Disclaimer: I don't own any of the series' characters or the weapons and vehicles named throughout the series. However, I DO OWN the characters that I create.

Metal Gear Solid: Destructive Redemption

Chapter 3: "I've Come to Get the Package"

"Saving a person's life is probably one of the greatest acts a human being can perform. You don't have to be a soldier in the USMC or a surgeon at Johns Hopkin to save lives, although those brave men and women who have perfected their occupations into arts still do that. No, any average person can save a life. If you're walking on the street and a man suddenly collapses, you're call to 9-1-1 might save the man. But if you're five seconds late, whatever unknown force inside his body takes that man's life. And for the rest of YOUR life, you'll have felt guilty for not doing something. That's why it pays to do good in the service of others."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Erwin the Hacker was finally getting some fresh air. It was a change of pace for the young man, a German hacker/data retriever that offered his services to anyone for a fee--including terrorists. His job basically meant to hack into random foreign computer agencies and gather information on what's currently happening. Once a location had been selected, the terrorist group would go to work and Erwin would be paid before the mission. He had a five-hit contract with them. One hit had already been performed (and it had succeeded rather well) and that had been the cruiser liner crash.

Currently, he was supposed to be looking up another potential target for these terrorists to attack. One of them suggested the White House but Dieter had spoken against him. He had said it would've been too hard because empty airspace around Washington D.C. was virtually non-existent. Harriers, F-16s, and other such aircraft pratrolled the D.C from the city itself out to a five hundred mile radius.

Infiltrating that airspace would've been difficult to do, as none of the terrorists had any expeirence with flying an aircraft. And so, Erwin said to himself, the damned bastards want me to find them a renegade clandestine pilot who's pissed at the current ways of the world. That thought actually brought a wry smile to his face. Erwin sat on a bench on the sidewalk of a busy street, smoking an American Marlboro. All in an attempt to fulfil their obscene goal of a "better world, filled with peace for all". God, the world's a crazy bitch!

Religious suicide wasn't the way these terrorists got their job done. That was left to the jihads in the Far East. Except for that one man. The man whom helped to signal this group. His name was Abutwa al-Qwuami, a man held up in high regard in Dieter's eyes. A valuable informat for this group. His only shortcoming was the fact that he could be a little hot-headed. But that Syrian was one slick revolutionary, Erwin Schneider admitted.

Erwin was fond of al-Qwuami, mainly because this Middle Eastener (whom was born in Syria, raised in Afghanistan) was a (secret) supporter of communisim. Unlike most of his countrymen who worshipped the false beliefs of Islam, Abutwa embraced the teachings of Karl Marx as if it were his own child. Despite the widely stereotype fact that only Russians were communists, this Afghan was a great exception to that rule.

So long as the bastard doesn't get caught, Erwin thought suddenly, cracking an evil, involuntary grin. Speaking of which, the hacker wondered, what is the old chap up to?

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Middle East was the type of place that made a nation's headlines, be it in the paper or on television. This was mainly because it was an area that harbored boatloads of known terrorists and acts of terrorism and common crime were commited daily among these unsovereign countries. Except Iraq, of course, and their damned American fat-fucks. But Afghanistan was one of the more milder countries to harbor terrorism. Crime was still rampant, but it had decreased a hell of alot since Iraq became a free democracy.

About one time zone away, Abutwa al-Qwuami was having a rather pleasant time with himself. There was nothing more greater then drinking a cheap brand of vodka and deciding what kind of terrorist acts he should pull off. He also had a new technique he had more recently adopted so he could think more intensely.

This so-called "technique" was quite simple: lure two young fellow countrywomen back to his home and force them to violate themselves in front of a video camera. These women would be so scared out of their minds that usually they'd just comply with this man's orders, knowing that men were superior in this part of the world and that they were on the lower end of the spectrum. Than again, the men viewed Middle Eastern women as mere "objects" that would be subject to manipulation. But never in such a way as this. Sometimes he even had some of his men abduct or sedate a woman from another country such as the US or Britian (mainly because he would grow tired of the "same old skin").

The moral part of Abutwa's brain knew it was wrong but he usually countered that thought with the pissed-off women's activists in America, and that thought made him chuckle. Currently he had a British woman and a Kuwaiti woman trapped in his home. He had made doubly sure that the house was extremely secure so that any of his women he captured couldn't escape and report him. Because, after all, it wouldn't do to be stuck in a prison cell with no will to live.

The Brit (statistics: age 25, brown hair, blue eyes, five feet and six inches) was handcuffed to a stainless-steel pole that he had installed in his living room about a month ago. Her eyes went wide as he entered the room (causing her to stop pole-dancing for the camera) and look on in terror. She tried to back away as far as her chained state would let her. As al-Qwuami approached, he flipped off the video camera that was mounted on a tripod. The Brit was naked of course and the only piece of clothing she wore were a pair of white high-heels she had already been wearing. The Kuwaiti woman was adorned much the same way. The pairs breats jiggled deliciously in front of him.

"What the hell do you want from me?!" the Brit yelled at him. "Why are you making me do this?!"

Abutwa walked over towards and leaned in toward her face. He smilied, a gesture that made her uncomfortable. He explained, in perfect English: "You see, you and this Kuwait are helping me think more...intensely. Your actions are pleasant and soothing. Does one such as you not understand--" His sentence was cut off due to the fact that he was kicked in the balls, a rather painful expeirence because he'd been hit with a heeled shoe in a region of considerable sensitivity.

"Listen, you fucked-accent bitch..." the Syrian replied, recovering from the blow. "You just don't seem to get it, do you?" Now on his feet, the terrorist produced a stolen silenced Browning Hi-Power. "If you cooperate with me, and I'm sure you'd want to, then I won't have to do this--"

Without warning, he aimed the pistol at the Kuwaiti, and shot her in the head. The tape around secured on her mouth prevented her from screaming. She collapsed down the pole with the handcuff still around her wrist. "Now...do what I fucking tell you to do and you won't end up like her!"

Abutwa al-Qwuami walked over behind the video camera. "Now, get on the floor, spread your legs apart, and finger yourself...NOW!" The British woman had no other choice but to comply. The door rang just then, and the Syrian was disgusted. "Who could the shit could that be?!"

He opened the door and he was surprised. There stood a man in his early fifties, with a white hair and handle-bar moustache, and a slight accent. This here was a man of all-time socialist career.

"O-Ocelot!" Abutwa stammered. "Goddamn, I wish I'd knew you'd be coming. What're you doing here?"

"Abutwa...you know why I'm here," Ocelot replied, taking a few short steps into the house, his brown cowboy boots clapping the ground. "I've come to get the package."

The Brit stopped fingering herself for the camera and looked over at the new arrival. She wasn't the least bit relieved. Instead, she grew more terrified.

"Ocelot, you know I don't know what you're talking about." There was laughter tangled in Ocelot's response. "Mr. al-Qwuami, I don't think you understand my English." The Russian man pulled out a Colt Single Shot revolver and aimed it straight in the Syrian terrorist's face. "I said...I've come to get the package." He depressed the trigger and before the bullet even had hit the man, he aimed the revolver at the naked British girl and shot her as well.

"Hmph." Revolver Ocelot walked over to a coffee table, dropping his revolver and picking up a bunch of blue-prints. As the Russian man made his way to the door, he looked over at the dead Kuwaiti, then the Brit he'd shot only seconds ago. He scowled at the dead woman, spit on her cold lifeless corpse, and said:

"Your Prime Minister will be joining you soon enough...Princess of Wales." With that, Ocelot shut the door, locked it, and got in his car. His flight to the United States would take off in two hours. It would've been best of him not to be late.