Chapter Thirty: Alpha Gear
Wordsworth crept out first, leading the team into the hall and locking the door behind them as they set off toward the stairwell that would guide them to the ground level of Tower One. The path was clear – both guards off in the maze of halls branching off to the left – and every door tightly closed. Untouched was the dead guard, Taylor, still slumped with his head bent oddly against the wall and his arms and legs sprawled outward. Wordsworth grabbed at her waist, making sure that his keys were still in her possession, and then hurried down the hall, quietly.
Snake was just behind her, amazed by her agility. He'd tried to avoid showing any interest, but it was hard not to. Her legs pumped up and down, and never was there the slightest sound emitted from her steps. He grinned inward and followed as quickly as his own body would allow.
Fox, who was just behind him, could sense the attraction. His trench coat was floating out behind him like a cape and his sword was rattling in its case. He was keeping to a quick walk, for he was fearful of making too much noise were he to run. His suit was beeping wildly within, its sounds only evident to its wearer, but his mind was at peace. That was something he had never felt before…when he crawled away from Hell's Outpost, everything was seen under a new light. He'd begun to patch the eternally growing wounds that had eaten away at him ever since he saw the end at Zanzibar.
Jack was behind him. He was not worried, nor was he excited or happy. The time he had spent in the cell was a time he had avoided ever since the Arsenal Incident. Time alone was never time spent on self-acclamation, but instead self-demotion. On the job he always managed to stay composed and enthusiastic, but something was biting at him from deep within and he couldn't put it away while in that cell. He was beginning to see…his problems were unavoidable…
And, holding up the back end, was Otacon. His lab coat, its pockets filled with insane amounts of pens and pencils, barely made it off the ground and hardly became like a cape as Fox's trench coat had done. His glasses were constantly slipping down his face, the sweat on his nose flowing like a river beneath them, and his hair was rustled about as he went. From the back, he saw everyone and everything, but holding up the caboose was never a popular role. "Always left behind," he muttered, and the line continued.
They snaked through the halls, stopping at every corner and turning their heads around the bend to make sure there were no sentries posted in their immediate path. There were times when they'd halt and Wordsworth would push them into the last hall where they would wait after a sound no louder than a pin drop was heard. She sensed everything. There were no visions of the future or remembrances of times before she was born…nothing paranormal or super-natural, but she had magnificent senses.
Snake had read a few Wordsworth poems in his day…things like 'I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud' and a few others he couldn't remember, but he could see why she'd picked the title to be her own. Wordsworth, a poet later placed into the category of the "Romantics" – a group of revolutionary poets – had graced the dawn of the 19th century with rich, detailed poems portraying nature and life. His venture into the forbidden topic of nature set flame to the veteran poets, but the beautiful pictures he painted with nothing more than ink must have lured Wordsworth – the woman before him – in. She never let a color, a sound, or a scent pass her without notice, and that became clear to Snake before they'd even made it to the ground floor.
He could hear noises coming from the hallways ahead and there were muffled crashes above. Something…something was happening.
And then, without experiencing any awkward confrontations, the team came to the stairwell: no more than a cramped passage, leading upward where it was shut off with a door. Wordsworth went ahead and tried the doorknob, gripping it tightly in her palm. She stopped, and so did the sounds above.
Snake, who had gone up behind her, watched as her eyes traveled over the door, tracing an invisible line to the top of the dark corridor. There, hidden beneath two poorly painted wooden slabs, was almost a pound of C4. Snake looked back at the knob and noticed a small thumbtack sized silver disc, sitting on the greasy surface. Wordsworth looked at the disc and sighed. "Optical pull-string," she noted.
"Turn the knob, and we all go up," Snake added, shaking his head grimly. He turned to the others. "Any ideas?" The company was silent, and Wordsworth's hand began to pull away. Otacon jumped forward in protest.
"No!" he cried. "Wait!" Wordsworth's grip became firm again, and she shifted into a more comfortable stance.
"What?" she asked.
"There could be a trigger," he noted. "Touch-sensitive. It could work double. You turn it – it blows. You take your hand away – it blows." Wordsworth's head fell subtly. "Do you feel anything? Anything on the doorknob?"
"No," she shook her head. "But…it looks like this is new. The wood on the ceiling is sloppy, and I don't see any strong support…and the American passed through this door just a matter of minutes ago."
"Klaymore?" Jack questioned aloud, but Snake shook his head.
"Couldn't be," he said. "Klaymore's with FACtion. He wouldn't be allowed admittance, and the building is under heavy surveillance. We saw that before ending up here."
"But, if it's the handiwork of a sentry, why wouldn't he just stand here with a gun and avoid blowing a chunk out of the tower? Doesn't seem right…" Jack commented, stepping off to the side and leaning his back against the wall. Things became very silent, but Snake could hear something and Wordsworth could to.
Bleep…bleep…bleep…
Snake's head quickly turned up to Wordsworth who had positioned herself to face he others – her hand still gripping the knob tight. "Timer," he muttered, and quickly he grabbed Wordsworth, leaping down the stairwell with her in his arms.
The others fell onto their stomachs as a grinding howl escaped the corridor and as the spent C4 – its remains billowing up in smoke, rubble, and fire – set the corridor aflame Snake and Wordsworth both held their eyes tightly shut, letting no light break through. There was calmness. It wasn't like the momentary détente at the heart of a raging battle, or a cool attitude when facing a nearly unbeatable foe, but calmness. It was what Snake had gotten only a taste of while in retirement. He didn't worry in those short moments as he and Wordsworth fell through the air. He was being held in someone's arms…and he was holding that person back.
It was a feeling he didn't want to cease…but it did. Just as they fell against the cold floor, their bodies uncoiling and falling away, the calmness ended and reality began again. The first thing they heard was a Russian voice, calling from the landing of the dismembered stairwell. It was cold and cool.
"So, you know my work." Snake's eyes peeled apart wearily and he knew before the words were spoken.
"Klaymore," he muttered, moving off of his stomach and onto his knee. There, looking down on them, was a stocky character, his unkempt hair rustling in the repercussions of the detonation. He wore a plaid, button- down shirt beneath a black, leather vest, and a pair of jeans hung loose around his waist. He grinned wide, waving his hand – a signal that brought nearly ten Army Rangers to his side. Snake looked upon them in confusion.
"Rangers?" he questioned. Jack noticed them too, beginning to stand as Snake had done. "I thought –,"
"They were under the control of the Patriot?" Klaymore finished. "Yes, they were…but that is all far too complicated for them to understand. Thankfully, the President of the United States has intervened. The Rangers are now at our disposal." The Rangers began to filter down the wreckage, retrieving the company without resistance and dragging them reluctantly to the ground level where they found a surprising number of characters.
"FACtion and the United States?" Jack thought aloud. "Working together?" Klaymore nodded.
"But…you took Manhattan Island hostage!" Otacon cried. "You threatened the United States…and now you're working alongside them?"
"Exactly," Dante said, coming from the corner of the room and walking before the large number of Patriot Sentries – all held under Ranger weaponry. Snake and the others waited for their eyes to focus and watched intently. 'How?' they all thought.
"Finally!" Dante exclaimed. "Finally, a president with courage! A president with power!" He paused, smiling at the company and shaking his fist in the air. "He is the first president in U.S. history to defy the Patriots. The first!"
"Courage?" Fox muttered to himself, absently.
"The Holocaust," Dante began, pausing to compose his thoughts. "The Holocaust was a tragedy. Millions…MILLIONS of Jews…all slaughtered. There was no good reason. They were killed because they were Jews." Dante raised his shoulders in question, but went on. "The United States lost thousands in single battles, and trekked through the gunfire. They fought here. They fought there. All along knowing, or at least hearing, that countless Jews were being burned…shot…tortured…torn…everything one could possibly imagine. For a number of years they fought, losing and gaining territory, and all the while not even a town of Germans would stop the Nazi genocide. They watched, they spoke of it, and they lived on. Two…three nations ignored the actions, and millions of lives were lost.
"The Patriot…oh, the Patriot is worse. He and his minions…his puppets…go out across the world and kill, save, laugh, cry, talk, remain quiet, fire on, or don't fire on…all as part of a game. A cruel movie that simply will not end. Like with the Holocaust, no one acts. Hundreds upon thousands of government officials throughout the world know of the Patriot…and do nothing.
"And then, someone stands up. Someone contacts his friends, finds new ones, and builds a strong alliance. Then, after going through the scenario time and time again, he realizes he simply cannot rule out the possibility of civilian casualties. But, he knows that otherwise, the killings and the worthless staging will continue. So, he thinks long and hard, and he makes a decision. He bites the bullet…and makes a decision." He paused. "That is courage."
There was an awkward hush, and Dante found himself obligated to continue.
"Solidus tried it, yes, but he wasn't thinking. He had grown too old. This one…this president is ripe. He possesses the perfect balance of intelligence, ruthlessness, and risk. Only one man, in the history of this world, could contend." Dante stopped speaking, and pondered for a moment before returning to his audience. "The Romantics played an integral part in the deal. You will be awarded Mei Ling and Naomi…and I am awarded the President's full support, and another prized item."
From the corner Dante had appeared came a figure disguised in a trench coat, its collar standing up to hide his face. In his hand was the disc recovered from the Compilation. The disc Wordsworth had earlier possessed. Snake looked at her, and she looked back without confusion. She had willfully turned it over to her colleague…who, in turn, gave it to Dante. "You see, the Patriot's power only exists as long as his intentions are not clear. But, his intentions ARE clear."
"What?!" Snake cried, seeing the Romantic and putting the puzzle together. The Romantics…the United States…and FACTion…They had all sided together to stop the Patriot. And there, standing amidst the many people, Dante lifted the disc in the air and smiled with triumph.
"Alpha Gear!"
Wordsworth crept out first, leading the team into the hall and locking the door behind them as they set off toward the stairwell that would guide them to the ground level of Tower One. The path was clear – both guards off in the maze of halls branching off to the left – and every door tightly closed. Untouched was the dead guard, Taylor, still slumped with his head bent oddly against the wall and his arms and legs sprawled outward. Wordsworth grabbed at her waist, making sure that his keys were still in her possession, and then hurried down the hall, quietly.
Snake was just behind her, amazed by her agility. He'd tried to avoid showing any interest, but it was hard not to. Her legs pumped up and down, and never was there the slightest sound emitted from her steps. He grinned inward and followed as quickly as his own body would allow.
Fox, who was just behind him, could sense the attraction. His trench coat was floating out behind him like a cape and his sword was rattling in its case. He was keeping to a quick walk, for he was fearful of making too much noise were he to run. His suit was beeping wildly within, its sounds only evident to its wearer, but his mind was at peace. That was something he had never felt before…when he crawled away from Hell's Outpost, everything was seen under a new light. He'd begun to patch the eternally growing wounds that had eaten away at him ever since he saw the end at Zanzibar.
Jack was behind him. He was not worried, nor was he excited or happy. The time he had spent in the cell was a time he had avoided ever since the Arsenal Incident. Time alone was never time spent on self-acclamation, but instead self-demotion. On the job he always managed to stay composed and enthusiastic, but something was biting at him from deep within and he couldn't put it away while in that cell. He was beginning to see…his problems were unavoidable…
And, holding up the back end, was Otacon. His lab coat, its pockets filled with insane amounts of pens and pencils, barely made it off the ground and hardly became like a cape as Fox's trench coat had done. His glasses were constantly slipping down his face, the sweat on his nose flowing like a river beneath them, and his hair was rustled about as he went. From the back, he saw everyone and everything, but holding up the caboose was never a popular role. "Always left behind," he muttered, and the line continued.
They snaked through the halls, stopping at every corner and turning their heads around the bend to make sure there were no sentries posted in their immediate path. There were times when they'd halt and Wordsworth would push them into the last hall where they would wait after a sound no louder than a pin drop was heard. She sensed everything. There were no visions of the future or remembrances of times before she was born…nothing paranormal or super-natural, but she had magnificent senses.
Snake had read a few Wordsworth poems in his day…things like 'I Wandered Lonely As A Cloud' and a few others he couldn't remember, but he could see why she'd picked the title to be her own. Wordsworth, a poet later placed into the category of the "Romantics" – a group of revolutionary poets – had graced the dawn of the 19th century with rich, detailed poems portraying nature and life. His venture into the forbidden topic of nature set flame to the veteran poets, but the beautiful pictures he painted with nothing more than ink must have lured Wordsworth – the woman before him – in. She never let a color, a sound, or a scent pass her without notice, and that became clear to Snake before they'd even made it to the ground floor.
He could hear noises coming from the hallways ahead and there were muffled crashes above. Something…something was happening.
And then, without experiencing any awkward confrontations, the team came to the stairwell: no more than a cramped passage, leading upward where it was shut off with a door. Wordsworth went ahead and tried the doorknob, gripping it tightly in her palm. She stopped, and so did the sounds above.
Snake, who had gone up behind her, watched as her eyes traveled over the door, tracing an invisible line to the top of the dark corridor. There, hidden beneath two poorly painted wooden slabs, was almost a pound of C4. Snake looked back at the knob and noticed a small thumbtack sized silver disc, sitting on the greasy surface. Wordsworth looked at the disc and sighed. "Optical pull-string," she noted.
"Turn the knob, and we all go up," Snake added, shaking his head grimly. He turned to the others. "Any ideas?" The company was silent, and Wordsworth's hand began to pull away. Otacon jumped forward in protest.
"No!" he cried. "Wait!" Wordsworth's grip became firm again, and she shifted into a more comfortable stance.
"What?" she asked.
"There could be a trigger," he noted. "Touch-sensitive. It could work double. You turn it – it blows. You take your hand away – it blows." Wordsworth's head fell subtly. "Do you feel anything? Anything on the doorknob?"
"No," she shook her head. "But…it looks like this is new. The wood on the ceiling is sloppy, and I don't see any strong support…and the American passed through this door just a matter of minutes ago."
"Klaymore?" Jack questioned aloud, but Snake shook his head.
"Couldn't be," he said. "Klaymore's with FACtion. He wouldn't be allowed admittance, and the building is under heavy surveillance. We saw that before ending up here."
"But, if it's the handiwork of a sentry, why wouldn't he just stand here with a gun and avoid blowing a chunk out of the tower? Doesn't seem right…" Jack commented, stepping off to the side and leaning his back against the wall. Things became very silent, but Snake could hear something and Wordsworth could to.
Bleep…bleep…bleep…
Snake's head quickly turned up to Wordsworth who had positioned herself to face he others – her hand still gripping the knob tight. "Timer," he muttered, and quickly he grabbed Wordsworth, leaping down the stairwell with her in his arms.
The others fell onto their stomachs as a grinding howl escaped the corridor and as the spent C4 – its remains billowing up in smoke, rubble, and fire – set the corridor aflame Snake and Wordsworth both held their eyes tightly shut, letting no light break through. There was calmness. It wasn't like the momentary détente at the heart of a raging battle, or a cool attitude when facing a nearly unbeatable foe, but calmness. It was what Snake had gotten only a taste of while in retirement. He didn't worry in those short moments as he and Wordsworth fell through the air. He was being held in someone's arms…and he was holding that person back.
It was a feeling he didn't want to cease…but it did. Just as they fell against the cold floor, their bodies uncoiling and falling away, the calmness ended and reality began again. The first thing they heard was a Russian voice, calling from the landing of the dismembered stairwell. It was cold and cool.
"So, you know my work." Snake's eyes peeled apart wearily and he knew before the words were spoken.
"Klaymore," he muttered, moving off of his stomach and onto his knee. There, looking down on them, was a stocky character, his unkempt hair rustling in the repercussions of the detonation. He wore a plaid, button- down shirt beneath a black, leather vest, and a pair of jeans hung loose around his waist. He grinned wide, waving his hand – a signal that brought nearly ten Army Rangers to his side. Snake looked upon them in confusion.
"Rangers?" he questioned. Jack noticed them too, beginning to stand as Snake had done. "I thought –,"
"They were under the control of the Patriot?" Klaymore finished. "Yes, they were…but that is all far too complicated for them to understand. Thankfully, the President of the United States has intervened. The Rangers are now at our disposal." The Rangers began to filter down the wreckage, retrieving the company without resistance and dragging them reluctantly to the ground level where they found a surprising number of characters.
"FACtion and the United States?" Jack thought aloud. "Working together?" Klaymore nodded.
"But…you took Manhattan Island hostage!" Otacon cried. "You threatened the United States…and now you're working alongside them?"
"Exactly," Dante said, coming from the corner of the room and walking before the large number of Patriot Sentries – all held under Ranger weaponry. Snake and the others waited for their eyes to focus and watched intently. 'How?' they all thought.
"Finally!" Dante exclaimed. "Finally, a president with courage! A president with power!" He paused, smiling at the company and shaking his fist in the air. "He is the first president in U.S. history to defy the Patriots. The first!"
"Courage?" Fox muttered to himself, absently.
"The Holocaust," Dante began, pausing to compose his thoughts. "The Holocaust was a tragedy. Millions…MILLIONS of Jews…all slaughtered. There was no good reason. They were killed because they were Jews." Dante raised his shoulders in question, but went on. "The United States lost thousands in single battles, and trekked through the gunfire. They fought here. They fought there. All along knowing, or at least hearing, that countless Jews were being burned…shot…tortured…torn…everything one could possibly imagine. For a number of years they fought, losing and gaining territory, and all the while not even a town of Germans would stop the Nazi genocide. They watched, they spoke of it, and they lived on. Two…three nations ignored the actions, and millions of lives were lost.
"The Patriot…oh, the Patriot is worse. He and his minions…his puppets…go out across the world and kill, save, laugh, cry, talk, remain quiet, fire on, or don't fire on…all as part of a game. A cruel movie that simply will not end. Like with the Holocaust, no one acts. Hundreds upon thousands of government officials throughout the world know of the Patriot…and do nothing.
"And then, someone stands up. Someone contacts his friends, finds new ones, and builds a strong alliance. Then, after going through the scenario time and time again, he realizes he simply cannot rule out the possibility of civilian casualties. But, he knows that otherwise, the killings and the worthless staging will continue. So, he thinks long and hard, and he makes a decision. He bites the bullet…and makes a decision." He paused. "That is courage."
There was an awkward hush, and Dante found himself obligated to continue.
"Solidus tried it, yes, but he wasn't thinking. He had grown too old. This one…this president is ripe. He possesses the perfect balance of intelligence, ruthlessness, and risk. Only one man, in the history of this world, could contend." Dante stopped speaking, and pondered for a moment before returning to his audience. "The Romantics played an integral part in the deal. You will be awarded Mei Ling and Naomi…and I am awarded the President's full support, and another prized item."
From the corner Dante had appeared came a figure disguised in a trench coat, its collar standing up to hide his face. In his hand was the disc recovered from the Compilation. The disc Wordsworth had earlier possessed. Snake looked at her, and she looked back without confusion. She had willfully turned it over to her colleague…who, in turn, gave it to Dante. "You see, the Patriot's power only exists as long as his intentions are not clear. But, his intentions ARE clear."
"What?!" Snake cried, seeing the Romantic and putting the puzzle together. The Romantics…the United States…and FACTion…They had all sided together to stop the Patriot. And there, standing amidst the many people, Dante lifted the disc in the air and smiled with triumph.
"Alpha Gear!"