Chapter Twenty-Seven: The Voice
"On your knees!" a sentry cried. Snake scanned the masses, taking special notice to their uniforms. As far as he could tell, there was no identification on them at all. "Now!" the sentry cried again, and Snake reluctantly waved Otacon and Jack down after doing it himself.
Shaking his AK-47, the leading sentry waited for three others to pat the three down. Snake watched as they came forth, cupping his hands about the back of his head as they moved their hands over his upper body, throwing any firearms or ammunition onto the cement before the leading sentry.
When one of them had gone for Snake's pockets, he snatched the man's arm in his hand and looked him in the eye. "Maybe we should slow down," he grinned, and then felt the butt of a rifle press forcefully into his chest, sending a wave of realization through his body that made every scar he'd ever inherited sting like a raging fire. He winced and fell onto his back before two more sentries stood him upright again.
His eyes barely closed and his chest aching, he heard the crackle of a radio. Opening his eyes instantly, he watched as the leading sentry gripped the radio mounted against his collarbone in anticipation of a calling sent through the narrow-structured headphones on his head.
"Don't kill him," he voice requested. In shock, the leading sentry covered his radio and turned to another man beside him. "The American," he whispered before releasing his grip on the radio again.
"Sir?" the sentry questioned. "What should we do with him?"
"I will be back from the harbor in due time," the man – as it was implied – said. "Take him to Tower One…the basement floor. Do the same with the others, and make sure that the Snake is alive when I return."
The sentry almost thought to salute, but once realizing that they were not speaking in person he discarded the thought. "Y-Yes sir. I'll see to it personally." Snake looked at the sentry with displeasure, and the man looked back in fear – not of Snake, but of the man on the radio.
"Do not hesitate, though, to award them with rest," the man chuckled. "You might be better off carrying them there than escorting them there." The sentry understood. 'Knock 'em out and get the job done,' he thought. 'That's all ya gotta do.'
Then, there was the returning crackle of the radio as the American ended the transmission and switched channels. Snake looked up at the sentry again, remembering the man's location…as well as his voice.
"All right," the leader began, "I want four men to help me take these three to the basement. The rest of you, take your posts and start running your shifts. Embassy Square is to be a fortress. There is no room for error!"
And then, with the affirmation of the many sentries in the area, and without any chance to do otherwise, Snake fell heavily to the cement – his last emotion being fear. He knew who was on the radio, but when the butt of a rifle pinned itself upon his forehead he no longer knew anything…
"Sir?" a man called and knocked. Ocelot turned away from the vista of Manhattan through a twelfth floor office window, and stood patiently behind his desk, thinking to himself.
"Come in," he finally answered, and the leading sentry who had spoken earlier with the American, stepped into the room. He was nervous and it showed. Ocelot looked on hi with something of amusement and held his arms out before him, offering the sentry a seat in front of his light-oak desk. "Take a seat."
The man did as he was told, fearing the consequences were he to deny the accommodation. Ocelot did the same, dropping lightly into his leather chair and easing back against it as the sentry moved onto the edge of his own.
"The defenses have been readied, sir," the sentry confirmed. "All units have moved to their posts. The fort is secure." Ocelot smiled.
"And what of Snake?" Ocelot questioned. The sentry seemed rather uneasy answering the question, but after a long moment's hesitation – one that disclosed his nervousness to Ocelot – he replied.
"We're holding him, along with the others, in the basement level," the sentry said, and Ocelot nodded thankfully.
"Did they put up a fight?" Ocelot asked, and the sentry shook his head.
"They were fairly compliant," he said. "We had to put Solid Snake in a temporary sleep to be safe, but the three of them are in good condition."
Ocelot moved onto the edge of his seat and rested his elbows on the desktop before him, smiling for a moment and then looking into the sentry's eyes with a look of parental affection. "Tell me, why didn't you kill him?"
The sentry was taken aback by the question, and jumped when he realized that Ocelot had indeed asked it. Swallowing hard, sweat began to bead on his forehead, moving rapidly down his face. "I-I thought that maybe you could…get something from them. I though they might know something…something you needed to know." Ocelot nodded acceptingly and then stood and walked over to the window, looking over the city again.
"Have you, by any chance, spoken with the American yet?" Ocelot asked, still admiring the view. He could hear the sentry shift awkwardly in his chair and waited for an answer.
"W-Why do you ask, sir?" the sentry questioned in return, putting a smile on Ocelot's face – one he marveled at in his reflection.
"No reason," Ocelot answered. "I just, haven't heard from him in some time. I wonder if he's still at the harbor. You wouldn't know, would you?" he asked. The sentry shifted again.
"O-Of course not, sir," he breathed.
"Good," Ocelot paused. "Because if you had, I would have to do this." Turning quickly, a revolver was all ready in hand, and with the sentry's horrified expression the trigger was pulled.
There was a crack and a soft-sounding impact as the bullet tore through the sentry's chest, finding its way through the center of his heart and stopping abruptly against his shoulder blade – crushing it with ease. Blood had filled the gap in his chest and when he slid off of the chair and onto the carpet, a long crimson streak stained his path.
Spinning his revolver into its holster, he pushed firmly on a button atop his desk, activating an intercom. "Cleanup on floor twelve," he announced, a tone of mockery in his voice. Letting his finger off the button, he looked down at the sentry and pondered. "I wonder what that American is up to," and then he stepped briskly out the door and down the hall to the elevator.
The feeling was blissful. Of course, the initial blow was nothing he wanted to remember, but when he had woken it was far from memory anyway. Finding himself in a dank cell, no idea as to where he had become or why he had become, a wave of questions as well as carelessness washed over him. The minutes prior to his entrance to the world of sleep were blurred and out of grasp, but the rest of the morning was coming back to him in strides. He sat there, elbows on his knees and chin on his fist, as the day returned to him and played itself through time and time again until he remembered it all.
He had started on a boat, en route to Manhattan for a mission to save a record of any and all operations made by the Compilation before it was trampled by ten bulldozers. Then, he had seen helicopters, and he was forced off of the boat by a number of troops dressed in black trench coats – entirely unfitting for the summer day that it was.
After swimming to shore, he'd met up with Jack and had moved to a restaurant to meet with a member of the UFAC and to get an update on their mission status. But, that went sour when Formal – who had miraculously survived an attempt on his life in Hell's Outpost – blew the front of the restaurant into shards of brick and glass, also killing the UFAC agent they'd been meeting with.
Then, he remembered the waitress who had winked at him…she was UFAC too, but after remembering the rest it became clear to him that she was not UFAC, but FACtion…and with that he realized that FACtion was much more than the soldiers he'd encountered and the Officers in charge of the unit. It was comprised of many more than that…but it made him wonder. 'Were there any others that he knew? Any that were working for FACtion?'
"Here he is," a guard announced, and a familiar face appeared behind the bars.
"Ocelot," Snake sneered as the guard unlocked the cell door, letting Ocelot step inside. He decided not to sit on the one pullout bed in the room – one Snake occupied – but instead opted to stand. "Your men aren't up to par. Afraid to put me to sleep for good."
"Ah," Ocelot nodded, "this is not my bidding. You are just as good to me dead as you are alive. You are no longer my concern, but I had some time to spare. And so, here I am." Snake snickered.
"Where's Otacon?" Snake asked.
"He's being held in another cell," Ocelot answered.
"And Jack?"
"He is just the same. Do not worry about them, Snake, they won't be going anywhere soon." Ocelot stood. "And neither will you." Snake frowned at the thought. "So, Solid Snake, you wanted my Compilation. Why is that?"
"I was only doing a job," Snake answered.
"What is it that you are looking for, Snake?" He moved closer to Snake. Much closer. "What are you searching for?"
Snake felt the urge to kill Ocelot right then, and right there, but he knew that it wouldn't happen. If he managed, he would be shot down immediately, and as long as the Six Points were alive the Patriot's network would survive. "Maybe you are the one to ask," he challenged. Ocelot smiled.
"Why whatever do you mean? I am hiding nothing. In time…in time you will know everything, the whole world will. It will be no secret then," Ocelot proposed. "Until that time, this is your home. Sorry if it seems cramped, but it's just an illusion. The walls are dark. That can make any room look smaller." With a smile, he turned away, and the guard went to the cell door and rustled through his ring of keys before finding the right one and slipping it into the slot.
"The American," Snake interjected, forcing Ocelot to become still. "Who is he?"
He was silent.
"An asset," he answered. "A very important asset."
"You don't trust him?" Snake questioned. "He wanted me alive, and you wanted me dead. If he's as important as you say, why would you be working against him behind the scenes?"
He was silent, and with the clatter of metal on metal, the doors slid open, and he stepped into the dark hall beyond the cell.
"Do not let your attention wander," he muttered to the guard. "The American will be through here. Do not let him pass." With a nod, the cell doors slid shut and the Patriot began to fade into the darkness of the corridor.
And then, when Snake thought he had finally sorted out what had happened in the last day, he realized that he was forgetting one thing…one thing he could simply not put his finger on.
The voice.
"On your knees!" a sentry cried. Snake scanned the masses, taking special notice to their uniforms. As far as he could tell, there was no identification on them at all. "Now!" the sentry cried again, and Snake reluctantly waved Otacon and Jack down after doing it himself.
Shaking his AK-47, the leading sentry waited for three others to pat the three down. Snake watched as they came forth, cupping his hands about the back of his head as they moved their hands over his upper body, throwing any firearms or ammunition onto the cement before the leading sentry.
When one of them had gone for Snake's pockets, he snatched the man's arm in his hand and looked him in the eye. "Maybe we should slow down," he grinned, and then felt the butt of a rifle press forcefully into his chest, sending a wave of realization through his body that made every scar he'd ever inherited sting like a raging fire. He winced and fell onto his back before two more sentries stood him upright again.
His eyes barely closed and his chest aching, he heard the crackle of a radio. Opening his eyes instantly, he watched as the leading sentry gripped the radio mounted against his collarbone in anticipation of a calling sent through the narrow-structured headphones on his head.
"Don't kill him," he voice requested. In shock, the leading sentry covered his radio and turned to another man beside him. "The American," he whispered before releasing his grip on the radio again.
"Sir?" the sentry questioned. "What should we do with him?"
"I will be back from the harbor in due time," the man – as it was implied – said. "Take him to Tower One…the basement floor. Do the same with the others, and make sure that the Snake is alive when I return."
The sentry almost thought to salute, but once realizing that they were not speaking in person he discarded the thought. "Y-Yes sir. I'll see to it personally." Snake looked at the sentry with displeasure, and the man looked back in fear – not of Snake, but of the man on the radio.
"Do not hesitate, though, to award them with rest," the man chuckled. "You might be better off carrying them there than escorting them there." The sentry understood. 'Knock 'em out and get the job done,' he thought. 'That's all ya gotta do.'
Then, there was the returning crackle of the radio as the American ended the transmission and switched channels. Snake looked up at the sentry again, remembering the man's location…as well as his voice.
"All right," the leader began, "I want four men to help me take these three to the basement. The rest of you, take your posts and start running your shifts. Embassy Square is to be a fortress. There is no room for error!"
And then, with the affirmation of the many sentries in the area, and without any chance to do otherwise, Snake fell heavily to the cement – his last emotion being fear. He knew who was on the radio, but when the butt of a rifle pinned itself upon his forehead he no longer knew anything…
"Sir?" a man called and knocked. Ocelot turned away from the vista of Manhattan through a twelfth floor office window, and stood patiently behind his desk, thinking to himself.
"Come in," he finally answered, and the leading sentry who had spoken earlier with the American, stepped into the room. He was nervous and it showed. Ocelot looked on hi with something of amusement and held his arms out before him, offering the sentry a seat in front of his light-oak desk. "Take a seat."
The man did as he was told, fearing the consequences were he to deny the accommodation. Ocelot did the same, dropping lightly into his leather chair and easing back against it as the sentry moved onto the edge of his own.
"The defenses have been readied, sir," the sentry confirmed. "All units have moved to their posts. The fort is secure." Ocelot smiled.
"And what of Snake?" Ocelot questioned. The sentry seemed rather uneasy answering the question, but after a long moment's hesitation – one that disclosed his nervousness to Ocelot – he replied.
"We're holding him, along with the others, in the basement level," the sentry said, and Ocelot nodded thankfully.
"Did they put up a fight?" Ocelot asked, and the sentry shook his head.
"They were fairly compliant," he said. "We had to put Solid Snake in a temporary sleep to be safe, but the three of them are in good condition."
Ocelot moved onto the edge of his seat and rested his elbows on the desktop before him, smiling for a moment and then looking into the sentry's eyes with a look of parental affection. "Tell me, why didn't you kill him?"
The sentry was taken aback by the question, and jumped when he realized that Ocelot had indeed asked it. Swallowing hard, sweat began to bead on his forehead, moving rapidly down his face. "I-I thought that maybe you could…get something from them. I though they might know something…something you needed to know." Ocelot nodded acceptingly and then stood and walked over to the window, looking over the city again.
"Have you, by any chance, spoken with the American yet?" Ocelot asked, still admiring the view. He could hear the sentry shift awkwardly in his chair and waited for an answer.
"W-Why do you ask, sir?" the sentry questioned in return, putting a smile on Ocelot's face – one he marveled at in his reflection.
"No reason," Ocelot answered. "I just, haven't heard from him in some time. I wonder if he's still at the harbor. You wouldn't know, would you?" he asked. The sentry shifted again.
"O-Of course not, sir," he breathed.
"Good," Ocelot paused. "Because if you had, I would have to do this." Turning quickly, a revolver was all ready in hand, and with the sentry's horrified expression the trigger was pulled.
There was a crack and a soft-sounding impact as the bullet tore through the sentry's chest, finding its way through the center of his heart and stopping abruptly against his shoulder blade – crushing it with ease. Blood had filled the gap in his chest and when he slid off of the chair and onto the carpet, a long crimson streak stained his path.
Spinning his revolver into its holster, he pushed firmly on a button atop his desk, activating an intercom. "Cleanup on floor twelve," he announced, a tone of mockery in his voice. Letting his finger off the button, he looked down at the sentry and pondered. "I wonder what that American is up to," and then he stepped briskly out the door and down the hall to the elevator.
The feeling was blissful. Of course, the initial blow was nothing he wanted to remember, but when he had woken it was far from memory anyway. Finding himself in a dank cell, no idea as to where he had become or why he had become, a wave of questions as well as carelessness washed over him. The minutes prior to his entrance to the world of sleep were blurred and out of grasp, but the rest of the morning was coming back to him in strides. He sat there, elbows on his knees and chin on his fist, as the day returned to him and played itself through time and time again until he remembered it all.
He had started on a boat, en route to Manhattan for a mission to save a record of any and all operations made by the Compilation before it was trampled by ten bulldozers. Then, he had seen helicopters, and he was forced off of the boat by a number of troops dressed in black trench coats – entirely unfitting for the summer day that it was.
After swimming to shore, he'd met up with Jack and had moved to a restaurant to meet with a member of the UFAC and to get an update on their mission status. But, that went sour when Formal – who had miraculously survived an attempt on his life in Hell's Outpost – blew the front of the restaurant into shards of brick and glass, also killing the UFAC agent they'd been meeting with.
Then, he remembered the waitress who had winked at him…she was UFAC too, but after remembering the rest it became clear to him that she was not UFAC, but FACtion…and with that he realized that FACtion was much more than the soldiers he'd encountered and the Officers in charge of the unit. It was comprised of many more than that…but it made him wonder. 'Were there any others that he knew? Any that were working for FACtion?'
"Here he is," a guard announced, and a familiar face appeared behind the bars.
"Ocelot," Snake sneered as the guard unlocked the cell door, letting Ocelot step inside. He decided not to sit on the one pullout bed in the room – one Snake occupied – but instead opted to stand. "Your men aren't up to par. Afraid to put me to sleep for good."
"Ah," Ocelot nodded, "this is not my bidding. You are just as good to me dead as you are alive. You are no longer my concern, but I had some time to spare. And so, here I am." Snake snickered.
"Where's Otacon?" Snake asked.
"He's being held in another cell," Ocelot answered.
"And Jack?"
"He is just the same. Do not worry about them, Snake, they won't be going anywhere soon." Ocelot stood. "And neither will you." Snake frowned at the thought. "So, Solid Snake, you wanted my Compilation. Why is that?"
"I was only doing a job," Snake answered.
"What is it that you are looking for, Snake?" He moved closer to Snake. Much closer. "What are you searching for?"
Snake felt the urge to kill Ocelot right then, and right there, but he knew that it wouldn't happen. If he managed, he would be shot down immediately, and as long as the Six Points were alive the Patriot's network would survive. "Maybe you are the one to ask," he challenged. Ocelot smiled.
"Why whatever do you mean? I am hiding nothing. In time…in time you will know everything, the whole world will. It will be no secret then," Ocelot proposed. "Until that time, this is your home. Sorry if it seems cramped, but it's just an illusion. The walls are dark. That can make any room look smaller." With a smile, he turned away, and the guard went to the cell door and rustled through his ring of keys before finding the right one and slipping it into the slot.
"The American," Snake interjected, forcing Ocelot to become still. "Who is he?"
He was silent.
"An asset," he answered. "A very important asset."
"You don't trust him?" Snake questioned. "He wanted me alive, and you wanted me dead. If he's as important as you say, why would you be working against him behind the scenes?"
He was silent, and with the clatter of metal on metal, the doors slid open, and he stepped into the dark hall beyond the cell.
"Do not let your attention wander," he muttered to the guard. "The American will be through here. Do not let him pass." With a nod, the cell doors slid shut and the Patriot began to fade into the darkness of the corridor.
And then, when Snake thought he had finally sorted out what had happened in the last day, he realized that he was forgetting one thing…one thing he could simply not put his finger on.
The voice.