Chapter TWENTY-SIX: On the Cold Cement Floor of Cell 36
"Seeing Ocelot there was one of the biggest shocks of the day – mainly because no one saw any kind of logical explanation. The Perfect Cell was out of the question, as KING had reclaimed it sometime before Ocelot's death. And, as far as anyone knew, there weren't many other devices out there capable of bringing back the dead. Of course, the black market had to have something, but in all seriousness, to have another venue to bring people to life…well, that would be simply ridiculous."
~*~
His spurs were spattered with blood from the halls, the soles of his boots and those of the Spetsnaz leaving prints in the doorway. A pair of slick brown gloves were pulled tight over both hands – one of which was unusually contoured, veins sticking irregularly through the skin – and pinned to his waist were two Single Action Army revolvers, their bodies polished and sparkling bright, though a faint tarnish ran up the handle of one. It was obvious he'd been away for a while, but he'd hardly changed. Standing there, his mere presence bringing both disbelief and shock to more than half those in the room, he was still the former-Spetsnaz, the former-Patriot and Metal Gear handler that had made his mark in history over the past decade. And he was the same Revolver Ocelot who was being held in Cell 36 of the small high-security prison in New Hampshire just over two years ago. The same one that died.
"How long I've waited for this day…to be back with the old gang," Ocelot smiled, and Snake could actually see the faint warmth - certainly not that of love or of anything else, but of familiarity. He was actually glad to be back in the company of his allies and of his enemies. It was what he lived for.
"You died," Sears said, mouth gaping. "How did you…" KING was looking at Ocelot with nothing short of admiration. He was one of the only men in the room who understood to what lengths the Russian was kept safe. He was the former Patriot of the world and he never took humiliation lightly. He would have the last laugh. He always did.
"Ridiculus," he laughed, and then, almost mockingly said: "Dead? I cannot die!" The whole room continued to watch him. "Though I would have thought the forensics would have caught that by now."
Forensics? Snake thought. What the hell? What forensics? What would those matter? He was dead – everyone had been sure of it. There'd been no question.
"Let us return to Cell 36," said Ocelot as he stepped into the room and began pacing it, a Spetsnaz on either side of him at all times, hands moving to create dramatic gestures to match his story as it was told. "I was surprised, myself, when they came. Tintern and Esher – both remaining loyal to me after all that's happened. I'll even admit that when I saw them I too believed my death was near…"
~*~
The moment the three had entered the cell, Mr. Allen pocketing the keycard and lighting a cigarette to his lips, the ragged figure of an old man shone hazily ahead, hair streaming to hide his eyes, grease pinching it into wet knots. A sharp sliver of light shined through the small window in the door, that which illuminated the side of Tintern's face, her smile twisted and cruel, her eyes still and cold. She stepped aside, though, turning away from the old man, letting the light touch on the very tip of the other's features – the unevenly sloped eyebrows, the crooked nose, the curled lip. And then, that face, too, disappeared into the shadows, its details left to the shadows, until Mr. Allen shielded the light from the door and a voice shattered the grueling silence, settling the old man's confused mind for just a moment, bringing an absent smile to his lips.
"Be still, Shalashaska, and you'll be free of this hell."
~*~
"They had it all worked out, though," Ocelot said, nodding subtly as he remembered the scene again. "They had a plan – a genius one. Esher would take my blood. She would surrender to this prison to take my place."
~*~
Mr. Allen never moved from his place by the door. Tintern and Esher went quickly to work, one of them pulling out a pair of scissors and snipping pieces of hair from the old man's tangled mop, and the other stabbing a syringe into the crook of his arm. He winced, even thought to throw out his arm and strike, but instead stayed still, completely dumbfounded. The stirring in his arm was eerie and uncomfortable as blood was drawn into the chamber of the syringe, but he merely watched ahead at the vague outline of Mr. Allen.
With the syringe in his arm, Esher began to strip, and once she was bare she pulled off the old man's clothes as well, fitting them on and helping him into hers. After a short time the syringe was plucked from his arm, a tattered kerchief being tied tightly around his elbow to keep the blood from coursing too wildly through the wound. Then, silence for a time, until a small flashlight blinked on to help light the old man's hair. Trinket was hunched beside him, still trimming the oily strands, and after a few more moments she stopped and held a small mirror before the old man.
Looking into it and then shooting a look at the other, Esher, he saw that their hair cuts were nearly identical. He didn't seem to have any reaction to this, but just remained as calm as he had been before. And after Esher and Trinket nodded to each other Esher held her arm out before her, exposing the crook of her arm, and after three deep breaths plunged the needle into her veins.
~*~
"The plan was simple," he continued, still pacing around the room. "It was perfect. Nothing was to go wrong…but something did." Stopping, his glance falling over the cold tile floor, he shut his eyes and with a trace of sadness in his voice he whispered. "There was a flaw…"
~*~
Esher began to convulse, her arms flailing, the syringe still poked into her skin. Tintern sprung backward, grabbing the old man and pulling him away from Esher. Mr. Allen did nothing, just stood there.
For a moment, nothing made sense. No one understood what was happening – how it was happening. They just watched as Esher's legs shook violently, mouth twisted into a gaping hole, brow slanted and eyes staring, frightened, into the dark, looking for someone to come to her rescue. She was alone, suddenly alone. Three people with her and none would move by her side.
The tremors continued for more than half a minute as Tintern tucked the old man under her arm and huddled with him in the corner of the room. Esher didn't see her, even as she watched in her direction. She could see nothing, but her body was on fire, her veins pulsing with a terrible pain, her eyelids straining to stay open but refusing to shut. Her fingers were tensed, her feet the same, her arms forced to bend irregularly, the syringe waving as she shook – and her mind racing ferociously, a helplessness growing more visible in the lines, the eyes, the lips of her face. Why wouldn't they come? Where had they gone? Why had they left her?
~*~
"She died there…instead of me," Ocelot admitted, everyone in the room realizing that it meant something to him. Maybe it was only the slightest show of emotion he'd ever squeezed from his frozen heart, but it was more than they would ever see again. "She had 'reached the limit.' Injecting my blood into her veins was like injecting a poison into her heart."
Pausing as he started up his walk again, everyone in the room was no watching him – everyone but Tintern and May. "As she died we fled. I held my head low, shielded my face as best I could, and headed past the three guards. They didn't suspect a thing. Mr. Allen held their attention and I managed to slip by unnoticed. The hair cut helped," he smiled a distant smile. "I don't remember much of what happened afterward, but I remember being on a boat sometime following the prison. Mr. Allen informed me when we arrived in Russia that he had struck a deal with someone from the government – a Charles Ward character," Daves seemed to recognize the name. "The ship had been manned by U.S. military units carrying some odd sort of disguise to appear as if from no nation at all. After we were docked and allowed to go wherever we desired, Allen told me that he was glad he could help. I thanked him. And killed him."
Daves looked over Ocelot with a disconcerting glare and the hatred Snake had for the old Russian returned, suddenly, with full force.
"After that time, I rekindled my long-standing partnership with Alex Moore, who in the last few years had taken power as the Vice President of the United States, and so – " Ocelot stopped, turned to Snake, and held his arms out straight, "Here I am."
Yes, there he was. No matter how cruel or how twisted, this was no dream, no trick of the eye, like the trip to Cell 36. Revolver Ocelot was back. Determined to have the last laugh.
~*~
As she choked and swallowed, trying to find her voice, trying to call their attention, trying to grab on to the last of the life within her, to hold it close and be warmed by it, there was a tugging in her skin. And from the wound where the syringe still stuck, blood began to run – first slowly, a mere trickle, but then like a faucet, a puddle seeping away from her. And with that blood left the warmth, the pain…but not the worry. As the time passed, Tintern, the old man, Mr. Allen – all still as stone – became blurred memories, the darkness before her fading to an even darker black, her heart turning cold, her frantic worrying becoming a sudden loss of hope.
She knew they would not be coming to aid her. She knew that if they were still around they would be leaving her soon, abandoning her…she knew that she only had moments to her death, and lastly she knew that she was not who she had wished to be. Her body had not returned to her own, to the form that she had given up so as to live other people's lives. It had taken the form of an old man, an old man whose face was tempered by the fires of his hate, whose hands were wrinkled by the handling of his instruments, whose whole body was burning with anger.
And she wondered, as the sound of her own breathing fled, as the beating of her own heart ceased, as the door to the cell opened and Tintern and the old man looked regretfully back over her before turning into the hall and damning themselves in their minds, why she had ever given her life for this man, this hellish old man. She wondered why she was to die this way, why she was to be sacrificed without thanks, without honor…without…dignity.
And then she died, a heap of blood and waste, heart full of sadness, on the cold cement floor of Cell 36.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Well, there's one of the big guns. I'd been saving that whole thing for a VERY long time. I hope that, even though you weren't really familiar with the actual character of Esher, this chapter managed to warm your heart a bit and provoked some of your own emotion…just hoping. Besides that, I would like to point out to everyone, so as to show you I didn't pull Keys' betrayal out of the blue, something from the second story in my trilogy. Return, with me, if you will, please, to chapter Twenty-Three, as Snake is stuck trying to move through the room in Tower One that is rigged with explosives and KING (The American, or Big Boss) is on the Codec: "'He's trying to navigate the SEMTEX sensors?' A voice came from a dark nook. It was on a Codec, and Snake's and Otacon's voices could be heard on the transmission, but his voice was not heard on theirs. 'Norman, run a scan on the third floor. I don't want to be blown apart.' There was a pause. 'In fact, the Snake might need some direction…Norman, give me Solid Snake's transmission, and cloak my voice. He is not to know who I am. Not yet.'" It was hardly a memorable detail, but it was there! Thanks again for reading, and PLEASE! Review a lot! We're nearing the last five-to-ten chapters!! YAY!