(This, ladies and gentlemen, is what we call 'filler material'. Skip right
on by if you like, it's pretty unnecessary.)
Crimson Dreams
A desolate landscape lay before him; ashen wasteland so damp with blood that one could fall down and never get up again. The vast vision of hell stretched on far past the horizon, the dim sun fading away into nothingness as another dust storm rolled in. By now the corpses had become a very part of the scene itself, mountain upon mountain of dead men still clutching their weapons. The rats and maggots feasted upon these decaying human remains, ignorant to the fact that they were still being made. Gunfire could be heard ringing out from all directions at once, the earsplitting crack of rifles being fired; deafening 155mm HE shells falling from the heavens to collide with the ground below and obliterate any unlucky enough to be in their path. Even the striking of metal against metal could be heard, as the combat between two unknown sides had become so close that hand-to-hand fighting was a must. Trench spades erupted sparks, earth, or blood depending on what they hit.
It was horrible. It was gory. It was hell. But it was somehow familiar.
Snake darted his eyes all about, viewing the terrifying scene with grim acknowledgement and allowing the cacophonous dying symphony to fall upon his ears. He made a futile attempt to move, dive for shelter, even hit the ground and hope for the best, but he simply could not. It was as if his entire body was little more than a statue, a bag of flesh for both sides to fire at. Yet not a single shell even so much as grazed him, nor did the tide of chlorine gas rolling in even faze him. It seemed to be so real, and yet it just wasn't. Couldn't be.
From Snake's left a half-uniformed young man of about seventeen dashed by, holding a shoddy AK variation caked with mud. His pants where a dirtied khaki, his shirt plain white with large patch of dried blood near the chest and throat area, his boot-clad legs were obviously straining to take the fellow as far away from the grim scene as they could. From his open mouth howled a horrified shriek, a shrill cry of absolute terror that could be heard even over the din of the fighting. His legs pumped as hard as they could, taking him away from the battle, away from the noise, away from the dead people and the dead land. He stumbled slightly, and a crimson spray accompanied by no less than ten ragged chunks of flesh exploded forth from the young man's head, bone and sickly gray cranial matter splattering onto the ground below as he dropped to his knees and fell over from there. The cry was abruptly cut off, and swarthy boy simply lay there, eyes still open for the flies to feast upon, dead.
Snake somewhat winced to himself, that was something even he didn't much like to see. Standing among the chaos, he begged himself to wake up from this nightmare and return to the peace and quiet of the bed he shared with Meryl. It felt as if things were coming to a close however, as the very land began to fade away into a white void. The people, both dead and living, dying and killing, crumbled away and evaporated into the approaching nothingness without delay. As the silencing light rushed forth at him, gaining speed exponentially with each passing moment- each of which seemed like an eternity, Snake simply waited to embrace the peace. It was all he could think about doing, all he really wanted to accomplish.
It was then that the last figure appeared.
Nonchalantly walking towards Snake, an air of unrivaled pride and accomplishment about the silhouette, 'he' stepped forth from the light, features gradually coming into being.
First came the body, an obviously physically-able structure clad in a muddy brown trenchcoat that remained open and billowed behind the figure as he strode on. Beneath this was a suit of all things, a sort of blue-gray military garb with black dress shoes beneath. A tie was worn under this, mostly hidden from view, with a white collared shirt of some sort beneath that. It was then that Snake noticed a familiar insignia upon the right shoulder of the open coat.FOX-HOUND. Without a shadow of a doubt, this was the familiar logo associated with Snake's former organization.
And when the face came into view, there was no mistaking his suspicions. The man had a beard and gray hair that was slicked back somewhat lazily, and a menacing glare in his left eye that left even Snake in awe. This look that commanded immense respect and fear, the look of the one true leader of FOX-HOUND, verified by the eye patch on his right side.
The one, the only, Salidus.known to most as Big Boss. The legend himself, in the center of the surreality.
"My legacy," began a gruff voice that seemed pleased in a threatening sort of manner, "lives on." Chuckling to himself as if he was in on a joke the entire world had somehow missed, the figure faded from existence and the dreamscape with him.
Dave's eyes bolted open, only to find darkness and a ceiling. Shrugging it off, but certainly not out of mind, he shut his eyelids and returned to his rest.
Crimson Dreams
A desolate landscape lay before him; ashen wasteland so damp with blood that one could fall down and never get up again. The vast vision of hell stretched on far past the horizon, the dim sun fading away into nothingness as another dust storm rolled in. By now the corpses had become a very part of the scene itself, mountain upon mountain of dead men still clutching their weapons. The rats and maggots feasted upon these decaying human remains, ignorant to the fact that they were still being made. Gunfire could be heard ringing out from all directions at once, the earsplitting crack of rifles being fired; deafening 155mm HE shells falling from the heavens to collide with the ground below and obliterate any unlucky enough to be in their path. Even the striking of metal against metal could be heard, as the combat between two unknown sides had become so close that hand-to-hand fighting was a must. Trench spades erupted sparks, earth, or blood depending on what they hit.
It was horrible. It was gory. It was hell. But it was somehow familiar.
Snake darted his eyes all about, viewing the terrifying scene with grim acknowledgement and allowing the cacophonous dying symphony to fall upon his ears. He made a futile attempt to move, dive for shelter, even hit the ground and hope for the best, but he simply could not. It was as if his entire body was little more than a statue, a bag of flesh for both sides to fire at. Yet not a single shell even so much as grazed him, nor did the tide of chlorine gas rolling in even faze him. It seemed to be so real, and yet it just wasn't. Couldn't be.
From Snake's left a half-uniformed young man of about seventeen dashed by, holding a shoddy AK variation caked with mud. His pants where a dirtied khaki, his shirt plain white with large patch of dried blood near the chest and throat area, his boot-clad legs were obviously straining to take the fellow as far away from the grim scene as they could. From his open mouth howled a horrified shriek, a shrill cry of absolute terror that could be heard even over the din of the fighting. His legs pumped as hard as they could, taking him away from the battle, away from the noise, away from the dead people and the dead land. He stumbled slightly, and a crimson spray accompanied by no less than ten ragged chunks of flesh exploded forth from the young man's head, bone and sickly gray cranial matter splattering onto the ground below as he dropped to his knees and fell over from there. The cry was abruptly cut off, and swarthy boy simply lay there, eyes still open for the flies to feast upon, dead.
Snake somewhat winced to himself, that was something even he didn't much like to see. Standing among the chaos, he begged himself to wake up from this nightmare and return to the peace and quiet of the bed he shared with Meryl. It felt as if things were coming to a close however, as the very land began to fade away into a white void. The people, both dead and living, dying and killing, crumbled away and evaporated into the approaching nothingness without delay. As the silencing light rushed forth at him, gaining speed exponentially with each passing moment- each of which seemed like an eternity, Snake simply waited to embrace the peace. It was all he could think about doing, all he really wanted to accomplish.
It was then that the last figure appeared.
Nonchalantly walking towards Snake, an air of unrivaled pride and accomplishment about the silhouette, 'he' stepped forth from the light, features gradually coming into being.
First came the body, an obviously physically-able structure clad in a muddy brown trenchcoat that remained open and billowed behind the figure as he strode on. Beneath this was a suit of all things, a sort of blue-gray military garb with black dress shoes beneath. A tie was worn under this, mostly hidden from view, with a white collared shirt of some sort beneath that. It was then that Snake noticed a familiar insignia upon the right shoulder of the open coat.FOX-HOUND. Without a shadow of a doubt, this was the familiar logo associated with Snake's former organization.
And when the face came into view, there was no mistaking his suspicions. The man had a beard and gray hair that was slicked back somewhat lazily, and a menacing glare in his left eye that left even Snake in awe. This look that commanded immense respect and fear, the look of the one true leader of FOX-HOUND, verified by the eye patch on his right side.
The one, the only, Salidus.known to most as Big Boss. The legend himself, in the center of the surreality.
"My legacy," began a gruff voice that seemed pleased in a threatening sort of manner, "lives on." Chuckling to himself as if he was in on a joke the entire world had somehow missed, the figure faded from existence and the dreamscape with him.
Dave's eyes bolted open, only to find darkness and a ceiling. Shrugging it off, but certainly not out of mind, he shut his eyelids and returned to his rest.