Chapter Three

"Hrrm."

VII and Raiden stood in silenced awe at the bloodstained battlefield that had been the desert ground surrounding the Guard Shack. The sheet metal structure, separate from the main building, had been totally obliterated, and bodies of the dead and wounded lay lacerated and massacred on the sandy soil.

Raiden moved his hand to his head and nervously stroked the spiked hair on the back. A cold shiver ran down his spine, the product of the freezing darkness and the sight laid out before him. He felt like calling Rose again, just to hear the sound of her reassuring voice. He willed his eyes to stay open, staring at the gore that was worse than anything he'd seen since his childhood. Broken bodies of soldiers lay burned and bleeding in the night, and the still living wailed incoherent calls for the All Mighty to spare them.

VII knelt down at a nearby corpse, presumably to inspect it. After a few seconds, he spoke, his back still to Raiden.

"Knife wounds," he murmured, more to himself than his compatriot. Raiden slowly turned and looked over at VII, not entirely taking in what had been said. When it finally registered, it didn't make sense: there were bodies all around that had literally been torn in half by gunfire, and some looked as though they had been crushed, their intestines actually pounded into the sand by something very large and heavy. His mind began to piece it together.

"Jesus… this is not good," the younger man said, realising their enemies' capabilities. He'd stopped Metal Gear RAY models before, but that was with firepower way beyond the comparatively low standards of weapons he currently possessed.

"On the contrary," VII growled. "They've cleared a path for us." He walked towards a oversized pile of assorted rubble that had been messily assembled from the fallen east wall and part of the supporting beams of the Guard Shack and began pulling random pieces of concrete and metal, digging for something underneath. Raiden followed him; standing to one side so as not to hinder whatever process VII was putting into practice.

"What are we looking for?" the former FOX-HOUND operative enquired.

"Transport," VII grunted, the rattling in his throat getting heavier with exercise. "Are you going to help, or just stand there?"

With the two men on the job, it was not long before they had uncovered a small open-top military jeep. The windscreen was smashed, the bonnet crushed and it no longer had doors, but, if it worked, it would be better than travelling on foot. Liquid and Vamp were already way ahead of them.

When enough smashed material had been cleared, VII turned the key that was already in the ignition. When nothing happened, he walked round to the front and lifted the remnants of the bonnet. The dark made it impossible to see much.

"Hrrm," he murmured as he studied the engine. "I don't think it's been crushed."

"Let me have a look," Raiden interjected forcefully, shunting past the static form of VII and bending beneath the hood. VII willingly stepped back as Raiden messed with wires and reconnected lines to fuel gauges, assisted by a flashlight he'd picked up from the body of a nearby soldier, which he held awkwardly in his teeth. After a few minutes, he spoke again: "Try it now."

VII turned the key again, and the jeep stuttered nervously to life. Raiden re-emerged from beneath the hood, the grey material covering his hands blackened with oil. He used his wrist to wipe his forehead of fuel, and almost dropped the torch in the sand.

"Follow the yellow blood road," he said, leaping into the back seat and picking up his FA-MAS.


Snake pushed on through the empty corridors of Area 51, the contents of the container preying on his mind. His only opposition had been guards too weak to stand, let alone shoot, which left him free to concentrate on what he had seen. It had contained his gear, everything he'd used on a mission before.

…And some things he hadn't.

He wanted to go back, to study it more carefully, to see what remained to be seen. Snake even thought about telling Otacon about it, but something stopped him short of activating the Codec. In truth, these past few days… weeks, whatever… had made him reluctant to trust anyone. Perhaps it was a relapse of the post-traumatic stress disorder he'd suffered after Zanzibar, but Snake didn't feel himself. The torture had stripped something from him, something intangible. He wanted it back.

Snake's trail of thought was broken by a noise that echoed through the corridor around him. It was a female scream, a scream that Snake immediately recognised: one of the many that had lined the psychic backlash minutes ago. The operative quickened his pace and put his back to the cold wall when he had reached a corner, slowly moving his head to see around it with practiced coordination, his Universal Self-loading Pistol pointed to the ground. What he beheld surprised him.

There was a young girl, no more than twelve years old, struggling against a man who held her tight around the waist. The man was of average height with a considerable pouch, and was sweating from his receding brown hairline with the effort. However, as Snake looked closer, it seemed as though the girl hardly recognised his presence. She was fighting against something else entirely, something unseen. All in all, the man and the girl created a strange scene; hardly what Snake had expected to see in a covert military station.

Snake swiftly decided that he'd put an end to it. Perhaps the man could provide him with answers, he thought, as he stepped out from behind the corner.

"Freeze!" Snake commanded forcefully, aiming his gun at the man's head with robotic motion. He had no want to hurt or frighten the girl, but this was the only way he could see to stop the attack. The man looked up, almost in tears of exhaustion, and relinquished his hold on the girl. Snake saw him clearly for the first time, instantly recognising him from classified FOX-HOUND files he'd seen years ago. Peculiarly, the girl neither stopped her assault nor tried to run away. She continued to shout, and strike out at the air with pure hatred painted across her face.

Snake approached cautiously, trying to reason with her to stop. She cursed violently, frighteningly. He was almost within touching distance when one of her flailing fists was thrown towards him. Snake's reflexes were quick, and with almost inhuman speed he grabbed her firmly around the wrist before the blow fell. She continued to strike out, hitting him around the face and neck. It was clear that she was out of her mind, temporarily or otherwise. Snake calmly put his USP away and pulled the M-9 from his leg holster. Using a weapon on a child was the last thing he had wanted, but he needed to get her to a safer location, and he could only achieve this with her cooperation. He fired, and, with tranquiliser dart in her neck, the young girl quickly slowed her movements to a halt, going limp in Snake's arms after only a few seconds. It was then that his eyes met hers. The girl had eyes he'd seen before, but Snake couldn't place where. They were small and angular, almost like someone of Asian origin, holding within them a deep, saddening, and beautiful, blue. They closed slowly, and the violence in Snake's world temporarily melted away with them.

After a few seconds, Snake turned to the man in the doctor's coat. "Doctor James Dawson," he said gruffly, un-equipping his pistol. "Mind telling me what the fuck is going on here?"

Snake grabbed Dawson's stationary form around his coat lapels and slammed him against the corridor wall. He stared deep into Dawson, making sure his knuckles were pressing heavily into the Doctor's ribcage. Dawson stuttered an incoherent reply. Snake smelled the sweat, the very fear dripping off Dawson's body. The cowardice disgusted him.

"We're going to play a game," Snake told him. "I'll try and guess the Patriots' plan, and you can let me know if I'm right."

The Doctor, having no other foreseeable alternative, nodded as visibly as he could manage. A second later, and the formidable muscles of the military man pulled Dawson foward from the wall and rapidly dictated his journey through a nearby door, marked "MEDICAL SUPPLIES".

Snake watched the overweight physician roll around on the floor in agony for a few seconds, before he decided it was time to begin the interrogation. He knelt down and lifted Dawson from the ground, ignoring the screams of fatigue from his biceps, and walked him quickly to a nearby wall before throwing him against it. There was an empty wooden shelf not half a foot above Dawson's head. Ignoring the man's whimpering, he turned to a shelf to his left, on which there was a multitude of chemical jars. After a moment of searching, he found the rare specimen he wanted.

"Hmm. Variola virus," Snake muttered loud enough for Dawson to hear. "I thought this had been wiped out."

Taking it, he placed it on the shelf above Dawson, directly above the man's head. The doctor trembled with anticipated fear.

"If I guess right, and you tell me I'm wrong, then you end up with some serious sick leave on your hands," Snake said. "I'll know if you're lying."

Dawson whimpered again. He was sweltering more profusely than ever thanks to the liquid terror that hung above his head.

"Are you... you..." Dawson began to stutter. His situation didn't appear entirely hopeless: perhaps he could try to talk his way out of it. "You can't just... it could start an outbreak... another smallpox epidemic! You could kill millions!"

Snake cracked a smile through bruised lips, and unexpectedly lashed out hard towards Dawson. His straight punch missed the man's head by centrimetres and connected hard with the wall against which Dawson was leant. The chemical jar rattled on the shelf and jumped closer to the edge. It was then that Dawson got the game, and didn't speak out of turn again.


"Having fun yet?"

The arrogant English accent boomed sickeningly over the P.A. system of Metal Gear RAY, penetrating viciously in the ears of US soldiers who were the last outer defence of Area 51. All around, there were people desperately fighting for their lives. Any sort of manufactured cover or artillery was instantly obliterated by the minature missiles that the RAY unit deployed, and ranks were broken by frightenly fast charges made by the machine. Single soldiers were mopped up with the rail gun on the RAY's deformed, reptillian "head"; tanks put up little or no resistance, their shells bouncing uselessly off the almost indestructible outer counting of the bi-pedal war machine. Liquid Snake was enjoying himself.

The only other smile in the remote area was on the face of the presumed supernatural entity, Vamp. He dashed through the close quarter combatants like a ballerina, slicing through vital organs like an orchestral conductor cuts through air. All around, soldiers were lying dead or vomiting uncontrollably into the sand, which had been saturated with blood and other bodily fluids. Some battled on, but were ill-prepared for the lightning fast, hypnotic movements of Vamp.

He smelled fear erupting from their mouths, pores and crotches, and it made him hard.

The vampire sensed something moving unnaturally fast towards him, behind his back. He jumped, and somersaulted over the approaching object. Landing softly, he saw it was a jeep which carried two. Ahead of him, the vehicle swerved around, sending sand sweeping up into the air as the tyres whipped through the ground. The passenger lept off the back, narrowly avoided landing in a dismembered corpse, executed a commando roll and aimed and fired a FA-MAS submachine gun in Vamp's direction with practiced speed and expert accuracy. The vampire had practically no time to react, but managed to spin on instinct to avoid all injury, save for a few rips in his trench coat. Interesting, Vamp thought. Raiden.

Raiden watched the Thing spin majestically, and could do nothing but empty his clip at the thick air around him. His heart thumped like a fast handclap, but reloading was instictively fast. He slammed the next clip in and aimed again with amazing quickness, but Vamp had gone.

"Fast," said a voice from behind Raiden, surely too quiet to cut through the surrounding gunfire, yet as clear as the moon that lit their battle. "...But not fast enough."

Raiden whirled around, only to have his assault rifle ripped easily from his hands. A grip of cold iron closed around his shoulder as he met Vamp's icy stare, and he found himself being lifted easily off the ground.

Stupid kid, VII thought as he spun the steering wheel. Get yourself killed on your own time.

The jeep handled like it was on square wheels, but VII managed, with effort, to face it towards Vamp once more.

"Foolish and foolhardy as ever," Vamp concluded, addressing Raiden. "You're being played again, boy."

"You're sick," Raiden spat. "I owe you big time for Emma, you bastard."

Vamp's mouth lengthened into a smile, revealing the ends of two snow-white canine teeth that indented the skin of his bottom lip. It mocked Raiden's anger, almost taking a higher ground, ridiculing the importance of one small, frightened girl weighed against all that was occuring. Then, without warning, it lost all it's placcid features, contorting into an animalistic snarl. Feeding time.

As Vamp's mouth closed in on his would-be victim's unprotected neck arteries, Raiden threw up a last second act of defiance, in the form of a "flashbang" stun grenade. The magnesium charge penetrated Raiden's closed eyelids, causing small spots to partially obscure his vison, but Vamp was temporarily blinded. Long before the creature could maintain it's composure, the cascading jeep went crashing into it's side, knocking the vampire beneath the battleworn chasse and smashing over him.

Raiden picked himself up, having dived blindly out of the way of the jeep. Seeing Vamp lying prostrate and motionless on the ground, he saw a chance to fulfil his revenge. Reaching over his shoulder, he drew his High Frequency blade from the sheath on his back and approached Vamp. He was irate with rage, desperate to avenge Emma.

"Let's see you get up from this," Radien shouted at the unconscious vampire, and swung a decapitating blow at his neck.

Inches away from his injured enemy, his slice was halted. His arm was held sharply in place by a figure at his side. Raiden turned, seeing the featureless mask of VII staring back at him. He'd been so close. He cursed sharply in his mind, and glared at his ally with a face afflicted with pain and anger both.

"What...?" Raiden had intened to ask VII just what the fuck he was doing, but was cut off immedietely by a mechanically enhanced, English accented voice.

"Well, well, well," came the chilling voice from the gargantuan Metal Gear. "Isn't this a pleasant surprise?"

Raiden wondered why the sounds of battle had stopped. Looking around, he saw that the massacre was over. US troops were either lying obliterated or swiftly retreating back towards Area 51. VII had betrayed him, and Vamp was beginning to stir on the field's ground beneath them. Jack felt sick.

"THE Raiden," Liquid mockingly observed aloud. "The Hero of the Big Shell."

"...And you," Liquid stated, the massive armed head of Metal Gear turning quickly towards VII. "'Seven.' I wondered when I'd be meeting you."

"Liquid," VII muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

"Well, it's been an honour, gentlemen," Liquid laughed. The huge railgun attatched to the RAY's shoulder began to charge with an all-too audible hum. "But I can afford no interference in a mission of this importance.

"It's just about time for you to die."


Author's Note: Sorry that was a bit of a short chapter, but hey, it was fun. I feel I'm going somewhere.

I've noticed that some writers on this site don't like their work criticised. Sure, they don't mind if someone points out a small grammar mistake or two; but if a reviewer is to point out a flaw in the plot or something they don't like in the story, then the writer will often hit out at the critic, often in an impolite manner. You've probably heard, "It's my story, so if you don't like it then don't read it,"-type responses to reviews before, and I'll admit that I've probably been like that in the past before.

But no longer. If there's something in Legacy of Blood that turns you off the plot, or an inclusion or portrayal of a character that you dislike, then don't hasten to let me know. If you want to suggest a future development, tell me about it and I'll get back to you. I've not planned this thing out with a stone and a chisel, y'know. After all, I'm writing this for you guys as much as I am for myself.