Chapter Twelve: Front Page Material
Otacon sat at his computer, papers of many colors littering his desk space. He watched his monitor, his gaze blank and pale. Resting his chin on his fist, there was a sort of waiting in his eyes as the monitor's condition was reflected in his glasses.
The room was fairly light, but no windows spotted the walls that were unusually clothed in a dark blue carpet of sorts. It was no larger than the size of the standard bedroom, and while he was left alone to his thoughts, security was tight. Cameras hung in every nook and cranny, and just beyond the door that was ready to withstand a minor explosion were two agents of the UFAC, and still along that hallway and all through the building many more men lurked.
Otacon was troubled. Manhattan was where he wanted to be, but to get there would mean passing the request with the head representative of the UFAC: Gary Carpell. And he knew, just as any, that any efforts to leave the building would inevitably turn him back to his office where he would continue to work. There was no compromising with the UFAC, and even their leniency toward Snake and Jack – allowing them to keep up with the events regarding the invasion – was an implausible flexibility. The UFAC knew well that the time limit on their mission would restrict that sort of involvement.
A sigh escaped Otacon as he dropped his head on the keyboard, smashing the keys and sending a swamp of letters across the screen. "I do it now, or not at all," he said, his face in his cupped hands. Then, carrying a deep breath, he stood and pushed his chair away. Scooting it back under the desk and picking a number of papers from the stacks, he tapped his forehead with two of his fingers and spoke to himself in a fit.
Stopping at the door, there was a ring from behind him. Throwing his hand back to his side, almost as if someone had spotted his nervousness, he turned back to his desk and hurried to the cell phone that sat amidst the stacks of paper. Dropping the papers on the floor, he raised the phone to his ear.
"Yes?" he asked, hurriedly. There was a sense of urgency in his voice – one that signaled a reply mirroring that urgency.
"The Manhattan Resident has just released a new edition," the voice called. It was a man from the Press Circle. "You'll want to see this one." Otacon nodded fervently and grabbed up the papers from the floor, his cell phone propped against his ear with the assistance of his shoulder.
"I'll go and get a copy," he answered. "Thanks for the notice." There was a grunt from the other man.
"Welcome," he said, and the dial tone echoed through Otacon's ear as he dropped the phone in his deep lab coat-like pocket. Tugging lightly on his white coat and pushing his glasses up his nose, he stepped over to the door and jerked his hand to the right, flinging the door open wide.
There was a muffled moan as one of the agents slipped out from behind the door, rubbing his forehead. Otacon turned, closing the door, and warily apologized as he and the two guards walked down the hall together. "I'm going to pick up the Manhattan Resident," Otacon implied. "You don't need to come with me." The two agents didn't acknowledge his statement, but just looked at him and smiled.
Nearing the elevator, conversation becoming sparse, Otacon pushed up his glasses and quickened his pace to reach the elevator before it closed. He wanted the doors to close behind him, not allowing the agents to follow, but as he ran for them so did the agents. He pushed the button for ground floor and fell against the wall, tightening his stomach for the unnerving lurch that would follow.
And as expected, it did.
"There's no rush, Mr. Emmerich," one of the agents stated. "We could have brought a copy up to you, had it saved you the trouble." Otacon looked up at the man and smiled oddly.
"I don't mind," he replied. "A little fresh air always helps." The agents smiled and nodded. Then, a beep sounded and the doors slid aside. Ahead of them was a lobby, and at the end of it all was a pair of glass doors that let the sunlight flood inside. People were standing in lengthy lines, their formations curving like snakes. Tables dotted the marble floor, and tellers stood behind them. A bank?
With the assistance of the two agents, Otacon made his way through the tired crowds and to the glass doors. Knowing the routine, he let one agent go ahead of him, and the other went behind him. They tried to blend in, but with their nice black suits and white undershirts, that was an impossible realization.
Stopping to breath in the warm, saturated air, Otacon cringed at its taste of stale sweat and looked up at the building he stood before. 'West City Bank,' a sign read, and he grinned. 'West City Bank? Not quite,' he thought and stepped to the right where there sat a news stand. The two agents picked up magazines on either side of Otacon who was scanning the racks for the Manhattan Resident.
A small sign sat beneath an empty space entitled 'The Manhattan Resident,' and Otacon sighed. 'Not in,' he thought. 'Damn.' "Did you get a new edition of the Manhattan Resident?" Otacon asked, his question directed to the man behind the counter. Looking to the right and to the left, the man pulled a stack of gray paper from beneath the desk and slapped the down.
"Five bucks," he said, and Otacon looked at him wildly. Holding his hand out and somewhat waving it, the man waited for the bills to fall into his palm. Otacon, still looking at him in awe, returned his gaze to the slot on the rack entitled 'the Manhattan Resident.' Beside it was a price: $1.00.
"That says -," Otacon began.
"One dollar," the man replied, cutting him off. "But I want five." There was a moment of silence among the two, but the world around them was alive with rap and the terrible revving of engines. "They're going fast. You just gotta know the price."
"How do they go fast if they're under the table?" Otacon questioned.
"You asked, didn't you?" the man replied. "You think those glasses of yours make you smart?" Otacon was appalled, and with the safety of the two agents he was not afraid to pursue.
"I'll pay one dollar," Otacon stated confidently, his gaze set to the sky and his hands on his hips. There was a shake as the papers dropped to the man's feet. He smiled as Otacon's gaze turned back to him in outrage. Finding their feud interminable, he dove into his pocket and rustled around before pulling forth four bills and an odd number of change. Dropping it all on the counter, the man slid it into his possession and began counting the coins.
Otacon's eyes were wide with amazement, and he grabbed his head furiously. "Sorry," the man answered. "Two cents short."
One of the agents, who seemed to have been listening in on the entire conversation in amusement, finally stuffed his magazine back in the rack and stamped over to them, pulling out his wallet. "Oh for Chris sakes, just give him the damn paper." Throwing down five dollars and retrieving Otacon's under par-fortune, the man slapped a paper on the table and the agent rushed Otacon away with the presence of the second agent close behind.
Stopping in the middle of the banking room, resistant to the agent's tug, Otacon's eyes fell over the headline. "A 'FACtion' of Freedom?" he recited, and the agents quickly huddled behind him, eyeing the words and scanning over the article. Without hesitation, the agents reading as they pulled him across the marble floor, Otacon touched his ear and waited for Snake's voice to raise.
"Otacon?" Snake asked promptly, just as Otacon and the two agents were hidden behind the doors of the elevator.
"Snake. Are you and Jack all right?" he asked.
"We ran into some trouble, but we're –"
"You're safe. Good," Otacon answered for him. "I just got a hold on a new Manhattan Resident. The enemy is named FACtion." Snake nodded.
"Yea, we figured that out," Jack entered the conversation.
"They sent in a letter to the press, and its cited in the article," Otacon claimed. "They mention the bombing, and a search for freedom, but oddly enough don't mention the Patriot at all." Simultaneously reading another article, he looked up in relief. "Snake? You remember how the warehouse storing the Compilation was supposed to be knocked down early this afternoon?" Snake nodded, and Otacon continued without any knowledge of his recognition. "It's been postponed. The city is working on mobilizing its police forces, but FACtion has them closed in their own buildings. Looks like the National Guard is on its way, but the chances of them entering the city are unlikely. I think the officials still have the feeling biological agents might be involved."
"And that's not the case?" Snake asked.
"I don't believe so. I'll do some research on the group and get back to you." Otacon assured him.
"Are you on your way?" Snake asked, referring to the expected transfer from the Bronx to Manhattan Island.
"No, but I'm working on it," he answered. "I'll contact you later."
"Right," Snake answered, and the transmission was ended before Jack could sneak in a farewell. Turning to the agents as the doors opened to the floor of his office, he told them.
"I need to speak with Carpell."
"'The bombing that took place around noon today was an attack on a pair of radical citizens of Manhattan,' said the letter sent in from the enemy just in time for this edition's cut. 'The case that conspired, and the death of three innocent civilians, stopped at the nearby intersection, was not the intention of the attack. In the pursuit of freedom, we will stop at no lengths to right the wrongs of this world, but as long as you are compliant through the day there is no need to worry.' Signed at the bottom of this letter was the title 'FACtion.'" Ocelot's voice was filled with a certain enjoyment as he lowered the paper.
"FACtion," he whispered to himself, moving to the next page to see the notice regarding the warehouse's destruction. A smile touched his face. "It shall be tomorrow," he said confidently and with relief. "Lights!" he cried, and the lights faded.
Standing in his chair and neatly folding the Manhattan Resident on the desk, Ocelot turned in the shadows, his hands resting at his sides. Then, with a quick movement, he pulled his revolvers from their holsters and fired into the darkness, stopping nearly at the end of their rounds to listen to the echoes.
"Hmm," he groaned, firing once more. This time, pointing to the ceiling, he heard an echo that seemed to vibrate the walls and the floor. Smiling, he slipped the guns into their holsters and took his seat.
"Soon…these guns will be useful."
"Sir?" the colonel's voice erupted in The Customer's ear. He sat there, reading the paper, and basking in the beauty of the front page. "Yes, colonel?" he questioned.
"Looks like we're front page material, now." The Customer smirked.
Otacon sat at his computer, papers of many colors littering his desk space. He watched his monitor, his gaze blank and pale. Resting his chin on his fist, there was a sort of waiting in his eyes as the monitor's condition was reflected in his glasses.
The room was fairly light, but no windows spotted the walls that were unusually clothed in a dark blue carpet of sorts. It was no larger than the size of the standard bedroom, and while he was left alone to his thoughts, security was tight. Cameras hung in every nook and cranny, and just beyond the door that was ready to withstand a minor explosion were two agents of the UFAC, and still along that hallway and all through the building many more men lurked.
Otacon was troubled. Manhattan was where he wanted to be, but to get there would mean passing the request with the head representative of the UFAC: Gary Carpell. And he knew, just as any, that any efforts to leave the building would inevitably turn him back to his office where he would continue to work. There was no compromising with the UFAC, and even their leniency toward Snake and Jack – allowing them to keep up with the events regarding the invasion – was an implausible flexibility. The UFAC knew well that the time limit on their mission would restrict that sort of involvement.
A sigh escaped Otacon as he dropped his head on the keyboard, smashing the keys and sending a swamp of letters across the screen. "I do it now, or not at all," he said, his face in his cupped hands. Then, carrying a deep breath, he stood and pushed his chair away. Scooting it back under the desk and picking a number of papers from the stacks, he tapped his forehead with two of his fingers and spoke to himself in a fit.
Stopping at the door, there was a ring from behind him. Throwing his hand back to his side, almost as if someone had spotted his nervousness, he turned back to his desk and hurried to the cell phone that sat amidst the stacks of paper. Dropping the papers on the floor, he raised the phone to his ear.
"Yes?" he asked, hurriedly. There was a sense of urgency in his voice – one that signaled a reply mirroring that urgency.
"The Manhattan Resident has just released a new edition," the voice called. It was a man from the Press Circle. "You'll want to see this one." Otacon nodded fervently and grabbed up the papers from the floor, his cell phone propped against his ear with the assistance of his shoulder.
"I'll go and get a copy," he answered. "Thanks for the notice." There was a grunt from the other man.
"Welcome," he said, and the dial tone echoed through Otacon's ear as he dropped the phone in his deep lab coat-like pocket. Tugging lightly on his white coat and pushing his glasses up his nose, he stepped over to the door and jerked his hand to the right, flinging the door open wide.
There was a muffled moan as one of the agents slipped out from behind the door, rubbing his forehead. Otacon turned, closing the door, and warily apologized as he and the two guards walked down the hall together. "I'm going to pick up the Manhattan Resident," Otacon implied. "You don't need to come with me." The two agents didn't acknowledge his statement, but just looked at him and smiled.
Nearing the elevator, conversation becoming sparse, Otacon pushed up his glasses and quickened his pace to reach the elevator before it closed. He wanted the doors to close behind him, not allowing the agents to follow, but as he ran for them so did the agents. He pushed the button for ground floor and fell against the wall, tightening his stomach for the unnerving lurch that would follow.
And as expected, it did.
"There's no rush, Mr. Emmerich," one of the agents stated. "We could have brought a copy up to you, had it saved you the trouble." Otacon looked up at the man and smiled oddly.
"I don't mind," he replied. "A little fresh air always helps." The agents smiled and nodded. Then, a beep sounded and the doors slid aside. Ahead of them was a lobby, and at the end of it all was a pair of glass doors that let the sunlight flood inside. People were standing in lengthy lines, their formations curving like snakes. Tables dotted the marble floor, and tellers stood behind them. A bank?
With the assistance of the two agents, Otacon made his way through the tired crowds and to the glass doors. Knowing the routine, he let one agent go ahead of him, and the other went behind him. They tried to blend in, but with their nice black suits and white undershirts, that was an impossible realization.
Stopping to breath in the warm, saturated air, Otacon cringed at its taste of stale sweat and looked up at the building he stood before. 'West City Bank,' a sign read, and he grinned. 'West City Bank? Not quite,' he thought and stepped to the right where there sat a news stand. The two agents picked up magazines on either side of Otacon who was scanning the racks for the Manhattan Resident.
A small sign sat beneath an empty space entitled 'The Manhattan Resident,' and Otacon sighed. 'Not in,' he thought. 'Damn.' "Did you get a new edition of the Manhattan Resident?" Otacon asked, his question directed to the man behind the counter. Looking to the right and to the left, the man pulled a stack of gray paper from beneath the desk and slapped the down.
"Five bucks," he said, and Otacon looked at him wildly. Holding his hand out and somewhat waving it, the man waited for the bills to fall into his palm. Otacon, still looking at him in awe, returned his gaze to the slot on the rack entitled 'the Manhattan Resident.' Beside it was a price: $1.00.
"That says -," Otacon began.
"One dollar," the man replied, cutting him off. "But I want five." There was a moment of silence among the two, but the world around them was alive with rap and the terrible revving of engines. "They're going fast. You just gotta know the price."
"How do they go fast if they're under the table?" Otacon questioned.
"You asked, didn't you?" the man replied. "You think those glasses of yours make you smart?" Otacon was appalled, and with the safety of the two agents he was not afraid to pursue.
"I'll pay one dollar," Otacon stated confidently, his gaze set to the sky and his hands on his hips. There was a shake as the papers dropped to the man's feet. He smiled as Otacon's gaze turned back to him in outrage. Finding their feud interminable, he dove into his pocket and rustled around before pulling forth four bills and an odd number of change. Dropping it all on the counter, the man slid it into his possession and began counting the coins.
Otacon's eyes were wide with amazement, and he grabbed his head furiously. "Sorry," the man answered. "Two cents short."
One of the agents, who seemed to have been listening in on the entire conversation in amusement, finally stuffed his magazine back in the rack and stamped over to them, pulling out his wallet. "Oh for Chris sakes, just give him the damn paper." Throwing down five dollars and retrieving Otacon's under par-fortune, the man slapped a paper on the table and the agent rushed Otacon away with the presence of the second agent close behind.
Stopping in the middle of the banking room, resistant to the agent's tug, Otacon's eyes fell over the headline. "A 'FACtion' of Freedom?" he recited, and the agents quickly huddled behind him, eyeing the words and scanning over the article. Without hesitation, the agents reading as they pulled him across the marble floor, Otacon touched his ear and waited for Snake's voice to raise.
"Otacon?" Snake asked promptly, just as Otacon and the two agents were hidden behind the doors of the elevator.
"Snake. Are you and Jack all right?" he asked.
"We ran into some trouble, but we're –"
"You're safe. Good," Otacon answered for him. "I just got a hold on a new Manhattan Resident. The enemy is named FACtion." Snake nodded.
"Yea, we figured that out," Jack entered the conversation.
"They sent in a letter to the press, and its cited in the article," Otacon claimed. "They mention the bombing, and a search for freedom, but oddly enough don't mention the Patriot at all." Simultaneously reading another article, he looked up in relief. "Snake? You remember how the warehouse storing the Compilation was supposed to be knocked down early this afternoon?" Snake nodded, and Otacon continued without any knowledge of his recognition. "It's been postponed. The city is working on mobilizing its police forces, but FACtion has them closed in their own buildings. Looks like the National Guard is on its way, but the chances of them entering the city are unlikely. I think the officials still have the feeling biological agents might be involved."
"And that's not the case?" Snake asked.
"I don't believe so. I'll do some research on the group and get back to you." Otacon assured him.
"Are you on your way?" Snake asked, referring to the expected transfer from the Bronx to Manhattan Island.
"No, but I'm working on it," he answered. "I'll contact you later."
"Right," Snake answered, and the transmission was ended before Jack could sneak in a farewell. Turning to the agents as the doors opened to the floor of his office, he told them.
"I need to speak with Carpell."
"'The bombing that took place around noon today was an attack on a pair of radical citizens of Manhattan,' said the letter sent in from the enemy just in time for this edition's cut. 'The case that conspired, and the death of three innocent civilians, stopped at the nearby intersection, was not the intention of the attack. In the pursuit of freedom, we will stop at no lengths to right the wrongs of this world, but as long as you are compliant through the day there is no need to worry.' Signed at the bottom of this letter was the title 'FACtion.'" Ocelot's voice was filled with a certain enjoyment as he lowered the paper.
"FACtion," he whispered to himself, moving to the next page to see the notice regarding the warehouse's destruction. A smile touched his face. "It shall be tomorrow," he said confidently and with relief. "Lights!" he cried, and the lights faded.
Standing in his chair and neatly folding the Manhattan Resident on the desk, Ocelot turned in the shadows, his hands resting at his sides. Then, with a quick movement, he pulled his revolvers from their holsters and fired into the darkness, stopping nearly at the end of their rounds to listen to the echoes.
"Hmm," he groaned, firing once more. This time, pointing to the ceiling, he heard an echo that seemed to vibrate the walls and the floor. Smiling, he slipped the guns into their holsters and took his seat.
"Soon…these guns will be useful."
"Sir?" the colonel's voice erupted in The Customer's ear. He sat there, reading the paper, and basking in the beauty of the front page. "Yes, colonel?" he questioned.
"Looks like we're front page material, now." The Customer smirked.