Chapter Two
The apartment was small and dank, both rooms almost completely covered in a deep blanket of darkness. The only light came from a computer screen, which threw small pockets of light onto objects around the desk upon which it sat. Although it had not long been occupied, the room was filled with box upon box of technical equipment, carefully shielded from the drips of stagnant water that often fell from the dilapidated ceiling. It was late, but neither of the two occupants lay upon their tattered mattresses.
A man sat upright at the monitor, typing diligently. From time to time the light from the monitor would leap from his glasses and dance on the ceiling above, but he never looked up to notice. His face told a tale of exhaustion, but he had never stopped for a rest over the week since his sister died. He had connected the computer up and set up the laser trip wires in the apartment all by himself, although assistance had been offered. Now he typed, looking up every link and crawling up every tunnel all the way to their frustrating dead ends.
"Do you ever stop, Otacon?" The voice belonged to the other occupant of the room. He had been out, but had now returned to the run down apartment.
"Not in this lifetime, Snake," came the final defiant reply. Otacon was somewhat surprised, and slightly frustrated, at first that the former FOXHOUND operative had managed to get all the way across the room to the light switch without tripping any lasers. "I ...didn't hear you come in."
"Huh." Snake thought it ironic that this was the first time, in a career based around stealth, that someone had noticed how quiet he could be. He realised that Otacon didn't mean it as a joke before remembering that Otacon paid very little attention to him nowadays anyway. "How goes the search?" Snake said it more assertively than he meant to. The atmosphere in the room was tense with testosterone, and each word was tipped with an edge.
"I'm trying. The kid hasn't been hidden in cyberspace." Otacon's voice creaked with tiredness. He didn't mean to sound agitated, but Snake immediately rounded on it. He needed nothing sounded out to him.
"Good luck," Snake pursed sharply.
"Look Snake, I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound rude. It's just that..."
Otacon looked around the empty room in vain. This was not a recent disagreement; Snake and himself had been building stressed tension between each other since the Big Shell, and Otacon thought with anger at himself that he had done little if anything to stop it.
It was at that moment that it all caught up with Hal Emmerich, dropping down on him from high above. He'd loved her; she was dead, but not the first. She had been so young, so vibrant; reunited...and now, instead of avenging her, he lived like bickering rat with the closest person left to him in the world, following filthy rodent's holes down to their dead concrete ends. How long would it be before they stepped on a Patriot mousetrap? How long before they were wiped out and covered over, a dirty secret never to be told again...
Without knowing fully why, Otacon threw his glasses to the floor and slipped slowly from his chair to the ground, choking on his own saliva as he tried to inhale. He didn't know whether he cried for Wolf, or E.E., or for himself. It was enough to know that he cried.
******
Half a country away, a man's torture had been stopped. Release was imminent. He stumbled out into the unknown, body scarred and aching. Instinct drove him to his goal. When he fell in the hot desert sand he could hear his captors' voice laughing in his ear, this being the only force that would ever cause him to rise to his feet each time. Whoever he was, he would not die. Wherever he was, he would never give up. Revenge would be his.
******
Snake walked slowly down the small flight of steps from the apartments before stepping briskly into the heavy rain. His trench coat offered little protection, and his hand even less for the cigarette he attempted to light in vain. Dropping the now-useless smoke in a nearby puddle, he brought his jacket lapels up around his face and began to step gradually down the New York backstreet. More than anything, he hid his face from the opening heavens rather than potential bounty hunters. He had needed to get away though; he was frankly sick of Otacon's constant irritation. It seemed more and more now that Otacon strongly disapproved of many of Snake's actions, such as smoking. Over the past week he refused Snake's help setting up several pieces of technical equipment, waving it away with a motion of his hand. It had been the very same type of superiority "we're right, you're wrong, do it our way" complex crap that had driven Snake out of the CIA, and he'd be damned to Hell if he were going to be spoon-fed it courtesy of his own comrade...
The sky continued to weep while Snake walked over the streets and jogged through his consciousness. A blind preacher had stood just metres from where Snake now was and shouted to the heavens about the creation. Snake could not remember the last time he had trusted his fate to any being other than himself, and he had certainly not prayed since Shadow Moses. When he uncovered his manufactured and soulless roots, whatever link with heaven the lone soldier had was severed.
The dank odour of spirits and urine hung in the atmosphere. Steam rose out of rusted iron gratings and tainted the nostrils and glass hung shattered and useless from nearby window frames. Without meaning to, Snake had walked into the slums. The people around him had gradually grown less numerous. No amount of feigned ignorance on behalf of the city council could smother the slum's existence. Not unlike Philanthropy was to the Patriots, the slum lingered like a purpled eye on the Mayor's office's collective face. None moved in, few moved out; things rarely changed.
But that night someone had entered. Snake walked down the black wet streets harbouring little fear. From time to time, cracked voices would arise from out of the dark, never quickening the pace of his steps. He expected an attack eventually: drugs ran as fast as water in this neighbourhood, and mugged money was the tap.
However, when the attack finally came the former covert was caught unprepared. A blow found his kidneys, and the glint of a blade caught the corner of his eye. Snake twisted round, and brought his elbow into his attacker's solar plexus. Instinct. A second forearm brought the assaulter to his knees, and it was Snake's knuckles that smashed the man unconscious. Snake stepped back, holding his lower back in pain. He threw his coat to the ground and slumped onto an overturned bench. A stabbing pain was gripping his kidneys, and suddenly he felt the need to relieve himself. The man in front of him was beginning to stir. Enraged, Snake stumbled forward in agony and swung a kick hard into the addict's groaning face. Blood poured from the man's head, and he rolled backwards before laying still on the soaked pavement.
I had no right. He was distraught with himself. The man had attacked to satisfy what had become his most basic need: money for the next fix. It had been wrong of Snake to consider him the lowest sort of man. Snake could not bring himself to turn the body over; he instead fell to the floor nearby. The pain from his back was now unbelievable, and Snake could see his own grimace in the reflection of the attacker's bloodied knife. It hit Snake. He hadn't been punched in the back: the attacker had led with his switchblade, bringing it through Snake's organs. It wasn't the same rain that had dulled Snake's hearing to allow the man's assailment that now soaked Snake's hands, but Snake's own lifeblood. The cold spread from within through his entire body and slowly smothered his consciousness, enshrouding him like a lover. The cold brought on darkness, which gripped his vision, and the former commando's head hit the pavement. He reached for the last thing he saw before the dark overtook him: the bottom of a white doctor's coat...
The apartment was small and dank, both rooms almost completely covered in a deep blanket of darkness. The only light came from a computer screen, which threw small pockets of light onto objects around the desk upon which it sat. Although it had not long been occupied, the room was filled with box upon box of technical equipment, carefully shielded from the drips of stagnant water that often fell from the dilapidated ceiling. It was late, but neither of the two occupants lay upon their tattered mattresses.
A man sat upright at the monitor, typing diligently. From time to time the light from the monitor would leap from his glasses and dance on the ceiling above, but he never looked up to notice. His face told a tale of exhaustion, but he had never stopped for a rest over the week since his sister died. He had connected the computer up and set up the laser trip wires in the apartment all by himself, although assistance had been offered. Now he typed, looking up every link and crawling up every tunnel all the way to their frustrating dead ends.
"Do you ever stop, Otacon?" The voice belonged to the other occupant of the room. He had been out, but had now returned to the run down apartment.
"Not in this lifetime, Snake," came the final defiant reply. Otacon was somewhat surprised, and slightly frustrated, at first that the former FOXHOUND operative had managed to get all the way across the room to the light switch without tripping any lasers. "I ...didn't hear you come in."
"Huh." Snake thought it ironic that this was the first time, in a career based around stealth, that someone had noticed how quiet he could be. He realised that Otacon didn't mean it as a joke before remembering that Otacon paid very little attention to him nowadays anyway. "How goes the search?" Snake said it more assertively than he meant to. The atmosphere in the room was tense with testosterone, and each word was tipped with an edge.
"I'm trying. The kid hasn't been hidden in cyberspace." Otacon's voice creaked with tiredness. He didn't mean to sound agitated, but Snake immediately rounded on it. He needed nothing sounded out to him.
"Good luck," Snake pursed sharply.
"Look Snake, I'm sorry. I don't mean to sound rude. It's just that..."
Otacon looked around the empty room in vain. This was not a recent disagreement; Snake and himself had been building stressed tension between each other since the Big Shell, and Otacon thought with anger at himself that he had done little if anything to stop it.
It was at that moment that it all caught up with Hal Emmerich, dropping down on him from high above. He'd loved her; she was dead, but not the first. She had been so young, so vibrant; reunited...and now, instead of avenging her, he lived like bickering rat with the closest person left to him in the world, following filthy rodent's holes down to their dead concrete ends. How long would it be before they stepped on a Patriot mousetrap? How long before they were wiped out and covered over, a dirty secret never to be told again...
Without knowing fully why, Otacon threw his glasses to the floor and slipped slowly from his chair to the ground, choking on his own saliva as he tried to inhale. He didn't know whether he cried for Wolf, or E.E., or for himself. It was enough to know that he cried.
******
Half a country away, a man's torture had been stopped. Release was imminent. He stumbled out into the unknown, body scarred and aching. Instinct drove him to his goal. When he fell in the hot desert sand he could hear his captors' voice laughing in his ear, this being the only force that would ever cause him to rise to his feet each time. Whoever he was, he would not die. Wherever he was, he would never give up. Revenge would be his.
******
Snake walked slowly down the small flight of steps from the apartments before stepping briskly into the heavy rain. His trench coat offered little protection, and his hand even less for the cigarette he attempted to light in vain. Dropping the now-useless smoke in a nearby puddle, he brought his jacket lapels up around his face and began to step gradually down the New York backstreet. More than anything, he hid his face from the opening heavens rather than potential bounty hunters. He had needed to get away though; he was frankly sick of Otacon's constant irritation. It seemed more and more now that Otacon strongly disapproved of many of Snake's actions, such as smoking. Over the past week he refused Snake's help setting up several pieces of technical equipment, waving it away with a motion of his hand. It had been the very same type of superiority "we're right, you're wrong, do it our way" complex crap that had driven Snake out of the CIA, and he'd be damned to Hell if he were going to be spoon-fed it courtesy of his own comrade...
The sky continued to weep while Snake walked over the streets and jogged through his consciousness. A blind preacher had stood just metres from where Snake now was and shouted to the heavens about the creation. Snake could not remember the last time he had trusted his fate to any being other than himself, and he had certainly not prayed since Shadow Moses. When he uncovered his manufactured and soulless roots, whatever link with heaven the lone soldier had was severed.
The dank odour of spirits and urine hung in the atmosphere. Steam rose out of rusted iron gratings and tainted the nostrils and glass hung shattered and useless from nearby window frames. Without meaning to, Snake had walked into the slums. The people around him had gradually grown less numerous. No amount of feigned ignorance on behalf of the city council could smother the slum's existence. Not unlike Philanthropy was to the Patriots, the slum lingered like a purpled eye on the Mayor's office's collective face. None moved in, few moved out; things rarely changed.
But that night someone had entered. Snake walked down the black wet streets harbouring little fear. From time to time, cracked voices would arise from out of the dark, never quickening the pace of his steps. He expected an attack eventually: drugs ran as fast as water in this neighbourhood, and mugged money was the tap.
However, when the attack finally came the former covert was caught unprepared. A blow found his kidneys, and the glint of a blade caught the corner of his eye. Snake twisted round, and brought his elbow into his attacker's solar plexus. Instinct. A second forearm brought the assaulter to his knees, and it was Snake's knuckles that smashed the man unconscious. Snake stepped back, holding his lower back in pain. He threw his coat to the ground and slumped onto an overturned bench. A stabbing pain was gripping his kidneys, and suddenly he felt the need to relieve himself. The man in front of him was beginning to stir. Enraged, Snake stumbled forward in agony and swung a kick hard into the addict's groaning face. Blood poured from the man's head, and he rolled backwards before laying still on the soaked pavement.
I had no right. He was distraught with himself. The man had attacked to satisfy what had become his most basic need: money for the next fix. It had been wrong of Snake to consider him the lowest sort of man. Snake could not bring himself to turn the body over; he instead fell to the floor nearby. The pain from his back was now unbelievable, and Snake could see his own grimace in the reflection of the attacker's bloodied knife. It hit Snake. He hadn't been punched in the back: the attacker had led with his switchblade, bringing it through Snake's organs. It wasn't the same rain that had dulled Snake's hearing to allow the man's assailment that now soaked Snake's hands, but Snake's own lifeblood. The cold spread from within through his entire body and slowly smothered his consciousness, enshrouding him like a lover. The cold brought on darkness, which gripped his vision, and the former commando's head hit the pavement. He reached for the last thing he saw before the dark overtook him: the bottom of a white doctor's coat...
