chapter THIRTY-ONE: Spectral

"An article on the FACtion incident in Manhattan had reported that the weapons FACtion used in its invasion had been taken from a weapon stockpile near a place known as Trinket. Around the time of the invasion the President was briefed by department heads including NSA Director William Beck who provided a mass of background information on a building called Trinket – once the heart of the Russian Cold War Project. A lot had happened there that no one knew outside of that meeting room. And, as time would go on, it would become clear that Russia was the stage of far more than previously anticipated."

~*~

"You're the ghost," Snake said, his voice sharp and subtle, a sense of disbelief thick on his words. His heart had slowed to a normal pace, but his hands had raised, along with the SOCOM that fit inside their grasp, aiming at the man's chest. The man who wore the same face as Snake.

Each and every detail – his jagged cheek bone, rough chin, shadowed eyes that always seemed half-closed – was duplicated upon the stranger's face. He was the same as Snake, but appeared slightly more cut, nearly every bit of fat shaved off his body. His muscles, though not bulking, pressed against the material of his sneaking suit, one that was almost the same as Snake's – the Shadow Moses design. He wore a faint grin as if slightly amused, but it flickered and died very quickly. He did not have a gun in either hand.

"What the hell?" Snake said quietly. He didn't know what else to say, really. He'd seen things and heard things that rivaled the revelation at hand, but there just didn't seem to be anything worth saying. What do you say when you look in the mirror and find out your reflection isn't there?

~*~

The hotel room was dim and unwelcoming. The wallpaper was peeling, the floorboards weakening every day, the single light mounted on the ceiling dying out. There was a door in the back of the room that led to another, and under a window in the first room's right wall was a wooden end table and an ancient-looking phone.

When it started ringing, the receiver shaking on its cradle, footsteps sounded in the next room and a woman strode in through the only door toward the window and the phone. As she stopped by the window, lifting the receiver to her ear, the early morning light shone over her short red hair and she answered the phone with a heavy Russian accent.

"Yes?" She said briefly.

"Nastasha," the opposite voice began, "is Emmerich with you?" The woman, apparently named Nastasha, put her palm over the receiver and called into the next room, her voice loud enough to be heard from a short distance. "Pick it up," she said before putting the receiver, again, to her ear.

Following a soft click another voice came on the line – that of Hal Emmerich. In the next room he stood before a window, looking out over the streets of Moscow, Russia where the homeless were congregated to set up post in the early morning and begin collecting from the generous passersby. The sun that shone was hidden behind a wealth of streaming clouds, sending a dull gray light over the city. This would be the scene of START 3.

"Hello?" he asked. There was a very short pause before the man on the other line continued.

"We've got a couple friends of yours here. Joseph Brant and a…Frank Jaeger? They say Will Beck's dirty. We'll check him out, figure out who he's associating with." When Frank was mentioned Otacon felt a rush of memories sliding back in place – memories of the Ninja and the Romantic.

"What are they doing there?" Otacon asked, a part of him excited to hear about them, but another part remaining serious and business-like. He had grown much more familiar with the world of covert operations. He wasn't weak any longer. It was almost sad seeing him standing in that room, working in the heart of Russia, the sky cold and oblique. He had been hardened, though only slightly, by experience. He had changed.

"They gave us some information. They were referred through a friend of theirs' who goes by Desperado." Again, Otacon felt the rush of memories. "How is everything there? Any news?"

"Not really," Otacon answered. "There's no word from the Russian government. I imagine they'll stay pretty quiet until the signing." Otacon checked his watch. It was 9:10. "About three hours, still. A little more than two before the President touches down." Otacon paused. "We went over our Codec transmissions to Raiden, as well, to check for any listeners. We found a channel linking into our conversations. Whoever was linking in recorded them to a laptop somewhere in the city. I have to try and narrow that down."

"Who do you think would be listening?"

"Anyone. It could be Russians, supporters of the Vice, supporters of the President. We can't tell their intentions, so we can't be sure just yet. I'll look into it, though," Otacon said.

"All right," the other voice said. It sounded like the fat man, but it was hard to tell exactly. "Call if there's anything new."

"You do the same," Otacon said. And then, as the fat man was about to hang up he added: "Tell the two visitors I say hello." The fat man paused and then grinned to himself.

"Take care, Emmerich." And then, he hung up. Otacon stood there before the window, the receiver still pressed to his face, even after Nastasha hung up in the other room and came to the doorway, stopping there and looking at him as he stood among a mess or computers and cords all setup on rickety desks and tables. He didn't see her for a while – just stood by the window and listened to the dial tone.

Wishing, for a moment, that he was back home.

~*~

"I've been waiting for you, father," the man said. Snake looked at him, his eye flashing with surprise as the words were spoken. 'Father?' He was sure he hadn't had any kids recently – was sure that was impossible anyway. "I was told to find you. I was told you'd be here."

"You're no son of mine," Snake said, his finger stressing very lightly on the trigger of his SOCOM. The man didn't react much to Snake's remark, just as Snake most likely would not react himself.

"I'm not surprised you've forgotten me," he said. "You weren't exactly in the right state of mind from what I can remember." Snake looked at him strangely. He couldn't understand what any of this meant. Not the right state of mind? When was he talking about? Snake took a deep breath and blinked quickly, making sure the man wouldn't disappear when he closed his eyes.

He didn't disappear. He was still standing there.

"What're you doing here?" Snake asked. The man shrugged his shoulders. "I'm here for you. I'm here for you and your brothers." He waited. "And your father, also."

Snake didn't understand, still. "I am the result of the Selection." He took a step closer to Snake, and when he did there was a spark deep within Snake that weighed his finger upon the trigger of his SOCOM and sent a stray bullet over the man's shoulder. Snake wasn't sure what he'd done, but in the next moment the other man drew forth a SOCOM and held it lazily at his side. He smiled and Snake nearly fired again, but just before he flickered and disappeared he said, strikingly surreal: "I am Spectral." And then there was a call from the hallway.

"Come out, Snake!" Liquid said, and at that moment Spectral retracted, reflexes making him crouch and then, as he sprung to the side, he disappeared into the air, the patter of his footsteps being all that Snake could recognize of him any longer. Snake blinked his eyes, lowering his gun, and eventually turned on his heels and ran for a gap in the large crates around the room to find cover. And, when he came to the rows of crates, he slipped between two of them – a tight fit – and peered through the space to see what happened at the door.

"Oh brother! Where are you?" Liquid called again and Snake continued to wait and watch, his chest rising and falling, touching the wall of the crate ahead of him and then pulling away. It did this for a while before the tall swinging doors burst open and Liquid came through the doorway, his walk confident and assured. He was smiling, a new gun in his hand, and up from behind came the three Spetsnaz from the hall who quickly moved ahead of him and began to sweep the area.

~*~

Desperado stepped out of the van, three others – including Dennis – getting out behind him. Their faces were smeared with tears, but they were holding together. Every one else had been filled with bullets as they were chased out of the parking garage. Where they were, now, was a cul-de-sac south of downtown District. The sky wasn't as clear as before, clouds beginning to move in from the west. At the end of the cul-de-sac there was a one-story white house, white panels, dark blue shutters, an oriental style imposed on the columns that held up an overhang before the front door. Desperado had parked on the curb. There was no car in the driveway.

Desperado wasn't very stealthy. He walked calmly to the front door, the three others following him closely, and stood under the overhang while the others caught up. Dennis stepped ahead and stood at the door, pulling something from his pocket – he'd removed it from his briefcase earlier and replaced it in his jacket. When he slipped it out Desperado saw that it was a thin plastic key card, the magnetic strip running up one side.

Watching, he saw Dennis lift the lid on a box mounted beside the door to reveal a vertical slot in which he slid the card. There was a light beep and a bulb next to the slot blinked green. One of the two other men opened the door and Desperado and the others stepped inside.

There was nothing spectacular about the interior. There was no furniture, no rooms even. There was a large open area and at the end of it – two doors. The four of them went forward and opened the left door first. Inside was a restroom – shower, toilet, sink, mirror. Desperado stepped in, looked around, pulling the mirror away from the wall on a pair of hinges and revealing a few shelves of electronic equipment. Dennis moved in front of him and inspected it all before shaking his head and leading Desperado back into the open room.

Then, they turned to the door on the right. Desperado stood silent as Dennis turned the knob and slowly, cautiously, pushed the door open. As more of the next room became visible, Desperado noted a desk, a chair, a computer, and a number of gray filing cabinets. Desperado waited for all three of the others to go in. He'd always known this building existed and this room inside it, but he'd never had the authorization. It was the house he'd been asked to visit for Springfield when he first signed up with the Vice. It held all the files the NSA had recovered on Trinket before the FACtion incident on Manhattan Island.

Nodding his head and smiling, he said to the rest: "Let's get reading, folks."

~*~

The Spetsnaz worked quickly, clicking on thin lights mounted to the tops of their rifles and running past the lines of crates, shining the lights through the gaps. As they moved, Snake moved, listening to the patterns of their footsteps to anticipate what direction they were coming from and when they would shine their lights on him. He managed to squeeze back and forth quickly, avoiding them each time they came by. And as he moved, his heart racing again, he listened to Liquid's taunts.

"Brother," he said, his voice thick and sappy all of a sudden, "face me like a man. I'm not here to kill you, you know." Liquid started moving through the room, too, occasionally peaking between the crates. After a short time he shook his head, anger biting at his voice now. "Come on! I know you're here, Snake! Get out here and fight me if you wish! This is growing quite tedious."

Snake moved around the intersection of four crates, flattening his back and just being missed by a Spetsnaz flashlight. He stayed there, encased in the crates, feeling safe. He was up against four men now? Three Spetsnaz, one near-clone? That was a little risky.

"Sir, he's not showing," one of the Spetsnaz said as he continued to check the crates. Liquid shook his head.

"He's in here," he said. "Toss a grenade somewhere – see if that helps draw him out." There was a click from somewhere not far away as a Spetsnaz unlatched a grenade from his vest. Then, with a toss, the grenade sprung forward and skittered through the gaps of the crates, landing in Snake's view, off to the right, not more than ten feet away.

His eyes growing wide, he hurried to the left as quickly as he could, unable to turn and straight out run because the space was too limited. His heart beat furiously and he could hear Liquid still talking ("Don't die now, Snake!") and then, just when his voice died, the grenade sparked to life and exploded in his ears, a wave of heat and fire coming near him, warming his right arm and the side of his face. Shrapnel bounced into the air, the walls of two crates busted open from the explosion and twirling in the air.

Snake did what he could to cover his face and crouch. Nothing hit him, just the heat – and, a few seconds later, the ray of a Spetsnaz flashlight. And when he realized it was on him, it was all ready too late to escape. "I've got him!" The man had hollered and by the time Snake was standing upright again, the Spetsnaz had his finger on the trigger.

But Snake, who had his SOCOM in his right hand, wasn't going to die right there. And sliding his SOCOM along the wall of the crate before him, its course arcing over his head, he caught it with his left hand and fired one perfect shot in the Spetsnaz's direction – shattering his forehead and tossing him onto his back. Dead and cold.

"Shit!" another Spetsnaz yelled. Snake started moving immediately, trying to get away from where the Spetsnaz would be found with a bullet in his face. Eventually, he stopped and jumped, gripping the lip of a crate and lifting himself on top of it. When he stood, fitting his SOCOM in his hand again, he had gained the high-ground. He could see the Spetsnaz moving around below and stepped to the edge as one came by, aiming down and firing once – the bullet lodging itself in his shoulder and spinning him around before Snake fired again and pierced his lungs. The Spetsnaz stumbled to the floor and lay there. Snake watched his face as it was gripped with pain, veins popping out, muscles contracting wildly, eyes filling with tears. Snake noted how much ammo he had left – three bullets – and took aim, firing once more and stopping his heart.

Before he could move again, bullets hailed the side of the crate on which he stood, the third Spetsnaz passing below and firing up at him. Snake ducked down and stayed low as he jumped to the next crate. As he ran, he couldn't find Liquid anywhere. Oh well, he figured, and he kept his sights on the last Spetsnaz who was franticly racing about.

Stopping, eventually, he ducked and waited as the last one came running by. And, with a swift leap, he bounded off the side of the crate and landed behind the Spetsnaz, crouched down, quickly standing and raising his SOCOM. He fired once and knocked the man off his feet and onto his face. He stayed silent. Snake stood still. His heart slowed. The sweat started running like mad. He wasn't ever cold anymore – always hot now.

"Brother."

Snake spun around, ducking and aiming his SOCOM ahead of him where stood Liquid holding an AK in the crook of his right arm. The two of them disguised their heavy breathing and their racing heartbeats and watched each other stand where they did. And then, not speaking a word, they both twisted behind opposite crates and flattened their backs against them. Snake noted his ammo – one bullet left – and Liquid checked his own – two spare magazines to go with it. He smiled.

"Let's go!" he hollered and they both peeked out, Liquid firing first and pinning Snake behind his crate to avoid being shot. When he has stopped and stepped back into the open space, Snake jumped out and ran toward him, firing his last bullet. Liquid jumped eratically out of the way and swung the butt of the AK like a blade at Snake's neck. Snake tossed his SOCOM quickly aside and caught the rifle in his hands, kicking it out of both their grasps.

Grinning wide, Liquid recoiled and then swung his leg at Snake's stomach, who dodged, rolled to the side, and caught the AK in his hand as it rebounded off the floor and clattered upward. Twirling to face Liquid, holding the AK in one arm, he pulled the trigger and let loose a wave of bullets. Liquid ran ahead of the stream, just quickly enough to get behind a crate before taking a bullet.

Running toward the crate where Liquid was hidden, Snake dropped a spent magazine from the AK and picked one up from the dead Spetsnaz on the floor, sliding it in place, all in one motion. When he readied to fire Liquid sprung out from behind the crate and kicked the AK out of Snake's hand, tossing a fist into his stomach and sending him staggering back.

Looking up, Snake smiled and grunted, returning the blow in Liquid's chest and pummeling him with his fists. Most of the hits were shielded by Liquid's forearms, but a few hit him hard. Liquid was walking backward as Snake continued to come toward him, but their movement was reversed when Liquid dropped and kicked Snake onto his back. As he pushed onto his feet he blocked another kick to the stomach and started moving backward, shielding what he could and dealing with what pain he must.

But as Liquid beat him with punches and kicks, he sent out a right jab and found his fist stopped in midair. And then, after trying to force his fist through what barrier seemed to stand there, a forearm appeared and then an entire body – another Solid Snake. The one who was called Spectral.

"Hey," he said with a smile, and Snake, Spectral, and Liquid all traded assaults, Spectral fighting them off from both sides.

They fought this way for a while, but eventually Spectral slipped two SOCOM's from his holsters and aimed them to the left and right – one on Liquid and the other on Solid. All three of them froze.

"This is what I came here to do," he said to them, and then, as his fingers stressed the triggers, Liquid and Solid both moved exactly the same – ducked and rolled out – Liquid grabbing Snake's expended SOCOM and Snake grabbing Liquid's AK. The three of them stopped again, all holding weapons – only Snake knowing that Liquid didn't have any ammo. Spectral sighed and laughed. "You just won't let me kill you." Liquid and Snake looked at each other, their feelings the same: Who the hell was this guy?

And then, pulling the triggers of his SOCOMs, Snake and Liquid both sprinted in opposite directions – making for the two swinging doors that stood at each end of the room. "I'll follow you!" Spectral cried as they went. He turned his SOCOMs on Liquid and fired twice. The second time he tore into his ankle and sent him flying forward, sliding along the floor through the swinging doors. Snake turned to look over his shoulder once, watching Liquid disappear behind the doors. And then, leaving aswell, he heard Spectral cry out again. "You will die where you were born! Your cradle will be your grave!"

When they had both gone Spectral slowly made his way to one of the doorways and evaporated into the air.