Chapter Eleven: Excuses
He was on the top of the elevator. His legs were strong and stable, not shaking or quivering under the tension. Looking up, he could see small boxes lining the elevator shaft, not hidden at all. Sighing, he moved to the edge, peering down the shaft in hopes of spotting the stranger, but there was nothing there but a gray pit.
Grappling onto loose levers and cables, he moved up the shaft. As he went, everything was the same. He passed a charge of explosives, moved a little to the left, and then continued on. It was a uniform procedure, and required repetition, but there was no doubt that for the gift of life anyone would at least try and tackle the task whether they succeeded or failed.
"Three minutes," he said aloud, examining the shaft as he passed a set of doors, no plank to stand upon. Looking above it, he saw the number three, painted neatly as if a stencil was used. 'Not like anyone's gonna see it,' Jack thought and continued upward. Only one floor to go…
By the time two minutes were all that remained, he had found his set of doors glimmering like the gates of heaven. Over them was printed the number four, and with the little strength that had not been swallowed by the bottom of the pit as it seeped out with his sweat, he swung himself onto the two inch ledge that served useless for anyone but himself.
Working equally hard to keep his balance, he slipped his fingers between the doors and tugged on them with his might. They budged only inches before his strength had been exasperated and he was forced to grab the wall otherwise plummet into the void at his feet. 'Try it again,' he told himself, attempting to build his morale.
And so, he pulled again, harder than the first. The doors, his reflection staring back at him in agony, slid nearly a foot apart, but at that point he had been drained of his will yet again. 'Two minutes,' he told himself, cracking his knuckles and bracing the wall. 'Two minutes.' He returned his hands to the tiny gap, and once again forced them aside.
But, this time it was different. This time, the doors were separated as great as they could be, and Jack fell upon the cold, white hall of the fourth floor as they slowly retracted, pushing the darkness away. As he peered upward, his eyes opening only slightly, the blinding white light brought back horrid memories. Memories of Hell's Outpost. Socrates. Ocelot. Farrel…Formal. But Formal wasn't a memory yet, for he was still alive. There was no way to look back on his existence, because his existence was in the present.
"Up!" a voice broke the silence, cutting into Jack like a sharp knife. As his eyes split wide, he saw a silver light glinting before his eyes, and when he rolled away and stood – alarmed – it flew into the air, pointing at him again. A knife. "Follow me," the voice called again, and Jack stared behind the hovering knife to see a man dressed like the men aboard Jack's boat. His sunglasses were worn appropriately, and as he turned away the knife sped down the hall and around the corner. Jack stood, stunned.
"Come on!" the man yelled, looking over his shoulder and noticing Jack who remained stationery. "Listen, I'm not supposed to pull a gun on you, but I will! Now up tempo!" he hollered, and Jack reluctantly followed, his had rested on his Hammerli 280. As they stepped down the hall, it didn't seem out of character for Jack to refrain from retaliating. He wanted to fight Formal just as Formal wanted to fight him. Whatever the risk.
The man took a left at the end of the hall just as the knife had done, and once he had turned he stood against the wall of the next hall, not giving any instructions from there. Jack looked at him oddly, but looking beside the man he saw a door. It was closed, but seeing as there were no other routes but the length of another hallway and a surely endless web of branching paths, he turned the knob and cautiously stepped inside, his wits about him.
The apartment in which Snake waited was cold and dull. The walls were pale and two chairs, one large and soft, and the other silver and hard. The woman sat – her legs crossed and Snake's SOCOM in hand – comfortably in the soft chair, staring at Snake who sat tied to the silver one. Truth be told, Snake did find the woman attractive, but she seemed a whole generation younger than he.
She smiled. "You have been looking at me a lot," she insisted, subtly winking and puckering her lips. Snake looked on in something like disgust.
"There isn't much spectacular scenery," Snake replied. "In case you hadn't noticed." She moved out of her chair as he finished, her body gliding like water…flowing. Her hands caressed her chair as she stepped away from it, and when it was not there to occupy her, she began to slide them over the SOCOM, her eyes seductive and her lips tempting. Snake looked on, not seeing her body, but something else.
Shadows were cast under the door as a very faint noise could be heard, tapping quietly from beyond. "Aren't you glad you decided to come up?" she asked, taking Snake's thoughts from the movements of the shadows to the movements of her body.
It was like she slithered almost…like a dance or portrayal of some spiritual art. Her eyes toyed with his mind, sending it from question to question as she moved ever closer. Sliding her hands down her waist and over her thighs, she finally found herself standing over him. Snake was not taken by her touch as she laid her hand over his chest, but by her beauty…and not by her beauty as much as her skill. She could make him enjoy her touch, and she could make him admire her beauty. He was her puppet, and only his will to resist could push the thoughts away.
Snake's eyes shut tight, and he tried to block the images, he tried to fight back, but the ropes that bound him to his chair wouldn't give and his mind could not ignore the presence of the woman. She could not be ignored. "Snake," she said, her voice captivating him. "Kiss me," she spoke again, running the back of her hand over his rough face.
His eyes opened, and he saw the shadows disappear from the doorway. The sight was painful, for as the shadows left, so did Snake's final strength. He wasn't going to act, but he had no strength left to fight it. He would let what happened, happen.
The woman took his face in her hand, directing him toward her as she took a seat on his lap, wrapping her legs around the back of the chair and squeezing him tight. "Kiss me," she said again, and he pulled away. His resistance…his final act of resistance…seemed to amuse her, and with it she smiled. "You don't push me away," she said, moving her face closer to his: her eyes narrowing in on his. "Snake, just kiss me."
Then, it happened. Snake didn't ask for it. He didn't commit it. But whether it was welcome or not, the woman's lips met with his, and the seconds that it lasted seemed to linger as if they were hours. When she pulled away, her face showing satisfaction in his submission, Snake closed his eyes and turned. Ashamed.
"You cannot resist me, Solid Snake," she said. This time, as she moved closer, Snake spoke.
"I don't generally start intimate relationships without knowing the name of my partner," he joked. He realized joking did not suit the situation, for the intimate scene that had been born in that dull apartment was far from humorous. "Frost," she said, and Snake smiled on the inside. He was one step closer to ending it all. At least he knew her name.
"Now we continue?" she asked, he face full of delighted question. She was enjoying it. Snake nodded, unable to do anything else, and she locked lips with him.
Through the heavy breathing, Snake's eyes were opened. He saw the shadows returning, and the bittersweet taste in his mouth was something he could live with. Something was coming. The moment would not last much longer.
And as Snake had hoped, the moment lasted no longer. As the shadows faded, something slipped under the door. Eyeing it as closely as he could, Snake recognized it's slender shaft and the tiny red light that blinked on its end. Making out the fine print 'NewTech' on its side, he finally acted on Frost, pulling her closer to him and deepening their kiss to keep her interested.
And then it exploded.
The walls that were evidently not much more than insulation and two slabs of cardboard – painted to appear like wood – burst apart. Littering the air and the room with debris, the noise subsided, and a quick reaction came from Snake.
Toppling the chair on its side and pushing Frost off of him, he managed to stand and turn for the balcony to his back. The woman stood as he bounded toward the two screened doors, and went for his SOCOM that lay forgotten on the hard carpet. Gripping it tightly in her hands, she aimed at the back of his head as he leaped through the doors and over the ledge, not firing once.
Running to the balcony, she looked over to see Snake hastily untying the chair from his back and turning around the building, away from the grassy area, and to the streets. There, across the street, was the IN-Tech building. "Why didn't he just blow a hole through the balcony," Snake asked, and as he looked to his left to examine the traffic he saw a figure in a black trench coat hurrying down the sidewalk and into an adjacent alley.
'Who?'
"Jack," Formal spoke, his words pronounced through a seemingly lifeless body at his feet. Jack stepped into the room, examining it closely. It was an office. A typical office. No cubicles, but several terminals and desks. Jack smirked. "Not Jackie boy?" Formal grinned back, thoroughly enjoying Jack's attempt at humor.
"Whichever you prefer," he said menacingly, bowing to Jack in a courtly fashion. Looking up without straightening his back, his smile made the odd transition to a frown. "I see you were helped." Every action he made was over exaggerated, as was a clown's. Finally standing straight, he raised his shoulders and put his finger to the corner of his eye imitating a tear. "I thought you would enjoy my game."
"I came here to fight you," Jack exclaimed, taking a proud step forward. "Not to be blown up or to have my partner taken hostage." Formal's face was suddenly bright again. Bright and cheery, but eerily stomach churning.
"Indeed," he replied, whipping five knives into his right hand like a magician would do with cards. He held them there, his mouth wide and surprised-like. "As it is MY funhouse," Formal began, pulling another hand of knives forth and leaving all of them in clear view of Jack, "we will play by MY rules!"
"Yea?" Jack questioned, folding his arms. "And what are those?" Formal hid the knives behind his back as if he was four and his parents had walked in to the room as he was carrying a handful of matches.
"I win," Formal grinned, "and you…lose!" At that, Formal pulled his knives forth and Jack hastily pulled his gun from its holster, aiming at the mime's forehead.
There was a moment in which the two of them simply stood there, weapons aimed at each other. And when Formal sprung to the right, hurling all ten knives into the air as he spun artistically, Jack followed suit, firing his Hammerli 280 as he stumbled to the side.
Falling behind a desk, Jack waited a few moments to compose himself and prepare, mentally, for battle. Then, he took a deep breath, and after deciding he was ready he turned and rested his arms on the desk, firing twice at Formal.
There were two immediate 'plink'-like noises as the bullets were deflected in midair and shattered the wall to Jack's back. Taking a closer look, Jack could see the knives floating eerily through the air. 'A shield,' he thought, 'Damn.' Ducking beneath the table again, he turned to the right, searching for something to use against Formal.
'A desk…a chair…a computer…a fire extinguisher…nothing good!' he thought, jerking his head forward in frustration. It was all a trap. First, it was planned for Snake to be taken captive under a laser sight, and then Jack walked into an elevator with explosives littering the building and a Star Wars-like futuristic force field of sorts, holding him there to die. All a trap. 'A goddamn trap!'
He sprung to his feet, turning as he did, and stood there facing Formal with his Hammerli 280 aimed high. Everything stood still, not even the knives moving. Jack didn't understand. Why would Formal set it all up just to kill him when the other lower subjects involved in the invasion had merely set him free? He didn't want to kill Jack…and what did that man have to do with it all? Showing up in that black trench coat…Jack stopped.
His eyes ran over the room and spotted the man who lay unconscious by Formal. Formal didn't want to kill him…"You wont kill me," Jack said and Formal smiled. "You want to tell me something." With that, Jack's gun moved to the man on the floor and closing his eyes tight, frightened and saddened, he pulled the trigger.
Not even awakening from his sleep, the man died. Instantly. 'A…casualty of…war,' Jack told himself, and the knives stopped levitating. Formal's eyes narrowed, and he quickly threw his arm up to the doorway. A voice erupted.
"You can't get rid of me!" a soldier's voice cried as Formal mouthed the words, sounding only with air. Jack turned swiftly, and fired through the doorway to his left. A body fell. It echoed in his ear, and Formal's disgusting glare of hatred boiled in his mind, leaving a painful image burnt on the surface of his eye. That glare…it would stick with him forever.
And once the mime had gathered his knives – flying into his hands with ease – he turned for the wall of windows to his left (Jack's right), and bounded through them. Jack ran after him, stopping on the edge to watch as the knives formed around the mime and safely lowered him to the ground, only disappearing into his suit when he had found his footing.
The sun that was swept into the room, no longer an eerie morning orange but a bright yellow, turned him back to the body that lay on the floor where Formal had stood moments earlier. Stepping silently toward the man, his Hammerli finding home in its holster, Jack's eyes fell over him in sorrow and remorse. Stopping, he voiced, "A casualty of war?" Jack sighed, shaking his head in repudiation. "Excuses."
He stalked out of the room, his heart low and cold. 'Excuses,' he thought.
'Excuses.'
He was on the top of the elevator. His legs were strong and stable, not shaking or quivering under the tension. Looking up, he could see small boxes lining the elevator shaft, not hidden at all. Sighing, he moved to the edge, peering down the shaft in hopes of spotting the stranger, but there was nothing there but a gray pit.
Grappling onto loose levers and cables, he moved up the shaft. As he went, everything was the same. He passed a charge of explosives, moved a little to the left, and then continued on. It was a uniform procedure, and required repetition, but there was no doubt that for the gift of life anyone would at least try and tackle the task whether they succeeded or failed.
"Three minutes," he said aloud, examining the shaft as he passed a set of doors, no plank to stand upon. Looking above it, he saw the number three, painted neatly as if a stencil was used. 'Not like anyone's gonna see it,' Jack thought and continued upward. Only one floor to go…
By the time two minutes were all that remained, he had found his set of doors glimmering like the gates of heaven. Over them was printed the number four, and with the little strength that had not been swallowed by the bottom of the pit as it seeped out with his sweat, he swung himself onto the two inch ledge that served useless for anyone but himself.
Working equally hard to keep his balance, he slipped his fingers between the doors and tugged on them with his might. They budged only inches before his strength had been exasperated and he was forced to grab the wall otherwise plummet into the void at his feet. 'Try it again,' he told himself, attempting to build his morale.
And so, he pulled again, harder than the first. The doors, his reflection staring back at him in agony, slid nearly a foot apart, but at that point he had been drained of his will yet again. 'Two minutes,' he told himself, cracking his knuckles and bracing the wall. 'Two minutes.' He returned his hands to the tiny gap, and once again forced them aside.
But, this time it was different. This time, the doors were separated as great as they could be, and Jack fell upon the cold, white hall of the fourth floor as they slowly retracted, pushing the darkness away. As he peered upward, his eyes opening only slightly, the blinding white light brought back horrid memories. Memories of Hell's Outpost. Socrates. Ocelot. Farrel…Formal. But Formal wasn't a memory yet, for he was still alive. There was no way to look back on his existence, because his existence was in the present.
"Up!" a voice broke the silence, cutting into Jack like a sharp knife. As his eyes split wide, he saw a silver light glinting before his eyes, and when he rolled away and stood – alarmed – it flew into the air, pointing at him again. A knife. "Follow me," the voice called again, and Jack stared behind the hovering knife to see a man dressed like the men aboard Jack's boat. His sunglasses were worn appropriately, and as he turned away the knife sped down the hall and around the corner. Jack stood, stunned.
"Come on!" the man yelled, looking over his shoulder and noticing Jack who remained stationery. "Listen, I'm not supposed to pull a gun on you, but I will! Now up tempo!" he hollered, and Jack reluctantly followed, his had rested on his Hammerli 280. As they stepped down the hall, it didn't seem out of character for Jack to refrain from retaliating. He wanted to fight Formal just as Formal wanted to fight him. Whatever the risk.
The man took a left at the end of the hall just as the knife had done, and once he had turned he stood against the wall of the next hall, not giving any instructions from there. Jack looked at him oddly, but looking beside the man he saw a door. It was closed, but seeing as there were no other routes but the length of another hallway and a surely endless web of branching paths, he turned the knob and cautiously stepped inside, his wits about him.
The apartment in which Snake waited was cold and dull. The walls were pale and two chairs, one large and soft, and the other silver and hard. The woman sat – her legs crossed and Snake's SOCOM in hand – comfortably in the soft chair, staring at Snake who sat tied to the silver one. Truth be told, Snake did find the woman attractive, but she seemed a whole generation younger than he.
She smiled. "You have been looking at me a lot," she insisted, subtly winking and puckering her lips. Snake looked on in something like disgust.
"There isn't much spectacular scenery," Snake replied. "In case you hadn't noticed." She moved out of her chair as he finished, her body gliding like water…flowing. Her hands caressed her chair as she stepped away from it, and when it was not there to occupy her, she began to slide them over the SOCOM, her eyes seductive and her lips tempting. Snake looked on, not seeing her body, but something else.
Shadows were cast under the door as a very faint noise could be heard, tapping quietly from beyond. "Aren't you glad you decided to come up?" she asked, taking Snake's thoughts from the movements of the shadows to the movements of her body.
It was like she slithered almost…like a dance or portrayal of some spiritual art. Her eyes toyed with his mind, sending it from question to question as she moved ever closer. Sliding her hands down her waist and over her thighs, she finally found herself standing over him. Snake was not taken by her touch as she laid her hand over his chest, but by her beauty…and not by her beauty as much as her skill. She could make him enjoy her touch, and she could make him admire her beauty. He was her puppet, and only his will to resist could push the thoughts away.
Snake's eyes shut tight, and he tried to block the images, he tried to fight back, but the ropes that bound him to his chair wouldn't give and his mind could not ignore the presence of the woman. She could not be ignored. "Snake," she said, her voice captivating him. "Kiss me," she spoke again, running the back of her hand over his rough face.
His eyes opened, and he saw the shadows disappear from the doorway. The sight was painful, for as the shadows left, so did Snake's final strength. He wasn't going to act, but he had no strength left to fight it. He would let what happened, happen.
The woman took his face in her hand, directing him toward her as she took a seat on his lap, wrapping her legs around the back of the chair and squeezing him tight. "Kiss me," she said again, and he pulled away. His resistance…his final act of resistance…seemed to amuse her, and with it she smiled. "You don't push me away," she said, moving her face closer to his: her eyes narrowing in on his. "Snake, just kiss me."
Then, it happened. Snake didn't ask for it. He didn't commit it. But whether it was welcome or not, the woman's lips met with his, and the seconds that it lasted seemed to linger as if they were hours. When she pulled away, her face showing satisfaction in his submission, Snake closed his eyes and turned. Ashamed.
"You cannot resist me, Solid Snake," she said. This time, as she moved closer, Snake spoke.
"I don't generally start intimate relationships without knowing the name of my partner," he joked. He realized joking did not suit the situation, for the intimate scene that had been born in that dull apartment was far from humorous. "Frost," she said, and Snake smiled on the inside. He was one step closer to ending it all. At least he knew her name.
"Now we continue?" she asked, he face full of delighted question. She was enjoying it. Snake nodded, unable to do anything else, and she locked lips with him.
Through the heavy breathing, Snake's eyes were opened. He saw the shadows returning, and the bittersweet taste in his mouth was something he could live with. Something was coming. The moment would not last much longer.
And as Snake had hoped, the moment lasted no longer. As the shadows faded, something slipped under the door. Eyeing it as closely as he could, Snake recognized it's slender shaft and the tiny red light that blinked on its end. Making out the fine print 'NewTech' on its side, he finally acted on Frost, pulling her closer to him and deepening their kiss to keep her interested.
And then it exploded.
The walls that were evidently not much more than insulation and two slabs of cardboard – painted to appear like wood – burst apart. Littering the air and the room with debris, the noise subsided, and a quick reaction came from Snake.
Toppling the chair on its side and pushing Frost off of him, he managed to stand and turn for the balcony to his back. The woman stood as he bounded toward the two screened doors, and went for his SOCOM that lay forgotten on the hard carpet. Gripping it tightly in her hands, she aimed at the back of his head as he leaped through the doors and over the ledge, not firing once.
Running to the balcony, she looked over to see Snake hastily untying the chair from his back and turning around the building, away from the grassy area, and to the streets. There, across the street, was the IN-Tech building. "Why didn't he just blow a hole through the balcony," Snake asked, and as he looked to his left to examine the traffic he saw a figure in a black trench coat hurrying down the sidewalk and into an adjacent alley.
'Who?'
"Jack," Formal spoke, his words pronounced through a seemingly lifeless body at his feet. Jack stepped into the room, examining it closely. It was an office. A typical office. No cubicles, but several terminals and desks. Jack smirked. "Not Jackie boy?" Formal grinned back, thoroughly enjoying Jack's attempt at humor.
"Whichever you prefer," he said menacingly, bowing to Jack in a courtly fashion. Looking up without straightening his back, his smile made the odd transition to a frown. "I see you were helped." Every action he made was over exaggerated, as was a clown's. Finally standing straight, he raised his shoulders and put his finger to the corner of his eye imitating a tear. "I thought you would enjoy my game."
"I came here to fight you," Jack exclaimed, taking a proud step forward. "Not to be blown up or to have my partner taken hostage." Formal's face was suddenly bright again. Bright and cheery, but eerily stomach churning.
"Indeed," he replied, whipping five knives into his right hand like a magician would do with cards. He held them there, his mouth wide and surprised-like. "As it is MY funhouse," Formal began, pulling another hand of knives forth and leaving all of them in clear view of Jack, "we will play by MY rules!"
"Yea?" Jack questioned, folding his arms. "And what are those?" Formal hid the knives behind his back as if he was four and his parents had walked in to the room as he was carrying a handful of matches.
"I win," Formal grinned, "and you…lose!" At that, Formal pulled his knives forth and Jack hastily pulled his gun from its holster, aiming at the mime's forehead.
There was a moment in which the two of them simply stood there, weapons aimed at each other. And when Formal sprung to the right, hurling all ten knives into the air as he spun artistically, Jack followed suit, firing his Hammerli 280 as he stumbled to the side.
Falling behind a desk, Jack waited a few moments to compose himself and prepare, mentally, for battle. Then, he took a deep breath, and after deciding he was ready he turned and rested his arms on the desk, firing twice at Formal.
There were two immediate 'plink'-like noises as the bullets were deflected in midair and shattered the wall to Jack's back. Taking a closer look, Jack could see the knives floating eerily through the air. 'A shield,' he thought, 'Damn.' Ducking beneath the table again, he turned to the right, searching for something to use against Formal.
'A desk…a chair…a computer…a fire extinguisher…nothing good!' he thought, jerking his head forward in frustration. It was all a trap. First, it was planned for Snake to be taken captive under a laser sight, and then Jack walked into an elevator with explosives littering the building and a Star Wars-like futuristic force field of sorts, holding him there to die. All a trap. 'A goddamn trap!'
He sprung to his feet, turning as he did, and stood there facing Formal with his Hammerli 280 aimed high. Everything stood still, not even the knives moving. Jack didn't understand. Why would Formal set it all up just to kill him when the other lower subjects involved in the invasion had merely set him free? He didn't want to kill Jack…and what did that man have to do with it all? Showing up in that black trench coat…Jack stopped.
His eyes ran over the room and spotted the man who lay unconscious by Formal. Formal didn't want to kill him…"You wont kill me," Jack said and Formal smiled. "You want to tell me something." With that, Jack's gun moved to the man on the floor and closing his eyes tight, frightened and saddened, he pulled the trigger.
Not even awakening from his sleep, the man died. Instantly. 'A…casualty of…war,' Jack told himself, and the knives stopped levitating. Formal's eyes narrowed, and he quickly threw his arm up to the doorway. A voice erupted.
"You can't get rid of me!" a soldier's voice cried as Formal mouthed the words, sounding only with air. Jack turned swiftly, and fired through the doorway to his left. A body fell. It echoed in his ear, and Formal's disgusting glare of hatred boiled in his mind, leaving a painful image burnt on the surface of his eye. That glare…it would stick with him forever.
And once the mime had gathered his knives – flying into his hands with ease – he turned for the wall of windows to his left (Jack's right), and bounded through them. Jack ran after him, stopping on the edge to watch as the knives formed around the mime and safely lowered him to the ground, only disappearing into his suit when he had found his footing.
The sun that was swept into the room, no longer an eerie morning orange but a bright yellow, turned him back to the body that lay on the floor where Formal had stood moments earlier. Stepping silently toward the man, his Hammerli finding home in its holster, Jack's eyes fell over him in sorrow and remorse. Stopping, he voiced, "A casualty of war?" Jack sighed, shaking his head in repudiation. "Excuses."
He stalked out of the room, his heart low and cold. 'Excuses,' he thought.
'Excuses.'