returned.
"Nothing to say, Jack?" Formal provoked him. "Very well then. Let me get on to the more important matters. I would very much appreciate seeing you on the third floor of the IN-Tech building. It's on the northeast corner of the Franklin and Hudson intersection. Will you be able to make my acquaintance?" Snake looked at Jack who nodded without hesitation.
"We'll be there," Snake replied.
"Oh, and one thing," Formal started, preventing Snake from closing the transmission. "I want Jack." Jack's eyes lit up with excitement just then, but Snake watched him, weary of how to take the statement. "No offense to you, Snake, but I believe he and I have some catching up to do." The foreign voice hinted at amusement, and Jack was ready. Whenever. Wherever. "Until then."
"Until then," Jack answered quickly, and they closed the transmission.
"My…my TV! You bastards!" a man cried, moving out from behind a storage closet in the back of the shop. Snake turned to the man and quickly raised his SOCOM to the man's chest. He stopped where he was, and threw his arms in the air.
"Sorry about that," Snake commented, turning away from the man and heading out the door after slipping his SOCOM back into its holster. "The economy is screwed anyway," he called aftr exiting the shop, and the clerk fell onto the floor in exhaustion.
"One more gun is pointed at me," he said, trying to catch his breath, "and I'm gonna drop dead." He took a deep breath, and exhaled, sending it through the room as people hurried by outside. By that time Jack and Snake had both gone out of site, and the streets were quiet again.
The coffee house was dim and quiet still, but some sunlight had managed to slip in through the wall of windows. Still, there were no more than three other men or women sitting at the tables, enjoying their coffee and their sandwiches, but more people were moving on the streets beyond. The Customer sat patiently in his seat, and as he heard an annoying creaking noise from the rear of the room, he turned his head.
Out of the bathroom stepped the same beautiful woman, her jean shorts sagged below her hips, and exposing more of her underwear than before. She had a crazed look about her face; one of absolute bliss, and her hair fell down to her shoulders, bouncing with her step. Her lips were a glossy red, and her beautiful eyes fell over The Customer, a smile forming on her face as she walked behind the service counter. She fell against the counter; her body tired. Tossing a string of hair out of her face, The Customer grinned and turned back to his computer, typing something into the computer as a voice erupted in his ear.
"Sir?" the voice called, and he fumbled to turn away from the service counter, cupping his hands over his ear and his mouth. "Sir?!" the voice called louder.
"I'm here," The Customer answered. "What is it, Colonel?" He shot a look back at the service counter, and entangled his eyes with the waitress'. Smiling quickly, he turned away.
"The news," he started, his voice shaky, "the news isn't making its way out of Manhattan. No one but the people of this city knows anything of the invasion." The Customer seemed somewhat amused by this, chuckling subtly.
"The Manhattan Resident is still getting the word around."
"But sir, if we want to end the Patriots, we have to disclose them to the public. This public is too small of an audience," the colonel insisted, but The Customer shook his head.
"Who controls the flow of media?" he asked.
"The Patriot," the colonel answered.
"Somewhat, but there is another who watches even closer," The Customer proclaimed. "Still, take this as a sign. Now, at least we know that old Shalashaska is still alive and kicking." The colonel grinned, but deep within he was still frightened that their plans were failing. "Now, send in a notice to The Manhattan Resident. This bombing is something the people need to know."
"Won't it only frighten them?" the colonel nodded.
"It's better they hear it from us than from bystanders," The Customer indicated.
"But how will they know it is us?" the colonel questioned. The Customer sat for a moment, thinking long and hard, and then, after taking another look at the beautiful waitress, he returned a response.
"Sign it from FACtion."