Disclaimer: See the Foreword
Author's Babble: I want to thank those that reviewed. Now that I know some people are actually reading my work, I will be sure to write more. Anyways, below is the next chapter, and a bit more about Garland's past.
And now…
Metal Gear: Bloody Hands
Written by Tempest Dynasty
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Chapter 2: Second Impact
August 30, 2006
Off the shore of Shadow Moses Island
0150 Mission Time, T-Minus 19 hours
Surrounded by ice-cold salt water, a sheet of metal was all that Garland Durev had that stood between him and several billion gallons of the liquid. A small metal boat with a coughing motor pushed him slowly towards the forbidden island of nuclear waste: Shadow Moses.
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The flight had been uneventful, other than that little spat over a key chain. One of the security officers freaked out after he thought that one of Garland's keys was a bladed object. This resulted in the mercenary nearly getting arrested, had it not been for other passengers screaming at the stupidity and obvious blindness of security officers. Really, how the hell does a house key look like a knife? Luckily, his equipment bypassed scanning devices, and he stepped into the horror that is Coach.
Although cheap and it did the job, the difference in quality was obvious. First/Business class looked very clean, hospitable, and comfortable. The moment he stepped into Economy class, the walls changed from a soft white to an off-beige color with oddly tinted stains. The seats contrasted greatly from First class: at least a foot less space. The food was crap and the drinks were warm, but such things Durev was able to handle in stride.
However, it was the obese man sitting next to him that desperately needed many hot showers, the little brat behind him constantly kicking his chair, the unbelievably tall man in front of him (thus blocking the movie), and the perpetually crying newborn on his other side that tested his patience to an extreme. It would not trigger the berserker, but DAMN did it suck.
"I hate planes," he muttered, and immediately an Air Marshall approached him, asking him why was he was threatening the integrity of the aircraft. Yes, it was a horrible ride.
The drive wasn't that great either: crappy radio stations and a broken down car did not do much to relieve Durev of his stress. The car had no heat, windows were stuck down, and the brakes screeched like a banshee. It looked like a trashcan on wheels too. Had he not require the money and that he didn't want attention, Garland would have blown up the car by now with a good chunk of C4 and Semtex. His contact was late, and he was famished. When the contact actually arrived, he was throttled thoroughly, and in an act of kindness (and fear), the contact offered a free lunch.
Elk, while tasty when seasoned right, was tougher than Garland's punching bag.
The bag was made of Kevlar, boiled hide leather, and rubber.
Currently he was on a small boat, propelled by a simple motor, and moving under the radar. Looming ahead was a rocky cliff, the waves slamming against the jagged rocks. Getting closer would be dangerous, as the swells grew stronger as they came closer to land. A strong rope with a hook in the end was all the dinghy had for an anchor, and with it, he threw it with all his might into the closest rock. The force was great enough that the hook became deeply lodged into the rock, creating an ugly wound where the metal speared through.
Breathing the cold air in, the mercenary leapt with two iron spikes in his hands, stabbing them into the cliff wall and using them as leverage. Taking another deep breath, he began his climb. The rock he was attached to suddenly cracked, and the 100-odd pound rock brought the martial artist along on its dive into icy Alaskan waters.
"Crap."
There was a mighty splash, Garland being the object that broke surface tension. Air knocked out of him and the weight of the rock pushing him down, he was losing strength and consciousness quickly. The addition of freezing cold waters did not do much to help either.
Blackness nearly taking him, memories and nightmares returned with a vengeance.
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"Wierdo!"
"Pansy!"
"Girly-boy!"
"Freak!"
Nothing was as innocent and cruel as a child's mind; the jibes of such were merciless. Ever since they saw him practicing his martial arts, they assumed he was dancing, and immediately teased him for it. During show-and-tell, his culinary skill was mocked as well. What kind of boy knew how to dance and cook? During PE, he would beat everyone in athletics, further widening the rift. His teacher did not like him either, as the young boy was in better shape and could outperform the older man. He was also rather tall and muscular, giving him a more mature look, and caused the older people to think he was a failure. It was endless; there was no respite for the young martial artist. Everyday, by more and more people each time, they jeered at him, laughed at his sad face, and threw mud balls at him. The teachers did little to help, as the children would be nice for a few days, then return to their taunting.
And the little boy, so sad and lonely, took it all in silence. No one ever saw the tears, not even his own parents. It would be admitting defeat if he cried. So he said nothing, but have a sad smile upon his lips as he stepped outside for recess, and played by himself on the swings. He would hear the teasing, he would look like he was ignoring, but in reality he took it all. Patience seemed infinite, until one kid thought of the wise idea of throwing objects at him.
It started with small things: sticks, small rocks, and pinecones.
They left scratches, but the brave child stood firm.
Then it evolved into cheap toys: metal cars, jacks, and even throwing darts.
Bruises and bigger cuts, but still he never cried out.
The bright idea to use a boomerang came from an older, stronger boy that liked bullying smaller kids. Despite the stranger having a distinctly higher height and stronger build, the fact that he never fought back made him an easy target.
The heavy wooden object struck the child in the head, leaving a bloody gash, a hairline fracture in the skull, and the blissfulness of unconsciousness. There was much giggling, many cheers that the freak got hurt, and a warm feeling that they defeated the pansy.
Until he stood up.
Gone were those sad, lonely eyes and the soft smile.
Demon's eyes and a snarling scowl took their place.
His roar silenced the schoolyard.
Everyone felt his pain.
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A myriad of images, from his elementary school until Second Impact, flashed across his mind:
The fear and shock in the faces of others.
Doctors with cold things that hurt and stung.
His mother's concern.
His father's worry.
The time his family spent together during vacations.
Happy times.
Tearful times.
Friendless schools and family-only parties.
Lonely dances and weird looks directed towards him.
Finally, the bright flash from the south that heralded the tidal wave that would kill billions all over the world.
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He couldn't do anything. Nothing could be done against the incredible force of nature, a rushing wave of water capable of crushing buildings. He and his family had gone to Canterbury, England, to visit family. September 18, 2000, a meteorite struck the South Pole, causing a rapid change in temperature and melted the polar icecaps. This resulted in global flooding that killed half of the world's population. The half that died included the entirety of the boy's family. The half that lived included the boy.
He watched his mother be dragged away by wild torrents; his father was with her, holding desperately to life itself. Already his aunts, uncles, and cousins had been swept away, drowning under the initial chaos. Only he and his parents remained, but not for long. Clinging to a small boat, while his son was in another craft, his father said his last:
"My son! I'm afraid this is where we say goodbye. You are strong enough to live, without the guidance of us. Live! Protect what is important to you, even if they hate you; they know not what they have. Prove to them that you are the one!" A large blue-green wave silenced the man from saying anything else.
Garland Durev, son of Peter Durev and Amelia Kaiser Durev, was then left alone in the world. No one would care for him, to hold him during his darkest times, to tell him that everything would be all right, to tell him that they love him. He was alone, forever and more.
His cry of horror grieved for the ones he lost.
His cry of sorrow echoed in concord with others around the world.
His cry of anger cursed the water, the earth, and the skies above.
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Half open, sleepy and glazed, gray-blue shifted briefly to red then back, reawakening the body and giving a burst of strength. Weak hands ripped the metal stakes from the jagged rock, and tired legs kicked the body away from the sinking earth. Pulling himself to the surface, Durev breathed deeply as he broke through the water's surface, relieving the intense burning in his chest. He took several more breaths before swimming to the rock his boat was anchored to. The cold and soaking wet mercenary looked at the cliff wall; he would try again, and this time, be successful. He leapt, sunk the spikes into the wall, and climbed.
By the time he had reached the top, his arms were waging war against him. Normally, he could have climbed a vertical slope without much difficulty, but that's because he was able to use his legs and feet to help push him up. The cliff wall was in a reverse angle, forcing the mercenary to climb using solely his arms and shoulders to pull himself up.
"No time to rest…" he muttered to himself as he looked at his PDA, normally protected in a waterproof pouch on his belt. Eighteen hours remained; it took him an entire hour to climb the damn cliff wall. The map he pulled up showed him that the facility was about three miles away from his position, and the nearest entrance would be the large snowfield that connected the Tank room with the nuke storage facility.
"Right. Walking time."
Taking his first step across the snow covered wasteland, he thanked whoever invented super-thinsulate—the stuff could keep a guy warm in Antarctica with only several layers of the stuff. A pair of warm boots did wonders as well.
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Jumping the ledge that created part of the rock wall of the snowfield, he landed in a roll. The field was as empty as it was nearly a year ago, when Solid Snake first infiltrated the facility. And much like Snake's first incursion, the field would be booby-trapped with hidden explosives and detection equipment. Durev sighed; he did not have the foresight to bring some sort of bomb detector.
No matter, he was close to the door anyways, and he didn't need to cross the field. A security card with the number three on it was stuffed into his vest, given to him in the same package as the flight ticket. The door opened slowly, ominously. As soon as a small crack was available, cold air rushed in, pushing heated air out of the hall.
"Too easy," he thought as he took a step into the hall. He stopped, standing at a black line etched into the ground and walls. Sliding the thermal goggles perched on his head, bluish-black flooded his vision. Lasers normally invisible to the naked eye suddenly lit up, appearing reddish white. Sliding up and down the walls at different speeds, they were the only form of detection so far. Not being one to waste energy, the mercenary simply waited for the beams to move above his head and walked under them. Sure, he could have used fancy jumps, rolls, dives, and flips to get through quicker, but that only wasted energy and was not needed at the time. Right now, he just needed to get in, get the mission done, and get out.
Opening the next door and stepping into the tank room, he immediately dove for cover. In the center of the room, four soldiers clustered together, sharing a meal. Opening the door when there was still cold air in it was a stupid move. As the breeze dissipated into the room, one of the soldiers shivered.
"Shit! Who the hell opened the door?" apparently, this one was tired of being in arctic weather for so long.
"None of us has a card high enough to open the door, except Parris, Simmons, and Johnny," another replied, shoveling more food into his mouth.
"Yeah well Parris ain't here. He's over at the nuke building. Major Simmons over in storage with Minny, and Johnny's more or less in the bathroom crapping out his innards," the third one said, loading his French FA-MAS assault rifle with a fresh clip.
The first speaker picked up his pistol and cocked it,
"Guess there's another then," the soldier whispered. With that, the soldiers dispersed, spreading out but sticking close, and proceeded to clear the room.
Behind a metal crate, Garland cursed silently. He had gotten careless and now the Genomes were on to him. He always had a knack for making things harder on himself. His mirror-on-a-stick told him that someone was coming from the right, but his left was clear. Instead of running, he held his ground, waiting for the soldier to come. A dark blade was in his right hand, ready to taste blood.
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A shadow moved, meaning something could be there. Of course it could have been a rat, but it could also be an intruder.
Being ever so cautious, he crept closer, his rifle up to bear. As he turned the corner, ready to shoot, a black hand shot out, grabbing his rifle and pulling it from his hands. The man was still in shock as a second hand came from below, a black knife gleaming in the soft light. Only a brief flash of pain was felt as it entered though his jaw, stabbing through the soft tissue, his skull, and finally, brain matter. The blade was long enough to pierce from jaw to hair, killing the Genome soldier almost instantly. A quiet gurgle was all that came out.
One down, three left.
Where was Dan? He was next to me a moment ago. Eh? A shadow moved. Is something there? Better go check.
As he rounded the box, he saw a discarded rifle, still fully loaded. A thin stream of blood traveled around the corner, leading into darkness. Peering into the darkness, his cry of surprise was stifled with a gloved hand, and his head twisted sharply to the side, a soft crack being the only sound audible. The body was thrown on top of another corpse.
Two down, two to go.
"What was that? Hey! Intru—Urk!" a boot to the head silenced him well enough, sufficient force to make him stagger, but not so much as to send him flying. The last guard had heard the scuffle, and came to investigate; his reward was having his rifle ripped out of his hands. His rifle was then thrown at the staggering guard, impacting squarely upon his head, knocking him out.
With a single fluid motion, a combat knife was drawn from its sheath and thrown with a blur, the blade lodging deeply into the unarmed guard's forehead. The remaining unconscious guard was given a merciful death: a single bullet to the head, quick and painless.
Area secure.
A quick search of the bodies revealed extra magazines of pistol ammunition, first aid supplies, and very low quantities of rations. The ammunition was thrown away. The soldiers used .45 ACP bullets, but Durev himself used 9mm; he would have to use his pistol sparingly. The SOCOM pistols off the corpses were useless as well, due to the DNA identification programs in the weapons.
No matter.
After his knife was collected and cleaned, a brief study of his tactical map revealed a storage room next to the exit, and an elevator that would take him down two floors, to a prison, then to a weapons storage facility.
"Might as well clear out this floor," he mentally shrugged, and strode to the storeroom.
What he saw inside surprised and shocked him.
Apparently, there were female soldiers among the Next Generation Special Forces, and after so long without contact, hormones eventually smashed self-control into pieces, so now two soldiers were humping away madly on the floor, behind several crates.
Disgraceful. Durev thought as his suppressed pistol came up and fired off two rounds. Instantly the moans of pleasure were silenced, special rounds penetrating their heads and turning their brains into oatmeal. Their bodies slumped, still stuck in their positions. The mercenary avoided the still embracing corpses and searched the small room.
A pile of clothing to the side offered only rations, more medical supplies, a security card, and an MP5A4. He could not use the submachine-gun, but the ammunition was free game. In several pouches on his vest and belt he filled with 90 rounds of 9mm FMJ rounds; he could use his P228 more often now.
With the first floor clear, he left for the second floor, twirling his new Lv. 6 security card.
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When the elevator door opened, six suppressed shots came from the compartment, and five soldiers dropped dead. A camera protecting the hallway shorted out, a bullet firmly lodged in its circuitry. Simple as that, the current area was cleared of all hostiles.
Stepping over the corpses, the mercenary stopped short of the prison door. Peeking around and the mirror-on-a-stick would attract attention, so a small fiber-optic wire was used. The view he received to his Palm Pilot showed two guards, heavily armored and with bigger guns than the regular soldiers.
Whereas the normal grunts were given FA-MAS rifles (oddly enough, considering the gun is a French weapon, and the facility is American), shotguns, and MP5 sub-machineguns, these special soldiers had G3 rifles, trading heavier weight and bigger recoil for a bigger bullet and more powerful attacks.
This was a dilemma: to effectively take out the hostiles without arousing the entire base, he had to get in close. His handgun was useless against the armor, and throwing his knife might not pierce the armor; hand-to-hand was his only choice. But there was at least 10 feet distance between him and the guards, and there would not be enough time to dash in and take out both soldiers. For now, they would have to wait.
Moving on, the next door led to a room filled with electronics, computers, and a large upright metal table. The hum of the machinery drowned out soft noises, but the area seemed clear. Nothing was visible, so Garland turned to leave the room.
Before he completed his first step, however, he froze. A faint sound was heard, a sigh almost. Drawing his pistol, Durev inched around the upright table. He did not expect what he saw.
What the hell…?
A woman, around her mid-to-late-twenties, lay on the table, arms and legs tightly strapped down. Her eyes were closed, her breathing labored, and her body was slumped. The clothes she wore were reminiscent of the Skull Suit used by some mercenaries, but the most revealing part would have to have been the lack of a top. Ugly bruises and welts dotted her body, the most being around her face, neck, and breasts. To the side was a box, most likely filled with her belongings.
"Poor girl. They tortured you, didn't they…?" In an act of unusual kindness, he brushed a lock of neck length blonde-streaked brown hair from her face, pushing it behind her ear. Despite the injuries and wounds, the girl still looked attractive. A petite frame but lean and developed muscles like that of an athlete, there was enough body fat to accentuate the curves and give a rather smooth appearance without appearing overweight. The girl's skin was lightly tanned, with practically no blemishes or imperfections other than the bruises and burn marks. Although her eyes were closed, her faintly freckled face was still pleasing to look at. No make-up was evident, but cosmetics were not needed improve the already pretty face. A bit of blush, light-colored lipstick, and maybe some eyeliner, and the pretty face would become absolutely stunning. Her chest wasn't that bad either—not too small, but not obtrusively large either. They were just the right size, in Garland's opinion. The mercenary stood there, as if thinking, and was about to grab a nearby sheet to cover her nakedness when the entrance door slid open. Instantly, the mercenary ducked, hiding behind the table. As heavy footsteps drew closer, he inched around the table, keeping it between himself and whoever just entered. The footsteps stopped in front of the captured girl.
"Couldn't have been her, she's still stuck to the table. Besides, she's so full of drugs she can't feel a thing!" a rough voice, muffled slightly by something over his mouth.
"Then who the hell killed Corporal Ellis and them? Sure as hell not some freaky psychic—they had bullet holes in their heads," a second voice of softer accent, similarly subdued.
"Don't know. Let's go and report upstairs," the footsteps moved away and drew closer to Durev's position.
Knife in hand, Garland leapt from his crouch, stabbing deeply into the chest of the first guard, directly into the heart. Kicking away the dying man, Durev blocked a rifle butt strike aimed at his head, deflecting it above him with his left arm and then driving his other fist into the surprised guard's face. The blow merely stunned the man, opening him up to a larger and more painful attack. A metal reinforced punch buried itself into his stomach, followed by second blow to the same place, and a knee to the chin knocked him back up. Suddenly his legs were swept away, leaving him midair. As he floated for a moment, the sweep followed into a roundhouse kick that smashed into his torso, blasting him into a wall. The force of the blow kept him standing, leaning heavily against the reinforced glass and metal. As final sight, beyond the haze of pain, an armor-plated boot came crashing onto his already bruised chest, shattering his ribs and driving the fragments into his heart and lungs.
Thirteen dead. Seventeen remain.
Garland turned in time to see the woman blink.
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A/N: Another chapter done. And the break is coming up! Yay. Next one in a week, I hope.