Disclamer: See the Foreword.
Author's Babble: I wonder, if this story is any good? I write for the fun of it, and to please readers, but I won't write if there's no one to read it, or if the only readers are people that dislike my style. Please review and tell me your opinions on this.
I'm sorry, I'm holding you back again…
Metal Gear: Bloody Hands
Written by Tempest Dynasty----------------------
Chapter 1: Just Like Any Other Day
August 29, 2006
Seattle-2, Washington
5:05 AM, PST
The phone rang.
Bleary eyes snapped open, quickly adjusting to the miniscule amount of light filtering into his apartment. God, how he hated the phone. Each time the damn thing rung, his ire would increase. Not so much as to trigger the rage, but enough to annoy the holy hell out of him.
The phone rang again.
It was not only that. Only a few times it would be an important call, be it from an employer, a friend, or one of his business associates. Other times it would be those hellish telemarketers. But he had to pick up the phone, because he needed to know who was on the other line. Caller ID be damned; the machine filtered calls so well it lost him more jobs than ever.
A third ring, echoing through the dimly lit room.
What annoyed him the most was getting ripped from sleep by a phone call. Yawning and banishing the fog around his senses, he sat up on his twin-sized bed, swinging his legs out of the warm blue covers and hanging them over the edge. As he rubbed his face to speed up the awakening process, the phone rang for a fourth time.
"Won't go away, will you?" the question was aimed towards the infernal contraption. Picking up the receiver, he spoke in a way only a tired, drowsy, and irate man could. "Whoever this is, you had better have a damn good reason for calling me at five AM in the fucking morning."
"Relax, my friend, it is eight o' clock here. I apologize for not considering the time discrepancies, but I can make up for this with a tantalizing offer," a Russian-accented voice came through.
"Nikita. Calling from the East Coast now? Whatever. What have you got for me?"
"A man I know in the government requires your services. It seems there are remnants of genetically altered soldiers near Alaska that require extermination. Sending in armed forces is too public, air strikes are too loud, and Special Forces will make too much of a hassle if anyone dies."
"What about the black ops?"
"Again, too much of a hassle. You remember Shadow Moses, don't you?"
"You want to send me where?! Shadow Moses?! How the hell did it survive Second Impact? Who's the guy asking for this?" The same could have been asked about Seattle. In actuality, the original city of Seattle was destroyed during Second Impact, and using the same technology used to rebuild Tokyo, Seattle-2 was born.
"It is a phenomenon, that the island came off with a only a large wave crashing into it. I am afraid I cannot disclose the employer's information, my friend. Now let me continue. Your potential employer desires the elimination of the Genome soldiers, and in complete secrecy. When black-op soldiers arrive, they must find all the soldiers dead."
"That still leaves many questions."
"You worry too much, Garland Durev. But it is all right, I shall explain the mission details."
"Hold up. Let me get my PDA."
"As you wish."
The apartment the mercenary lived it was Spartan, consisting of only a bedroom, small kitchen, living room, and study. Small but efficient, the man lived by his personal beliefs: Live with what you need, not what you want. However, boredom often overrode the belief. A modest television set with stereo system adorned a wall in the living room, and a video game system was hooked up. Passing through the living room and through a second door, he entered the study. It was here where most of his "work" was done: a state-of-the-art laptop and Palm Pilot that received most of his employment opportunities, weapon rack with his personal weapons, namely a customized 9mm SIG Sauer P228, locker that contained his combat suit and gear, and finally, a monstrous German zweihander, Sonata, that was handed down the German side of his family for many years.
Grabbing the PDA, he picked up the phone inside the study.
"Okay, Nik. Get on with it."
"Very well. Now, you must understand, Durev, that it was extremely difficult for me to acquire this information. Ever since that incident with your…anger issues, many potential employers are reluctant in hiring you. In fact, I believe that should the incident repeat itself, you may have to look elsewhere for employment, outside of the mercenary ring."
"Shut up. I hate losing my cool; you know that. It's bad enough that I'm constantly reminded of my blunder by my lack of important mail. Now, are you going to tell me the mission or not?"
"Of course. Tomorrow at nine, there will be a flight to Alaska at the Tacoma International Airport, Flight 484. You will be given a Coach class plane ticket for it. When you arrive, a vehicle will be supplied. Take it to Nome. It may be a long ride, but I am sure you can handle it. At Nome, search for a man named Bryan Green. He will be your guide to reach Shadow Moses. When you arrive to Shadow Moses, there will be around thirty to thirty-five Genome soldiers for you to take out." There was a pause. "A word of caution, my friend: even though the initial attack has disabled much of the internal networking, there are still many cameras, motion detectors, and working machines. Use utmost caution when moving around the facility. Oh yes, before I forget: majority of the soldiers are believed to be in the first portion of the facility, where the tank room is and such."
"That's good and all, but how do I get out?" such a vital question, because a planned escape usually meant survival.
"Unfortunately, because of the nature of the mission, and the fact it is Shadow Moses, we will be unable to have an escape plan prepared for you as of now. Too much involvement will cause suspicion. You will have to get out on your own. Oh yes, you have twenty-four hours in which to complete your objectives after the mission clock hits twelve o'clock AM tomorrow night."
"You're not making this any easier. What's the pay?"
"$20,000."
"Only that much?"
"They are very afraid of you, my friend. It is the most I could negotiate."
"Right, and how much do you get?"
"I am given a separate pay. It is not important how much it is. Besides the fact, I have given you all the information you require."
The half-dressed man sighed, "Okay. Anything else, just call me."
"Will do. Ah yes, Durev. This is a very black operation; no one must survive with the knowledge anything happened, and everything must be kept as quiet as possible. No explosions, please."
"Alright, Nik. See you," and he hung up.
The mercenary had roughly twenty-four hours to prepare, so he decided to put off the work until later. Dressing in his usual dark blue jeans, white undershirt, and black silk button-up t-shirt, he was about to step out for breakfast when a rapid and loud beeping sound echoed forth from his bedroom.
Stepping into his room, he saw that his phone was off the hook. Cursing his forgetfulness, the phone was slammed into its cradle and another crack was left in its shell. Finally, the mercenary could go get some breakfast.
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On the roof of an apartment complex, one man stood motionless. Shirtless and covered with sweat, he wore only a black BDU pants and old combat boots. A warm breeze gently flowed over the tense muscles, toned and chiseled from years of training.
A daily warm-up for Durev consisted of running around his neighborhood once, a feat that totaled in about five miles. Once his blood got pumping, he would leap from the ground to the roof of his apartment, using the ledges offered by windows and porches to climb his way up. He did not do this to show off, but rather cause a sense of danger and excitement for his body to react to.
His training continued with a grueling and forceful practice with dummies, heavy weights, and katas. Occasionally, Durev would visit local martial art dojos to spar with students and teachers, and he would also visit the more secluded martial artists, ones with significantly more skill than the average Karate shop.
He stood there a moment longer, before launching into a fury of formless strikes. Punches and kicks swarmed in the air, creating a beautiful yet destructive dance of death. It began as a squall, violent and powerful, then slowed down into an ocean breeze, slow and relaxing. However, Jeet Kune Do did not concentrate solely in unarmed strikes. It included various holds, chokes, throws, and counters. In combat, he is exactly what Jeet Kune Do is about: simple, direct, and free, not opposing force, nor giving way to it; always moving, never staying, absorbing the useful and rejecting the useless. Adaptability is one of the strong points in the art, changing techniques and strategies instantly based on what the opponent does. There were no real masters or ultimate form in Jeet Kune Do—you constantly strive to improve yourself. When he finished his unarmed combat, he moved on to weapons training.
First was the knife, a simple foot-long dagger style high carbon steel blade and sharkskin grip. The hilt was simple: a thin, flat, but sturdy piece of metal. His time with other mercenaries and in the military gave him high skill with the blade; it was a weapon he used often in missions, as it killed quickly and cleanly. Durev himself used a simple technique with knives: strike fast and hard where it hurts, no specials or style.
His second blade was his German heritage: the zweihander named Sonata. With a wide and heavy steel blade, it was lethal to everyone within Durev's strike zone. The sheer weight and power of the sword cut through any defense, and its long reach keeps opponents on their toes. For such power, speed and agility are sacrificed, as the large weapon was clumsy and difficult to wield even with two hands. However, Durev's intense training regimen combined with constant practice allowed him to swing the sword as if it was an extension of his body. Clearly, from the graceful forms and flawless execution, he was a master with the blade.
By the time he was finished, it was dinnertime.
"Huh. Seven already? Might as well shower then visit Andy," he muttered to himself, referring to the owner and head chef of a famous local restaurant. Wait, no, he couldn't. Tomorrow was a mission and he needed sleep. Might as well go in and prepare.
Entering his study and opening his locker, he pulled out the required equipment.
His main weapons, his knife and his trusty P228, were cleaned, loaded and placed into their respective holsters. An extra set of clothing was prepared for the plane ride and drive; being in a tight combat suit and gear in a public setting was stupid and far too suspicious. Of all the tools of the trade, the most important would be his combat uniform.
It was a single piece of dark colored clothing that covered his entire body, composed of advanced materials that were resistant to tearing, the elements, and controlled body heat very well. It clung to his body, conforming to the ridges and muscles that adorned his body. The sneaking suit covered his body up to several inches above the ankle, the elbows, and the neck. Special soft boots that used clips and straps instead of string protected the feet and softened footsteps.
Over the chest, torso, and back was the only form of protection Durev would get: an armor vest made out of Spectra fibers and ceramic plates that stopped even rifle rounds. The armor vest doubled as a tactical vest, with pouches for extra ammunition clips, shotgun shells, grenades, and medical supplies. The grenades were replaced with extra infiltration gear such as mirror-on-a-stick, fiber-optic camera, and lock-picks. His pistol was strapped to his right thigh, and his knife onto the web belt on his back. Nine extra magazines for his pistol was prepared, six on his vest and three in a drop leg pouch on his left leg. All together, the set clicked into a single web that ultimately attached to the body suit. The only things that remained to be readied were his mask and gauntlets. The mask was nondescript, basically a simple balaclava. Night vision goggles or thermal goggles were usually stored in a pouch on the belt, or kept on the head.
The gauntlets were the primary forms of combat Durev would engage in. He was martial arts master in several forms: tae kwon do, Muay Thai kickboxing, kempo, karate, ninjitsu, boxing, various forms of kung-fu, jujitsu, aikido, hapkido, tai chi chuan, and many other forms, including his father's legacy, Jeet Kune Do. The gauntlets were simple enough, made of Nomex and leather for comfort and flexibility, but there was an addition to its structure. Shaped metal plates woven into the arms, back of hand, and reinforced the knuckles. The plates were of strong enough metal that even full force punches would not dent the material, and it could even deflect bullets. Similar plates were woven into the shin-guards and parts of his boots.
The combat suit was stuffed into a specially designed suitcase, covering the suit with a false shield of extra clothing when scanned by an X-ray and other detectors. A rocket-launcher could be in the case, and it would not show up. Setting his alarm for 8 AM, he went to sleep, a dream already forming.
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Screams, moans, and cries for help. These sounds echoed constantly from the tactical radio, of men suffering, of men dying. Soldiers under his command, his responsibility, falling under barrages of gunfire. In his arms, lay an unterfeldweber, a sergeant, dying from a bullet in the stomach.
It was supposed to be a simple mission, to go into hostile territory and pull a rescue mission for a kidnapped government official in an embassy attacked by terrorists. Usually, the GSG-9 would be deployed for such problems in German soil, but the criminals were soldiers from another country, angry and bitter at the government. The radicals wanted a change in the government, but turned to violence instead of peaceful protests.
Now the daughter of a German official was held captive, beaten and possibly violated, and nothing could be done about it, not without causing needless deaths. They moved her and their team into a remote facility, away from the media and hidden from the public view. Even recon units could not move in well enough to survey the land. But the girl still needed to be rescued, so, when negotiators caused a lapse in security, Durev's team of elite Kommando Spezialkraefte (KSK) soldiers moved in.
But reconnaissance was poor; they reported approximately twelve terrorists—there were thirty. It was sloppy job that scarred the credibility and reputation of the KSK, and resulted in the deaths of many German soldiers.
It was my fault. I should have been more careful, should have been more alert, should have been smarter. Why didn't he see the signs? Why did his soldiers, his friends, have to die? Why? WHY?!
YOU ARE TOO WEAK!
Too… weak…? A dark voice mocks me, a demonic entity that engulfs my mind. I see him in the reflection of a pool of blood; a child with wild black hair, crimson eyes, and bloody hands.
FOOL! SEE WHAT YOUR WEAKNESS HAS CAUSED! LOOK DOWN, INTO THE EYES OF YOUR FAILURE!
Gustav… he's stopped breathing… no pulse. His eyes, they stare into my own, stare into my soul, accusing, cursing, a diatribe upon my failure as a leader, as a friend. Everyone, they're dying, and I can't help them…
you can, you know…
How?! How can I repent for the sin of betrayal?!
know your hidden might, the strength of lunacy, the power of madness!
NO! No… they would cast me away...
NO ONE IS ALIVE TO CARE ANYMORE!
No one… alive…
this pain in your heart, your soul, i feel it as well. i know what you want. you want revenge.
Revenge… yes…
the enemy, they are the cause.
Them... this is their fault... they must pay...
PAY THEM BACK IN BLOOD FOR WHICH THEY HAVE TORN FROM YOUR ARMS! LET THE FOOLS KNOW WHAT THEY HAVE UNLEASHED. SHOW THEM THE DEMON THAT THEY HAVE ANGERED!
Kill them... kill them all...
my strength is your strength. bathe in the blood of the guilty.
haa… haa… haa… EEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYYAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUUUUUUUUUUUUGGGGGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!
The terrifying roar of the Berserker ripped forth from the tortured man, a promise of agony and death. Grey-blue eyes were replaced with blood red, as the face of sorrow warped into a mask of hatred and anger. Laying the corpse of his friend on the ground, he turned to face the enemy that caused him so much harm.
The shooting had stopped; the enemy soldiers were curious as to what caused such a frightening and mournful shriek. One ignorant individual continued to stab a KSK corpse, ignorant of the oncoming horror.
The terrorist let out a cry of pain as his hair was grabbed and pulled back, ripping him from his mutilation. When he tried to turn to see the idiot that had grabbed him, he saw a fury that chilled him to his very soul. Before shock and fear even registered in his mind, he was no more. A fist came down upon his face, crushing his skull like a watermelon.
The terrorist's friend saw this, and in an act of vengeance, charged Durev with a wicked-looking Bowie knife. It never hit its mark, as the Special Forces operative grabbed the radical's wrist moments before it touched. He twisted the arm, the wet snap of breaking bones echoed in the silent battlefield, and before the enemy could even cry out in pain, Durev kicked him hard in the chest. He still had a strong grip on the man's arm, so as he flew back from the kick, his arm was ripped from his socket. Before the body could even touch ground, his own dismembered arm slammed into his chest, blood spraying everywhere.
A third man ran forth, yelling out German curses and brandishing his assault rifle's bayonet menacingly. Durev quietly waited for him to approach; before the soldier could thrust, a large hand wrapped itself around his head. The KSK commando lifted the now scared man easily into the air, and placed his G36K assault rifle against the man's stomach. In a single long burst, all thirty 5.56x45mm NATO FMJ rounds ventilated his abdomen, the spray of body fluids was like a massive flower blooming from his back.
He dropped both the body and rifle, and turned to face the main force.
Having seen the deaths of three friends, the firing began anew. However, the hail of gunfire was far less accurate, fired in fear and desperation rather than with determination.
"No more…" he whispered, and rocketed forward with a burst of speed faster than they could follow. Instantly Durev was among them, devastating chests with kicks and caving heads in with fierce punches.
The wild soldier dodged a surprise kick to the head, grabbing the leg in a strong hold as it snapped up. Twisting around the attacker, Durev brought his weight down upon the leg, breaking the leg in half and tearing it from its socket, as it was hyper-extended well beyond its limits. An elbow came crashing down onto the windpipe, crushing the larynx and sealing the trachea, silencing the scream that followed.
He flipped up from his position, immediately engaging another wave of soldiers.
Wrapping his arm around an enemy's neck, he brought the body forward to stop a shotgun blast, never flinching as the spray of buckshot pelted his shield, and threw the corpse at the gunner. As the men fell to the ground, a booted heel came crashing down upon the one still alive, his head exploding into a gory mess. Seeing movement, he turned in time to see several people dive behind a jeep.
No pity for the guilty.
"Can't hide!" a heart-rendering roar was directed towards the cowering terrorists. Screams of pure terror rang forth as the vehicle was flipped over by sheer adrenaline-boosted strength, crushing the soldiers underneath. One soldier had been able to dodge the flying car, and was running away after he dropped his rifle.
No mercy for the wicked.
Instantly, Durev was upon him, tackling the terrorist to the ground and wrapping both hands around the man's neck and chin. Pulling sharply, the head ripped off with a bloody snap. Blood sprayed like an open hose, the bright red liquid splattering on the berserker's face, matching his eyes. The horror filled eyes of the head stared back at the demonic warrior, its face frozen in a scream of terror and agony. He let it drop to the ground with a wet splat, a look of angry apathetic hatred and rage chiseled onto his face.
No regret for the dead.
The carnage continued for what seemed like hours, as each hostile force was hunted down and killed in a gruesome manner, their disgustingly mutilated corpses left to rot on the blood-soaked ground. One the remainders of the terrorist forces had his head trapped in Garland's hands, greater and greater force slowly crushing the skull.
"Mercy! Please!" pleaded the terrified soldier, tears and snot flowing like rivers.
"Mercy? What mercy did you show to my team, my friends? You gunned them down like they were dogs and even had the gall to stab the corpses! Give me a reason for you to live!" the German-American snarled, red eyes burning with barely controlled rage.
"I-I-I have to. . ." he stuttered.
"NOT GOOD ENOUGH!" was the guttural reply, and the hands came together.
His head crumpled like a soda can, blood and gray matter spurting out in globs. As the body slumped out of bloody hands, the berserker released a final roar of rage, echoing across the battlefield and overpowering all other noise.
Red returned to blue-gray, and Garland took in the chaos. Corpses, friend and foe, dotted the land. Bodies of terrorists bore wounds of horrendous quality: heads destroyed, limbs ripped apart, and torsos ripped open. Bullet and shell casings lay next to crushed firearms, some with crushed hands still trapped in the twisted pile of metal. He looked down at his hands, still slick soaked and with blood. His body throbbed in soreness and in pain, from bullet wounds and from exertion. The smell of death was sickeningly strong here, and he knew the one responsible. . .
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Drenched in cold sweat, his heart racing and his breathing labored, Garland awoke in his bed. The clock said 7:59 AM.
"A dream… just a dream," he calmed himself. But this dream was actually a memory. Before becoming a mercenary, he was a Hauptmann, a Captain in the KSK, and it was that last mission that drove him from normal society, abandoning his existence and living in post-Second Impact Seattle. Why Seattle? Why not?
The nightmare never left him, always returning at random times. It served to constantly remind him of his mistakes, of his curse. So that…
No. Now is not the time.
Got a mission to do.
Once more, into the breach…
More blood upon already bloodstained hands…
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A/N: Annnnnd I'm done with the first chapter. Woo. Expect the next one sometime next week. I hope.