Disclaimer: I own Metal Gear Solid. It's in my PlayStation upstairs. I do not, however, own the legal rights to it.
Solid Snake, legendary infiltration artist, the hero of Zanzibar, Shadow Moses, and the Manhattan Tanker Crisis, thrice the hailed savior of the world, flicked on CNN.
The news was always the same. A terrorist bombing here, arguing pundits here, a sex scandal there; the talking heads just never seemed to shut up. And the best part was that it was all fake.
Well, the events happened, but everything was filtered. Why else had President Johnson's death been so non-controversial? If the country had known that the commander-in-chief had been assassinated by a Russian, rumblings of a nuclear war would have started, and if nothing was done by the Patriot-controlled Washington in retaliation, the public would have grown suspicious. Besides, it was election year, the primaries were over, and already Democrats had bought their Redding/Daschle '08 bumper stickers and were eager to fight the great fight.
So instead President Johnson died of a massive stroke, leaving the GOP's devastated. And the pieces of Metal Gear floating about in the harbor were bits of a fully-automated liner that had sunk in the night, with one casualty. Oh, and the Big Shell had sunk with the liner, its support pulled loose. But don't worry, there were no toxins released and a new Shell to finish cleaning the harbor was under way.
Snake sighed agitatedly. He'd always hated politics, especially when they concerned him. Bunch of lying, lobbying Washington bastards only serving their own agendas. As he reached for a squashed pack of cigarettes on the table next to him, he felt a drop of water from his shower trickle under his shirt and down his back. He fished the cig from his the near-empty pack and let it dangle from his lips while he fumbled around in his pockets for his lighter. They were bare.
"Fuck," he muttered. Otacon had probably filched it when he wasn't looking again. That had to be the biggest downside to living with his partner. They'd opted to share an apartment to save funds for Philanthropy and for convenience. They enjoyed each other's company, so why the hell not?
Because his friend was too damn uptight to let him smoke, that's why the hell not. Said it stained the white paint of the apartment and smelled horrible. He would have gone to bug him, but Otacon tended to get pissy when people interrupted his reading.
Instead he leaned against the wall, running a towel through damp, newly-cut hair and watching Lou Dobbs yell at someone about outsourcing again.
"But with Secretary of State Paramore's stance on NAFTA and the current Kyoto Treaty standards, will he be able to live up to the more moderate turn the Republicans took from Sears and Johnson once he's inaugurated?"
"Y'know, Lou, at this point no one can even fully tell what his opinions on NAFTA or the more important issues---" the TV fizzled, "but we---sure---bzzt---it---" the picture distorted, "---in---this---" Snake blinked as the complex's cable reception broke up and finally shorted into snow.
Snake slowly set his towel down and picked up the remote from the table nearby, stared at the screen for a minute, and then changed the channel. He was greeted only with more fuzzy snow. As he flipped though the channels rapidly his brow furrowed, realizing the reception was completely severed. It was a pleasant night outside, so it had to be the landlord's provider.
Shrugging, he turned the TV off and set off in search of his lighter, planning to annoy the hell out of Otacon if he found it in the trash.
"Are you sure?"
"Positive, sir. We've taken it directly from the Pentagon's classifieds."
"Not by hacking, I hope. They've taken to planting false information lately."
"Of course not, Admiral. This was an inside job. She was undercover as an intern. 'Blue Herring'."
"The ex-Patriot?" He paused. "...Can she be trusted?"
"She's proven her worth to Lieutenant Commander Lafever."
"So I've been told. But isn't she expecting?"
"Yes, sir, but all the better to draw suspicion away from her."
"I see your point. So if the Pentagon had information of this as well, then that must mean at least the military branch of Washington is involved as well. Just how big is this conspiracy, Commodore?"
"...It's a scary thought how much we've missed in our lives, sir. But with along with Washington's involvement we also have intelligence of their primary targets."
"And?"
A pause.
"They're set to strike one of them tonight. Codename 'Solid Snake'."
There was a moment of stunned silence. Then the admiral spoke.
"He's dead."
"This is only what intelligence has uncovered, sir."
"Do we have an address?"
"Affirmative, sir. What should we do?"
"The real Snake or not, he's obviously been blacklisted for a reason. Assemble our agents for a briefing; we need to protect those targets!"
"Yes, sir!"
Otacon was sprawled on his side on the bed, face pressed into the comforter as he lay there, honestly trying hard to get into a book.
At one point in his life, reading books and watching movies and anime had been easy. An escape, almost, from his boring life as a doctorate student. (Not that he could ever describe it as such; analysis wasn't exactly Otacon's strong point). Ever since Shadow Moses, though, he'd seen more excitement in four years than most people saw in their lifetimes, all thanks to Dave---oh, excuse him, Solid Snake. Stories of others' experiences no longer thrilled him, since he had gained plenty of his own.
So he found himself reading the same paragraph for the fourth time and losing his concentration yet again. Ahhh, screw it, there was nothing to be done.
He sat up, running a hand through his tousled hair and straightening his glasses. He tugged on his green t-shirt, which had slid off his shoulder in his sprawl. He was getting too skinny, he thought. It was probably time to start eating right again. Working long hours on the computer checking up on the after-effects of the Big Shell fiasco was beginning to take a toll on health. He'd tried to relax and read, just to take his mind off everything, but even that didn't seem to work.
Otacon stood and walked to his dresser, snatching up a comb and running it carelessly through his hair, and frowned as it refused to calm.
Suddenly a distant thump interrupted the serene quiet of the bedroom.
Otacon stopped wrestling with his hair and turned. Something didn't feel right, he sensed, his stomach sinking with ominous intuition. Placing the comb quietly back on the wooden dresser, he walked slowly toward the bedroom door, listening for anything suspicious.
There was another sound, like the slam of a door, and the thud of footsteps followed it. Otacon swallowed hard. They lived in a Manhattan sixteenth-floor apartment, mostly vacant around them. Something was definitely wrong. In fact, the footfalls almost sounded like military boots, but he couldn't place them...
He tensed as the bedroom door opened, but relaxed when Snake entered, looking concerned and shutting the door quietly behind him.
"Hal," he said, voice low, "Those are Army-grade boots on our floor. I think we've been discovered." He crept to the dresser, clearly already on guard, and easing open a drawer and rummaging through it. Pulling a pair of Beretta Rafficas from the mess of clothing, he motioned for silence, then handed a gun to Otacon and began loading one himself.
Otacon bit his lip and took the firearm and clip, loading the M9. "Shit. I really hope I don't have to use this," he whispered. He checked the selector, making sure it was set for only semi-automatic fire. There wouldn't be much time to reload, he thought grimly.
Snake looked at him. "Hey, don't worry about it---"
Both heads turned at a loud splintering noise from the main apartment room. Snake's eyes narrowed at the sound of the hushed orders and heavy footfalls that ensued. The two glanced at each other, nodded, and split up. Otacon moved for the large bedroom window, silently attempting to pry it open. Snake crept toward the door, gun held at ready as he pressed himself against the wall.
Ear against the paint, he closed his eyes in concentration. How the hell had this happened? They'd been on high guard, ultra-secretive about all their movements. Someone had to have talked; Hal was too good to have been caught. Just how far did Patriots' influence spread, anyway?
Otacon worked at the glass-panel window, jostling the small, rusty metal lock as silently as he could. He set his handgun down and grasped the abandoned comb from the dresser, breaking off one of its fine teeth. He inserted the tooth into one of the tiny screws that held the bolt to the wooden frame then twisted it carefully, looking over his shoulder at Snake as the first screw came loose.
Outside the door came crashes of furniture being knocked over and destroyed as the forces searched for their prey, recklessly demolishing anything in their paths.
Snake noticeably gritted his teeth and flashed Otacon a sideways two fingers. Seven, Otacon realized. Military infiltration squadrons had ten members, plus a sergeant, which meant at least four were still in the hallway. Snake skulked back to his partner, who removed the second screw and pocketed it.
"There are too few in the apartment," he whispered. "Looks like we can't decoy tonight. We'll have to actually go out the window. I---"
He was interrupted by a sharp rattling from the door as someone tried to break through the deadbolt Snake had personally installed.
"Down!!" Snake hissed, pulling Otacon to the wooden floor with him as automatic gunfire erupted through the door just above them, singeing his hair. The barrage of bullets ceased and Snake looked over at his partner, who was surprisingly calmer than he expected.
"Otacon," he whispered, switching to codenames out of instinct, "Grab your gun and get out the window as fast as you can. I'll cover you, but you've got to get to the next room at least. It's about a fifteen-foot distance."
Otacon nodded silently and moved toward the window, keeping low to the ground. He reached up and seized his Beretta, then sprung for the window before another burst of gunfire could follow the first. He shoved it open as far as it would move, wincing as something began ramming at the wooden door, trying to force it open.
Snake crouched on the ground beside him, the safety off his gun and ready to fire. The slamming on the door grew louder, and he heard it splinter at the hinges. His adrenaline hadn't even begun to pump though, both his heartrate and thought clarity normal. He was in a mission, and focused entirely on it.
As soon as Otacon slipped through the window and onto the thin ridge of cement beyond, Snake crept toward it himself, eyes riveted on the weakening door. He grabbed the top frame of the window and hauled his legs outside into the night. He had nearly pulled himself completely through the open window when the door cracked loudly.
The room was suddenly filled with shouting soldiers and gunfire as they poured over the broken door, firing aimlessly at anything they could.
Snake whirled around, crouched and keeping one hand on the frame for balance as the wind blew at him. He fired quickly, picking off the few soldiers he could see with precise shots. They fell to the ground, dark red blood splattering the white walls, blocking the path of the other soldiers.
One man pushed past his dead comrade and fired another volley of automatic rounds. Snake swiveled back around, almost jumping to press himself against the building's side as bullets zinged past him. The hand that had clutched the frame now rested at his side, bleeding slightly from a bullet nick.
The glass in the window exploded with a shot, showering Snake in glass. He winced slightly as a piece of glass embedded itself in his cheek. He stood and began to follow Otacon then staggered, almost losing his balance. Taking a deep breath, he side-stepped across the thin concrete, eyes sharply on the bullets still rocketing past him.
Otacon was terrified, but kept himself under control. He'd shuffled uncertainly across half the distance to the next room, cold wind whipping hair into eyes. Gunfire volleys he was getting used to, but a hundred-foot drop? That was a little more difficult. He tried his hardest not to look down as Snake followed him from the violence in the window, but it was such a long fall and he didn't have anything to hold on to and the concrete extrusion was only about a foot wide and the night city lights were blinding and oh, god...
Five feet to go. Five long, agonizing feet of certain doom if he slipped only once. He flinched as the sound of shattering glass and Snake grunting reached his ears, but kept shuffling across the thin extrusion. If they could get out of here alive, he wanted to at least keep his newfound pride intact. His glasses were slipping down his face. There was a small pattering in the distance.
He reached the window finally, heart pounding, and clicked the safety off his gun. His back hugging the wall as tightly as he could, he took aim at the glass panel.
"Otacon!" Snake yelled over the gusting wind and gunfight, "Don't fire, the recoil will send you flying! Break it open by force!"
Nodding, he swallowed hard and turned the safety back off, and then grasped the gun's barrel. In one quick motion he swung hard, pistol-whipping the pane and shattering the glass. Otacon gasped as the impact knocked him forward, and he fumbled for the window frame, clutching it for dear life as he nearly slipped from the concrete. Grunting, he pulled himself back up and threw himself into the room beyond, breaking the remaining glass as he fell hard on the floor.
He got to his knees in the dark apartment's living room, catching his breath and slowing his pounding heart, then pulled a small, bloody piece of glass from his arm. His skin felt dry without the violent wind blowing on him. He was damn lucky his glasses were intact.
Snake, meanwhile, side-stepped quickly across the expanse of cement, occasionally returning enemy fire. He only had five or so rounds left, though, and couldn't afford to stay in easy view for much longer. Another soldier thrust his balaclava-covered head out the window and shot at Snake. He returned, firing twice. The soldier yelled in pain as one bullet caught him in his gun arm, but the other missed completely.
Snake grimaced. Three rounds at most. Probably only one. He chanced a glance at the other room's window, seeing Otacon had already entered, and nodded. Looking back one last time to make sure there was no immediate threat.
He kicked off the cement and jumped at the window, about eight feet away. Time seemed to slow down as he flew through the air. One hundred and sixty feet suddenly seemed a lot longer. Bullets rocketed past him, glints of silver metal catching his eye as he stretched for the shoddy wooden frame. The wind blew violently, whipping at his shirt and jeans.
Otacon's eyes widened and he rushed for the window as Snake plunged down and seized the window frame, catching himself with his elbows. Snake's legs swung out beneath him and in an instant he felt himself falling. Otacon scrambled for his partner's arms, catching him and pulling him up to the frame.
Otacon stepped back quickly as Snake grunted and hauled himself gracefully through the window, landing on his feet beside him and grinning. Otacon stared in awe for a second before hissing at him, "What the heck were you thinking? You could have been a bloody smear on the pavement!"
"Better just a smear on the pavement than a bullet-riddled smear on the pavement," Snake whispered, sliding a new magazine into his gun. He finished with a loud click, and looked up at his partner. Both of them had a thin sheen of sweat over their faces. "We should move out."
"How many are left?" Otacon asked, still a bit breathless.
"I took out five, so probably about six. I'll check the area and cover you if you'll guide to an exit. Let's move," Snake said firmly, and then moved toward the main door. He cracked the door open, peering out into the corridor. Three Privates stood on guard down the hallway while a Command Sergeant spoke with a Corporal, who was gesturing down the hallway toward them.
Snake's eyes narrowed. He couldn't tell what they were saying but there was something odd about the inflections in their voices. Either way, they weren't stupid. He and Otacon would be discovered soon, and had to move immediately. Snake took aim, meticulously lining up his sight scope with the back of the Corporal's head, and fired.
Blood splattered onto the Sergeant and they all turned instantly to Snake's position. "Otacon, GO!" he yelled, taking down a Private as his partner took off sprinting out of the room behind him and down the hall.
The soldiers pulled their weapons and open-fired on the two as they ran. Otacon dashed as fast as he could over stone floor, probably faster than he ever had in his life, occasionally firing his M9 behind him. Snake followed close behind, leaping as bullets neared his feet. They seemed to be shooting to take down rather than kill, but it didn't matter. He fired in rhythmic succession, felling another pursuing Private, but at least three still remained.
Otacon led them around a corner just as Snake's gun clicked. The clip clattered to the floor and Snake slammed another in just as the soldiers rounded the corner behind them. He fired, taking down a third, and kept running.
Otacon pressed forward, seeing the familiar stairwell and elevator signs. The elevator was most definitely stopped, so he darted for the stairwell.
Suddenly his foot caught on a throw-rug next to the elevator, and the scientist felt himself twisting in the air before crashing hard onto the stone floor. Grimacing, he rolled away as a smoking bullet impacted where his head had just been. He rolled to his feet and fired back at the soldier before he could shoot again, hitting his ankle, then shoved himself to his feet, pure adrenaline carrying him on.
Snake fired at the last Private pursuing them, catching him in the arm. He turned around, seeing Otacon push himself from the floor and shove the door of the stairwell open, flying into it. Snake followed, slamming the door behind him.
Slumping to the floor, Otacon let out a long sigh. He wiped the sweat from his brow, trying to catch his breath. After a moment he looked up at Snake, who was fiddling with the shards of glass on his body.
"Otacon," Snake said, his voice gruff and confused, "How did they find us? I thought Patriot support had quieted down since the Big Shell."
"Obviously not," Otacon tiredly responded, and sat down on a cold stairstep. "But doesn't it seem fishy to you? Only one squadron of Army infantry? I'd think the support would be strong enough---or smart enough---to send at least two to take out the legendary Solid Snake himself." Otacon rested his chin in hand, deep in thought.
Snake sighed as well, leaning against the wall, then spoke up. "I don't know if you noticed or not," he said, "but it seemed to me like they weren't even shooting to kill."
Glancing up, Otacon looked surprised. "Do you think they mean to apprehend you, then?"
Snake blinked. "Me?"
"Yeah, you. You're number one on the Patriot hit list, you know."
Snake smirked. "Heh. I thought they were only trying to silence us."
Smiling sadly, Otacon shrugged and said, "I guess you know something they want." Snake nodded offhandedly.
"Maybe," he said, "But stay on full guard; they might be after you, too."
"Of course, Dave. But where should we go now?"
Snake looked down, thinking. "There might be more men downstairs, but..." he trailed off as something caught his attention. Otacon peered at him curiously as Snake pushed himself from the wall, walking toward the metal railing of the stairs.
"...What is it?" he asked. Snake held up a hand, motioning for silence. Leaning over the railing, he peered around the gray stairwell suspiciously. He got to his knees, crouching on the ground. He could have sworn he'd heard a beeping sound, and that was never a good thing.
Otacon walked quietly to where Snake was crouched, and watched him get fully to the ground, leaning upside down over the stairwell branch. Both their eyes widened as they heard another beep. And another.
Snake leapt to his feet, nearly hitting his head on the cement banister, and grabbed Otacon's arm, dashing to the other set of stairs. "RUN!!" he yelled, pulling them both to the door as fast as he could. He yanked at the handle, but the door had bolted securely, locking them in. "Shit!" Snake cursed, and jerked Otacon toward the stairs other set of stairs, dashing up them three at a time. Otacon lost his footing as Snake tugged at him, but tried to keep his legs moving anyway.
The beeping grew louder and faster. Otacon suddenly realized what it was and gasped, finally getting to his feet and running alongside Snake. The rapid beeping merged into a single, piercing titter and both partners threw themselves at the ground, rolling on the floor above the bomb just as a deafening explosion rocked the stairwell.
Snake felt the heat below them and covered his head as pieces of cement crumbled, shaken loose from the walls as they shook. He grimaced as a large piece of drywall landed on his ribs, probably breaking one or two. He thought for a second that Otacon had said something, but he couldn't hear his partner over the earsplitting thunder of debris falling.
The stairwell finally calmed, and Snake chanced a look up. Smoke was everywhere and he could smell fire, but they weren't dead. He sat up and Otacon, hearing his movement, did the same. Snake winced as the ribs the cement had landed on cracked under his skin. Definitely broken, but nothing he couldn't handle. His partner looked fine as well, but his hand was bleeding from where something had scraped it.
Snake coughed, lungs beginning to burn from the smoke.
"We need to move out, and it looks like we can't go down," Otacon said, covering his nose and mouth. "There are probably asbestos in the cement, too..."
Snake nodded and stood, walking quickly up the stairs. They were probably near the nineteenth of twenty-five floors, and the doors to the apartment floors all seemed to be locked. The fire escape on the roof, though... that would definitely be unlocked. He covered his face with his hand and they both traversed up the stairs silently.
That had been a delayed proximity bomb, Snake knew. A cluster mine, like they'd used in the Gulf War. Why the hell had an Army squad planted bombs in an apartment? He'd been doubtful of the soldiers' identities from the start, but this was definitely suspicious. Something was definitely off here. Nothing about the surprise attack had felt right. The Patriots had never been so straightforward in silencing them; there had always been a covert operation to take them out.
Otacon coughed hard, finding it painful to swallow. Snake looked over at him, concerned. "I think the smoke is rising," he said, voice rougher than usual. "It was a cluster, so there were probably more mines downstairs that set off." The scientist nodded, then suddenly fell to his knees in a violent coughing fit. "Otacon!" he yelled, kneeling down to help his partner. His lungs began to tingle as well, and he coughed.
Snake slung his partner's arm over his shoulder and pulled them both to their feet. "C'mon, Otacon, we have to get out of here," he said, coughing again. Otacon looked up at him, tears staining his eyes from the nonstop hacking, and nodded. Snake felt himself dissolve into a fit of coughs and sped up. They had out get out of there now.
They ran up the steps, taking two at a time, unable to breathe in the thickening smoke of asbestos-ridden cement particles and ash. Looking up anxiously, Otacon saw the door of the roof approaching, about a floor above them. His coughing slowed, and he caught his breath but continued dashing up the stairs as fast as his partner and he could manage.
His legs were beginning to cramp, his side hurt, and he knew he would be sore in the morning, but the door was so close. His bleeding hand stung ferociously, and it was a wonder he could carry a gun. He felt himself suffocating, drowning in the hot ash, throat burning and raw. And judging by the violent coughing beside him, his friend was the same.
Snake stumbled to the door and swung it open. Bright white light flooded into the dimly lit stairwell. Otacon, confused, threw his arm over his eyes, shielding himself from the blinding light as he took a deep breath of fresh outside air.
The deafening sound of whirling machinery above them stung sharply in Otacon's already ringing ears, leaving him blind and deaf as the whirling grew louder and the light brighter. He suddenly felt familiar hands, Snake's, on his shoulders.
"UH-60 Blackhawk!" Snake shouted, voice barely audible over the roaring of what he'd identified as a helicopter.
Cold wind, from both the helicopter's blades and their height, whipped about them viciously, blowing the smoke from the stairwell around wildly. The shrill sound of a megaphone blared suddenly, and Snake tightened his grip on Otacon.
"Dr. Hal Emmerich and companion!" a heavily Russian-accented voice blasted. "Drop your weapons and come out with your hands behind your head. We have troops below, to resist is pointless."
Before he could think, Snake grabbed Otacon's hand and ran, both still coughing, from the blinding light faster than the chopper could follow.
Otacon opened his eyes as Snake skidded to a halt, tensed like a hunting cat as he watched the helicopter swivel, following their movements.
"There's no use running, Dr. Emmerich; you have nowhere to go!" the Russian man said over the megaphone.
Snake looked frantically around for a place to take cover. The roof was bare except for the extruding stairwell entrance and a few structural poles, and the 'copter was blocking the exit to the fire escape. His gaze swept the roof again, and he noticed a small alcove closed off by the roof's three-foot cement walls, protecting some machinery. If he could get the Blackhawk opposite the alcove, they could take cover and fire from there. Where the hell was a Stinger when he needed one?
"Otacon," Snake yelled, "I have a plan. Just follow me!" Snake sprinted away and Otacon followed, gun gripped tightly in his hands as wind gusted relentlessly, threatening to blow his glasses away.
As the helicopter turned again and the wind shifted, Snake nearly lost his balance, narrowly avoiding crashing to the ground with a graceful roll. It followed them quickly, falling into Snake's trap, but just before the blinding searchlight turned on them again, Snake saw the Blackhawk's gun-well. It was manned. Snake swore.
"RUN, Hal!" he shouted, and they both darted blindly for the alcove as gunfire erupted at their heels. Otacon's sides ached but he pressed on, leaping behind the rough concrete nook as Snake followed behind him. Otacon gasped as a bullet pinged near his ducked head, then the shooting ceased.
Both crouched pensively, backs pressed against the wall as they waited for the chopper to come into firing range. Snake checked his clip, and Otacon tried to catch his breath. His throat was still sore and scratchy, and he coughed again. The t-shirt he wore was damp with quickly drying sweat
Snake suddenly spun around, taking aim and firing at the open helicopter door. If he'd hit anyone, neither could tell as the approaching chopper's blades drowned out all other noise.
Snake fired again then ducked back down as a semi-automatic shot back at him, narrowly missing his forehead. Otacon took a deep breath, pushing his glasses up his nose, then turned and fired as well. His aim was mediocre, he had no idea if he hit anything or not, but he shot again anyway, then spun back to the wall.
What the hell is going on here? he wondered as Snake exchanged volley with the chopper. Their attackers didn't even seem to be after Dave, only him. It was as if they didn't know who Snake was. Plus, Blackhawk was a retired aircraft model, and the man in charge was obviously Russian. In a US helicopter. Otacon was truly baffled.
While Snake continued shooting, Otacon swore he saw something fall to the ground with a nauseating splat, trailing blood after it, but the light shining in their eyes was too bright to tell.
Snake felt his gun click as he triggered it, sinking back against the wall with dread. "I'm out." He looked at Otacon grimly, wiping sweat from his brow. "This looks bad. Give me your clip or shoot it yourse--"
"This is your final warning, Dr. Emmerich!" the megaphone blared. "If you do not surrender we will open fire."
"Shit," Snake cursed, grabbing the Beretta out of Otacon's hand. "Stay down! Don't move!" he hissed, then turned his back to him.
"Snake, what--!" Otacon was cut off as Snake pounced forward, darting from the alcove to the other side of the roof at top speed. The helicopter's howitzer swiveled, trailing Snake as it released a burst of gunshots, open firing on him as he ran.
He darted to the stairwell, firing two rounds at the Blackhawk while Otacon crouched behind the wall niche, utterly confused, scared, and unarmed.
The cement felt like air under Snake's feet as he ran out from cover again, adrenaline pumping. The automatic bullets trailed him close behind, and if he slowed at all Snake knew it'd be the end.
He mentally calculated. Eight shots left. Both his and Hal's lives depended on these few rounds, and the helicopter's aim was getting better. There was nothing for it, then. He ran toward Otacon.
The scientist watched as Snake darted back toward him, closer, five feet, then leapt into the air.
Time slowed down for the second time that night. Snake whirled in the air, facing the helicopter, aiming, as he soared over the machinery towards Otacon. He fired successively, sailing through the air, recoil propelling him further; each pull of the trigger was agonizingly long as bullets crawled from the M9. Automatic fire stalked him, trailing behind him as he sailed airborne. Bullets pinged against concrete and cracked.
One bullet strayed, inching through Snake's t-shirt and toward the mass of machinery.
Otacon took a step backward, his eyes wide.
Snake was blasted into the metal of the stairwell door with a sickening smack as the machines exploded in a flare of bright orange. The second thing he thought as he laid there, blood matting his sweaty hair and back scorched by fire, was how stupid that had been, leading the copter to the machines. The last was where his partner had been thrown. He groaned and blacked out.
"Snake!" Otacon shouted, trying desperately to pull himself up as he dangled from the roof's wall, two hundred feet from the ground. "SNAKE!!"
Pain flared up arm from his injured hand and it slipped from the rough, rounded concrete. Otacon cried out, hanging with one arm above certain death, and grabbed at the wall again. He heard the concrete crumble on the other side of the wall, devastated by the blast. It was starting to give under his weight. He fought back tears as the cold wind bit at him, whipping stinging hair around his face and tangled in his glasses. His shoe loosened and threatened to fall to the ground so far below.
Heart racing, he tried to haul himself up again, but the pain from the wound overwhelmed his senses and he surrendered his grip again, throbbing hand dropping to his side.
The wind suddenly intensified as the Blackhawk descended beside the struggling scientist. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and saw the Russian speaker, face hidden by balaclava, crouched by the chopper door five feet away.
"Dr. Emmerich!" he yelled, then extended his hand towards Otacon. "Take my hand and you will be safe!"
Otacon stared at him defiantly for a moment, fumbling instead for the coarse concrete wall again as it fractured beneath him. His shoulders ached from his own weight and his fingers were bloodied by the abrasive cement, but Snake wouldn't give in, so neither would Otacon.
The Russian looked at him angrily and barked, "Emmerich, grab my hand or I will take you by force!" He gestured for the pilot to come closer, then reached for Otacon's injured arm.
Otacon bit back a cry, pain lashing up his arm as the man seized his wounded hand, jerking him harshly from the building's edge. He felt his good hand slipping and gritted his teeth, holding onto his wall as tightly as he could. He thought he'd go deaf from the closeness of the roaring blades.
Suddenly he heard other voices, from the roof. His stomach sank, realizing they were probably the troops the Russian had talked about. The wall crumbled further, moments away from collapsing completely. He cursed himself for not being strong enough to help Snake and get out of this mess.
The cement buckled, caving in, and he felt the Russian's grip on him tighten as he started to plummet.
Suddenly he stopped falling, arm jerking up as someone pulled on his good hand. He looked up sharply, someone trying to pull him back onto the roof. His hand slipped completely and he found himself at the mercy of the two tugging at him.
"Otacon!" a familiar voice hollered over the whirring blades.
"Raiden?!" Otacon shouted incredulously.
"Otacon, just hang tight!" Raiden yelled and leaned over the rubble of concrete, long white bangs blowing in his face. The propeller blades whirred just inches over his head, but he looked unafraid as he pulled at the scientist, grasping more of his arm and fighting against the Russian in the twisted tug-of-war.
The two glared at each other as Otacon dangled helplessly. Raiden snarled, grabbing under Otacon's other arm and pulling hard. The Russian grunted as Otacon slipped free of his grasp, the smeared blood from his wound too slick to hold on to.
Raiden tumbled down with the recoil, holding Otacon tight as the Blackhawk veered toward them. As Otacon crawled wearily back onto the roof, jeans ripping against the jagged rubble of cement, Raiden moved quickly to his knees and whipped out a SOCOM, aiming it mercilessly at the Russian.
Otacon closed his eyes just in time to hear the firing of a gun and the splatter of blood on metal. He kept them closed as the cries of the man's comrades grew fainter, the helicopter obviously flying away to safety. The wind as the chopper departed blew the hair from both their faces, and Otacon shivered from the chilled sweat on his skin.
He opened his eyes, fatigued body sprawled on the ground next to Raiden, and looked up at him.
His former comrade's gaze followed the helicopter, gun still trained on it just in case. His hair was tied back, save for a few strands of bangs blown back with the wind. He'd switched from his old Skull Suit, opting instead for a more modest traditional equipped tightsuit like the one Snake wore.
Pushing himself up into a sitting position, he looked around the bullet-ridden roof. Stationed all around were men in Navy camouflage, men in sneaking suits like Raiden's, men in black CIA and blue FBI suits, all pointing their guns at Raiden and Otacon.
Otacon swallowed hard. This couldn't be good. Well, at least he wasn't still dangling from a building.
Raiden held up a hand and all the men stepped back, lowering their weapons.
Otacon blinked, confused.
The blond looked down at him, positive the Blackhawk was gone. "Are you okay?" he asked, sounding concerned. The scientist nodded slowly as Raiden stood, extending a hand to him. Otacon took his hand and rose shakily to his feet. Wrapping his arms around himself, he glanced around, looking for his partner. Snake was nowhere to be found.
"Where's Snake?" he demanded, voice trembling. "And what the hell is going on here?"
"Don't worry," Raiden said, "We've taken him somewhere secure. Just come with us and I'll explain everything."
Otacon looked at him skeptically for a moment, then pushed his glasses up and nodded. It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go at the moment.
"The men who were here might come back, so we need to leave this area. The explosion from the stairwell blocked that exit, so we'll have to use the fire escape to get down," Raiden explained.
"Was that how you got up here?" Otacon asked as they walked toward the gate. He felt tired and unsteady on his feet, and wasn't thrilled about descending twenty-five floors on rickety stairs no one had used in years.
"No, we came by chopper, but when we got here Solid Snake was already unconscious--"
Otacon's eyes widened, but he figured that had happened in the explosion anyway.
"--and had to be flown out immediately while I took care of you." He turned to the armed men who had formed an escort around them. "We'll take the fire stairs down the building until the helicopter comes back. Our first priority is getting Dr. Emmerich to safety."
One of the men in camouflage opened the tiny black gate and took the lead, descending first. A few more of who Otacon assumed were CIA agents followed, then Raiden motioned for him to move as well. He took a deep breath and walked forward onto the metal steps. They creaked beneath him and Otacon groaned. He was going to be so afraid of heights from now on, he knew it.
Raiden placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder and Otacon looked over at him, eyes exhausted. "You'll be okay," he said. Otacon gritted his teeth.
"Just tell me what the hell happened here tonight. There were Army men chasing us, but the man in the Blackhawk was clearly Russian."
"Heh," Raiden said, voice grim. "Where to start?"
Otacon sighed. "How about from the beginning? Tell me why you're here."
Raiden nodded, looking thoughtful for a moment, and said, "Hrmn, of course you remember how, at the Big Shell, two teams of Navy SEALs were sent in, and all of them died at the hands of Dead Cell. After the Big Shell sank, there was a huge cover story behind the president's assassination, the disappearance of the SEALs, and the sinking itself."
"Of course, how could I forget?" Otacon said, nearly losing his footing on the stairs in his exhaustion but caught himself, determined to endure the climb downward.
Raiden smirked. "Well, I'm part of a renegade group of military and intelligence agency defectors." Otacon blinked as Raiden continued. "Because of the virus in Arsenal Gear itself, the Patriots' plan to control the digital flow of information failed, and rumors about the real reasons behind the Big Shell's sinking seeped onto the Internet. Add to that the suspicion of all the Navy members and their families who knew the dead SEALs and never got a proper explanation or burial for their loved ones, and it was easy to form an anti-Patriots organization."
Otacon stopped dead. He turned toward Raiden. "...Anti-Patriots?" he asked slowly. "Are you insane?"
"No, we've gained a lot of support and funding from CIA, FBI, Washington and military insiders, all of them willing to help our cause. Of course, we're not as broad as we sound. Really, we only deal with the Patriots' more hostile plans, like the attack on you tonight."
The scientist leaned against the stair railing, massaging his temples. This was completely news to him, and in hindsight it made sense, but something was still wrong with this new, expanded picture. He looked up, noticing they'd already descended five or so floors. Only twenty more to go. He felt faint and lightheaded.
"You don't look so great," Raiden commented. "We'll take a break for a minute, but we need to keep moving."
Otacon nodded, swallowing down bile and rolling over everything in his mind. If this had been a Patriot attack on them, why had the equipment been outdated and the men Russian?
He opened his mouth to speak but was cut off by the too-familiar sound of propeller blades whirling nearby. Raiden raised his gun as he listened closely, attempting to identify the engine. "It's ours!" he shouted to the men around, then pressed a finger to his ear, stepping away from Otacon.
"Raiden here, do you copy? ... Yeah, fire escape, about five floors down. Package is wrapped and ready for transport," he said, eyes darting toward Otacon, who was still leaning against the railing for support.
Otacon looked up as a new black helicopter descended into view, inching closer and eventually stopping to a deafening hover beside them. The chopper's door slid open and a middle-aged man dressed in full Navy enlistment uniform crouched down, reaching out to Otacon.
"Dr. Emmerich!" he called, his voice refreshingly as American as any he'd ever heard. "Dr. Emmerich, we need you to board the helicopter with us!"
Otacon nodded and stepped from the railing, grabbing the man's hand and allowing himself to be pulled into the chopper. He stepped onto the top of the narrow railing and nearly slipped, but gritted his teeth and edged into the helicopter anyway. He'd flown a Kasatka against an attacking Harrier jet before, so he could do this.
As soon as he set foot in the warm helicopter he collapsed on the small passenger bench, utterly worn out. This night was definitely hell. He wondered vaguely where Raiden's little squadron had taken his partner, but his thoughts were interrupted as the man, a Petty Officer, Otacon guessed, helped Raiden and a few dark-suited agents into the chopper.
A young black-suited agent sat down next to him and Otacon shifted uncomfortably. Raiden crouched across from him next to a few more agents and military men. They sat in silence for a moment as the door closed and the helicopter ascended, flying slowly above the city.
He reflected on everything as his heart began to calm, safe from the height and the wind. Raiden seemed upbeat enough, he must have been happy with the way his life was moving. They hadn't seen the kid since just after Big Shell, because they'd had to go into hiding so fast. He'd done well, it seemed.
"Otacon," Raiden said. He looked up from his silent musings. "You probably noticed, but the helicopter the Patriots used, a Blackhawk A-model, was outdated." He continued before Otacon could respond. "None of the Army men that attacked you tonight were Army. The Patriots don't deal directly with their targets; they hire other, smaller operations to do it for them. Tonight they used a small, covert Russian group and equipped them with old military throw-outs."
"Why?" Otacon asked, straightening up as he pulled himself together, the rest from sitting down revitalizing his body.
"Because a group of Russian military soldiers locking down a building and flying Soviet helicopters is bound to attract attention. A slightly outdated American chopper, though, won't attract suspicion."
"...So the building was locked down?"
"Yeah. You two were already wanted terrorists, so they claimed it was a search-and-seizure."
"Hrmn," Otacon mumbled, brow furrowed and deep in thought. He heard a click besides him and glanced at the suited agent, who was checking the clip in his gun. Looking back at Raiden, he asked, "How'd you know about the attack?"
"Oh, like I mentioned, we have a lot of insiders with access to classified information," Raiden said, looking a little smug. "It was through them we found out about this near-flawless plan."
The CIA agent next to Otacon finished checking his gun and cocked it. "The perfect plan," he grinned, agreeing.
Otacon suddenly felt cold steel against his temple.
"Except that it wasn't a Patriot operation."
Everyone in the helicopter whirled toward the passenger bench, weapons drawn, but the man had already grabbed Otacon's hair and slid the gun under his chin, pulling the scientist in front of him as a shield.
"Drop your weapons," he demanded, voice firm.
The officer and blue-suit dropped their guns immediately, but Raiden hesitated, eyes narrowed coldly at the man as he trained his gun on the hijacker.
"Now!" he yelled, jerking a stunned Otacon back and jamming the barrel of the gun into his neck.
Raiden obeyed reluctantly, slowly setting his SOCOM on the grimy metal helicopter floor. The hijacker smiled. "There now," he said, voice dropping with derision, "that wasn't so hard, now was it?" He leaned back toward the wire barrier that separated the cockpit, eyes still riveted on Raiden. "Pilot," he said loudly, "Take this thing to the ground, will you?" The pilot gave a cheerful thumbs-up and the hijacker grinned.
"Now, you didn't honestly think every person that claimed to defect into your organization was reliable, did you?" he asked, pulling Otacon against him. "It's a very risky business that's you're running here, you know." Otacon swallowed hard, frantic eyes darting from Raiden to the officers to the weapons on the floor.
"The fact is," he continued, "we've been aware of its presence for quite some time now and just used your connections to monitor anti-Patriots threats and any other displeasing political movements. It's thanks to you that we caught on to the current pro-Russian plot."
"Pro-Russian plot?!" Raiden asked incredulously. "But we learned directly that tonight was an attack planned by the Patriots!"
"Stupid kid, it was all planted information! Truth is, the Ruskies are acting on their own and using whatever sorry equipment they can scrounge up. Seems tonight that they were after Dr. Emmerich here," he said, shaking Otacon in his grasp for emphasis. "I could just kill him now, but my superiors are curious about the damn Russians, so we'll just play along for now. His friend Solid Snake, on the other hand..." he trailed off ominously.
Both Raiden's and Otacon's eyes widened. The pilot seemed to be a traitor as well, so where could they have taken Snake? He'd been completely out cold and in bad shape when Raiden's squad got there, so was he even still alive now, or had they just murdered and dumped him?
"My men back there will realize something's wrong when we don't radio confirmation," the officer said angrily.
"Oh, I wouldn't worry yourself about that. There were a couple of Patriot men with them, too."
Raiden glanced around as the Patriot spoke to the officer, inching his fingers toward his SOCOM on the floor. The situation was already out of his control, but if he could get an advantage, even a slight one...
"Freeze!" the hijacker yelled, shoving his gun back into Otacon's temple and clutching his neck, and glared down at Raiden. "I knew I couldn't trust your judgment. Congratulations, you're dumber than I thought." Raiden have time to blink before a shot rang out and pain exploded in his arm. He grunted in pain, clutching his bicep as the sound of a slowed bullet pinged on the metal floor.
"Raiden!!" Otacon cried, watching as blood splashed onto pale skin and seeped through his blue sneaking suit, staining it dark crimson. The Patriot agent cracked the gun up his head and Otacon gasped at the sharp pain. "Quiet, all of you," he hissed, and pressed the gun into the scientist's cheek. The steel was warm against his skin.
"Real smart, kid. I'm not obligated to keep this guy alive, you know. If anyone else--" he glared around at the scowling officer and agents, "--tries anything that stupid again, I will blow his brains out," he threatened. Otacon closed his eyes in fear, gritting his teeth, as a drop of blood trickled down his face and onto the gun jammed on his skin.
Raiden's breath grew ragged with agony as he glowered at the hijacker, but he remained silent and instead focused on trying to stop the blood flowing painfully from his arm. He couldn't reach for a bandage and chance their captor's anger again, so he'd have to make do with what he had.
He gritted his teeth and began rolling the tight, now sticky and blood-soaked material of his sleeve up his arm, leaving a thin red stain over his skin. The Patriot watched amusedly when Raiden bit back a groan as he slid the clenching fabric over the wound in a makeshift tourniquet.
They sat in uncomfortable, dangerous silence, only the muffled sound of the chopper's blades and Raiden's pained breaths breaking the quiet. Otacon opened his eyes and stole a glance out the window, warm city lights glittering welcomingly. They were hovering over Central Park, he realized as a hand migrated painfully back to his hair, jerking his head forward. "Don't move unless you want to die," the man whispered harshly in his ear, breath hot and repulsive in its reality.
The helicopter jolted as it began a straight descent, lowering hundreds of feet while the passengers sat inside anxiously. It touched down with a jerk, but no one dared to move.
The Patriot stood, pulling Otacon with him, gun still pressed harshly into his neck. "Officer..." he began, leaning forward toward the older man, "...Klemm. Officer Klemm, open the helicopter door."
Klemm growled at him, but did so anyway. Warm summer air blasted into the helicopter and the sound of the propeller grew deafening again.
"Out, all of you!" he ordered, gesturing with a sharp wrench of his head. "Hands behind your heads!" The blue-suit moved first, silently stepping onto wet, freshly-clipped grass, though Raiden noticed his hands were tightly clenched.
Officer Klemm followed him with Raiden close behind, both scowling angrily at the Patriot before jumping off. Their captor nodded and tugged at Otacon, clutching the scientist's neck again and guiding them both toward the chopper's exit as Otacon struggled for breath.
The hijacker shoved Otacon out the door and hopped out behind him, then, fingers tangled in his hair, wrenched him to his feet. He gritted his teeth, determined to remain strong. This wasn't Shadow Moses; he was a new man now. Besides, Dave wouldn't let him give up so easily. He'd make fun of him and, jokingly, refer a certain locker incident from four years ago. Ass. His eyes narrowed in newfound anger and strength, and he shook his hair, sliding glasses back up his face.
"You," the Patriot said, and pointed his gun at Raiden. "You're a resourceful kid. C'mere and tie his hands," he ordered, shaking Otacon a bit.
Raiden didn't budge.
"Now!"
Gritting his teeth, the blond strode forward, hands still over head like the other two captives. He stopped in front of Otacon, shooting him a quick apologetic look before grabbing the bottom of his thin-knit green shirt. Glaring defiantly at the Patriot, he ripped a small strip of fabric from the shirt and reached with sharp, forced movements to bind Otacon's wrists in front of him.
They locked gazes, Raiden's full of pure loathing and the other's an ugly smugness. The Patriot smirked, still standing behind Otacon and watching as Raiden tied the final knot. Raiden just wanted to bash his face in and wipe that unpleasant superior look from it. "You're a real asshole," he muttered, finishing.
All heads turned as the chopper's engine suddenly cut, propeller blades slowing to a stop and the strong wind dying down. A shaggy-haired pilot jumped from the 'copter, decked in full SEALS uniform. For a split second Raiden was reminded of his first impression of 'Pliskin', but the thought quickly left him as he realized this man might have sent him to his death.
The pilot waved, opening his mouth to speak, and Otacon saw the tiny red dot hovering on his forehead just before it exploded in crimson.
It took a moment for Otacon to register the pilot slumping to the ground in a boneless heap, limps splayed and eyes lifeless as blood poured from the back of his ruined head. Raiden jumped back instinctually then jolted around, looking for the source of the shot. The other two, Klemm and the FBI agent, blinked, frozen and disbelieving. Otacon slowly covered his mouth with shaking, bound hands.
The Patriot was completely calm.
In fact, he raised a hand, the other still holding Otacon to him, in an obvious signal. Otacon tore his eyes away from the dead man and looked around for a sign of response.
There was a rustle from a nearby group of trees and Raiden was suddenly aware of how dark it was. City lights with promise of people and safety--ironic, really--shone in the distance, but in Central Park there seemed to be no one. Even the streetlight nearby was flickering dimly, threatening to go out.
"Do you have him?" a heavily Russian-accented voice asked, but the speaker was obscured in the dark.
Oh, Otacon thought, realization dawning on him, shit.
"Maybe," the Patriot responded sarcastically.
"It is not wise to joke with us, I think," the man said, and stepped closer. He was an older man in plain clothes, but his Russian military crewcut gave him away instantly. "Do you have him or not?"
The Patriot rolled his eyes. "Jesus, chill. I've got your Dr. Emmerich right here, all trussed up and pretty just for you," he drawled, striking Otacon with the butt of his gun.
The Russian walked forward cautiously, and Raiden noticed the weapon in his hand, a Colt .380, silenced. He let an empty bullet shell drop from his fingers. Five other men--Russians, Raiden guessed--followed behind him carrying identical guns. They circled the group, standing at attention.
The leader pulled something from his pocket as he strode towards the two; a piece of paper. He peered at Otacon suspiciously, examining him through narrowed eyes as he glanced from the paper, probably a photograph, and back to Otacon again. The scientist caught a glimpse of it and realized it was his profile picture from when he worked in Alaska.
"Are you positive this is him?" he asked warily.
If Otacon hadn't been so nervous at the unwanted attention, not to mention at constant gunpoint, he would have groaned. He didn't look that different from back then, did he? And what was this man playing at, for that matter? It seemed like he was double-crossing the Russians, but at this point Otacon couldn't be sure of anything.
"Abso-fucking-lutely," the Patriot grinned.
"Good," the Russian said, then nodded his head slowly.
Raiden watched as two men grabbed Otacon roughly, pulling him away from the Patriot's grasp. He didn't struggle, opting instead to silently let them take his arms and lead him away from the group. He shot Raiden a final distressed look as they led him away.
"Oh, by the way," the lead Russian said, looking squarely at the Patriot. Raiden tore his eyes from Otacon and watched them. "I would just like you to know that as an expendable agent, you did quite impressively."
He raised his pistol and fired. The Patriot shrieked and collapsed to the ground, twitching.
Before Raiden knew what was happening, the blue-suited man took the opening and lunged for the lead Russian, tackling him to the ground before his gun could stop smoking.
The other Russians reacted instantly, the two holding Otacon whipping around blindly and listening to the other three grab the FBI agent and attempt to pull him off their leader. Klemm threw himself against a struggling Russian as the FBI agent wrestled with the leader, trying to pry the Colt from his fingers as they rolled on the ground.
Otacon used his captors' distraction as an opening, lacing his fingers together and bashing one of them in the head with all his strength. The other seized his bound wrists as Otacon moved to strike again, catching his momentum, and hurled him to the ground.
Raiden charged, ramming the Russian that loomed over Otacon. As he grabbed the Colt from the man and jammed it into his gut, the other Russian dove for Raiden's gun.
In the distance, Otacon heard an unsuppressed gunshot and a bloodcurdling scream. Unguarded, he stumbled to his feet and ran for the helicopter and his comrades. One attacker darted after him immediately, and the other jammed his elbow into Raiden's face before leaping off him and chasing Otacon. The blond grimaced and got to his feet, following the three close behind.
Otacon staggered to a halt, nearly falling again, as he came into the clearing of light. The FBI agent was bleeding, but had the leader pinned under him, hands clenched tightly around his throat. Klemm lay dead on red-stained grass, peppered with bullet holes. Both Russian grunts were crumpled on the ground near him, probably dead as well.
Bullets zinged near Otacon's ankles and he took off again, dashing instead for the shelter of the shadows. In the back of his mind he acknowledged the distant noise of a car engine revving, but he was breathing too hard, too pumped full of adrenaline, to care. Behind him was definite capture, in front was perhaps safety.
Suddenly his foot caught on something hard and firm and he felt himself fall, crashing to the ground hard. Strong hands grasped his arms and he felt himself hauled to his feet roughly and pulled back into a brightly-lit area. He lashed out, trying desperately to kick at them and get away, but they were too strong and soon he felt himself shoved onto something soft and cushiony; a car seat. There were more voices than he remembered. Then he felt a sharp prick like a sting in his neck and didn't feel anything after that.
Raiden grunted, having taken a hard blow to the head when he'd jumped one of the soldiers. He looked up, vision blurry, and saw the lead attacker slam his blue-suited ally into the helicopter steel.
A black car screeched over grass and sidewalk, headlights glaring against the dark. He registered something small and compact being tossed from the car, and suddenly there was an intense heat and the pain in his body multiplied. Something must have exploded and hit him, he realized.
There was a groan beside him and he glanced blearily over. The Patriot was still alive.
"Well, this sure backfired."
--tbc
Author's notes: Whooo, boy, this is a fun one. After less than one week, I managed to turn out twenty-four pages of Metal Gear goodness. I am so amazed at myself it's unbelievable o_o
Expect two more parts, as my more perceptive readers might have figured out, focusing a bit more on the other characters instead of primarily Otacon like this part did. And I nearly forgot: Beta'd by the lovely Court.
Uh. Jon Stewart time. :D