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In the Debris
CHAPTER 1
"What is that stance? That gun?"
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Walking into that room was like walking into a dream you never want to wake up from. The time that he spent within the confines of the room, just talking with EVA about the mission at hand and what was going to happen . . . it had been a whole lot better than rushing back out into the ruins and continuing on with the mission as soon as possible would have been. He wished now that he could have thought of something else to say or to ask, to stall EVA, to hear her voice just a little more, to watch her mouth move as she spoke.

Jack walked up to the dusty table in the corner and knelt down. Ocelot stopped in the middle of the room to watch as his former enemy-now-turned-comrade pulled a pair of tall, dull gray, military-style boots out from under the table. Jack had to choke back the emotion that was overcoming him. He did love EVA . . . even if she had left him the way that she had and turned out to be a spy from China. The boots . . . they were the boots that EVA had left here that day. The one's she had kicked under the table when Snake had entered the room.

She'd never came back for the boots. He could understand why; there wasn't much reason left to. By the time she probably could have left Groznyj Grad after returning from giving Snake the key to the underground entrance, she was spending that short freedom getting ready for the final showdown . . . no time to worry whether or not she was wearing the right boots anymore. The mistake had been made and no one had killed her yet for said mistake. Things were obviously fine. Ocelot had probably been the only one to notice the different boots anyway.

Now the boots were the only thing he had left of EVA that wasn't a memory of her voice, or her smell, or her touch.

Ocelot looked the boots over, recognizing them instantly as the one's that EVA had worn as Tatyana. Realizing that Big Boss must be reminiscing again, the Major didn't want to disturb him but Ocelot also didn't want to stay here longer than he had to. He'd already been wandering around the forests gathering up his remaining Ocelot Unit members for the past few days. All that wandering had ruined his second-to-last uniform . . . he was now wearing his last. The one with the tartar stain on the shirt.

Something didn't quite . . . feel right about Groznyj Grad. It was destroyed, but there was still some kind of powerful force emanating from its rubble. Ocelot would do anything to get away from the rubble of Groznyj Grad as quickly as possible.

"John," Ocelot started, "I really believe we should be going. . . ." he finished, a hint of urgency carrying in his voice.

Jack spotted hint and stood, clutching the boots in his arms. "Alright. Sorry about that. I got a little . . . lost."

"It happens to the best of us." Jack nodded in agreement and followed Ocelot as the Russian pushed open the door opposite the one they had just used to enter the shack, and walked down the stairs.

Less than a minute later, they had boarded the helicopter, two of the three remaining Ocelot Unit members sitting in seats across from Adamska and Jack with the third piloting the helicopter.

"We're really lucky," the taller of the two sitting in back with Adamska and Jack began, "that Vitaly survived or else we'd never get out of here."

Jack questioned him. "Why's that?"

"Vitaly is one of only three in our unit who could pilot an aircraft," the soldier stated, staring oddly at Jack. Jack stared back for a moment before scanning the soldier's uniform for his rank and his name tag. The uniform was ripped in numerous places and strips had been torn off here and there to wrap around injuries on his body but amazingly, the patch stating his last name had remained in tact. "Petronovich" was stitched in capital, black letters. Other patches on the soldier's uniform were missing, making it difficult for Jack to identify his rank.

The soldier sitting beside him was quietly staring out one of the helicopter's two small windows. There was a makeshift splint on his right arm; strips of material from a fellow soldier's shirt was wrapped around two thick branches on either side of his forearm, tightly tied so as not to come loose unexpectedly. A sling wrapped around the arm and over his shoulder to keep the arm elevated. The name tag on his shirt was slightly battered: it was covered in dirt and blood and the stitching keeping it connected to the shirt was pulling apart but the name was still readable. "Koveskny" was the soldier's surname.

Koveskny and Petronovich weren't actually stitched into the patches, but rather those two names in Russian. Ковесни and Петронович were what was seen on the patches, but translated the words read "Koveskny" and "Petronovich".

Snake elbowed Ocelot lightly and nodded towards Vitaly in the cockpit. "Vitaly . . . what's his last name?"

The Ocelot unit commander answered quickly. "Tselinodov," he informed Jack.

"Major," Koveskny said, startling the other occupants of the helicopter who had assumed that the silence having befallen them after Ocelot told Jack Vitaly's last name was to remain until they reached an airport.

Ocelot nodded to the silent soldier. "What is it, Koveskny?"

"Why is . . . that man . . . was he not . . ."

"Who, John?" — Koveskny nodded — "He may have been our enemy at one point in time but he is no longer. This is all you need to know at present." Koveskny returned to staring back out of the window and silence, once again, reigned over the helicopter passengers.

"We'll be landing at Kalai-khumb airport in approximately ten minutes," announced Vitaly, the silence again disturbed.

Ocelot nodded absently in response, glancing around the interior of the helicopter and observing more intently how close the thing was to falling apart. Vitaly had mentioned something about barely being able to salvage it and then later commenting after he'd flown it, how he was surprised it had actually stayed airborne and not been ripped apart in the winds.

While their unit commander was looking around the helicopter, Koveskny and Petronovich were introducing themselves properly to Big Boss.

Koveskny held out his left hand to Snake. The CIA agent shook the Ocelot's hand. "I'm Captain Kazimir Koveskny of the Ocelot Unit," the injured Captain stated, breaking the handshake with Snake to salute him. Snake raised his hand and touched his forehead, bringing his hand back down slightly in a half-salute.

Petronovich, who had use of both his arms, reached over and shook hands with Snake while saluting. "Specialist Lev Petronovich of the Ocelot Unit," said Petronovich as Snake did another half salute and broke the handshake.

"Specialist, huh?" questioned Jack. "What do you specialize in?"

"Long-range combat, though I'm just as skilled in close-range. I didn't see much action while we were here."

Snake nodded. "Your sniper rifle collected some dust, then?"

Lev laughed. "Yeah, it did." He smiled at the CIA agent, warming up to the former enemy already. "Say, you speak Russian quite well. Where did you learn it?"

"Ot moyego nastavnika."

"Your mentor?" Petronovich took a moment to think, trying to remember what his commander had said about Snake's mentor. "Ah, The Boss, right?"

Big Boss blinked away a single tear. "Yeah, that's right.

Vitaly, the pilot, turned his head to look back at Snake for a moment before turning back to the front of the cockpit. He raised his right hand and did a small salute in the air for Snake to see. "Name's Vitaly Tselinodov. Senior Lieutenant of the Ocelot Unit." Snake didn't make any move to salute back; Vitaly wouldn't have seen it anyway.

Inhaling deeply, Jack introduced himself, "Big Boss."

Ocelot laughed. "Well, Big Boss, I'm sure the CIA would be happy that you acknowledge the name given to you."

Big Boss slowly turned his head to look at Ocelot. "How do you — "

"Soon, John. A few more hours. You can wait that long . . . can't you?"

Jack looked away. He could wait a few more hours. . . .

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"Sir!" Vitaly, Petronovich and Koveskny stood in a line, saluting their commander. Ocelot walked three steps forward, leaving two feet of space between him and the Ocelots.

Adamska's hand moved up to his forehead in a salute, his feet slid together and he stood up straight before pulling his hand downwards. The last of the Ocelot unit repeated the procedure. "Ocelot unit," Ocelot nodded to each man, "you are hereby . . . dismissed." He spun around on his heel and walked swiftly back to where Jack stood waiting for him. The Ocelots headed off in the opposite direction, back toward the helicopter they'd arrived in.

"Well, John, I suppose its time to head to the United States, wouldn't you say?"

Jack didn't respond. He stared off into the distance, spotting the familiar mountain range where Tselinoyarsk is located.

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"What?"

"It was a fake."

"You . . . you're . . . kidding, right?"

"No." The Chinese military General paced back and forth across the floor of his office. A woman with blond hair sat in a chair in front of his desk.

Her eyes were wide with fear. "What's going to — "

"Happen to you?" The woman nods. "A demotion is in order. We do not tolerate failure and your's is no exception."

The woman bows her head in shame as the General continues. "You will no longer be an undercover agent for the Philosopher's . . . for all we're concerned, the Philosophers no longer exist. Instead, you will be assigned to a post in Hanoi as a foot soldier. A file will be readied by the end of the day with details."

Standing, the woman salutes. The General glowers at her, but salutes all the same. "Dismissed, Lance Corporal Lian Fang."

The newly demoted Lance Corporal Lian Fang hurried from the General's office.

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The sky was blackening with an approaching storm. Jack stared sullenly out the window, hardly blinking as he watched lightning bolts lash out from the clouds in the distance. The storm wasbringing on memories . . . memories he didn't want to think about. Memories from years and years ago and memories still fresh in his mind.

The Sorrow's words entered his thoughts. "Sad, so sad," he had said . . . it was sad. But then again . . . what was so sad? Was it sad that the tiniest thing sparked unwanted memories for Jack? Memories that he really wished he could forget? Or was it sad that . . . he was dwelling on the past, trying to forget what had happened when he should just accept it and move on?

"Jack, do you remember what we discussed yesterday?"

"Of course. Disarm, disable and dismantle."

"Yes. Now, Jack, demonstrate. I want you to attack me with everything you have. Disarm me, knock me senseless and then dismantle my weapon."

He'd never been able to do it. He got up to disarming The Boss, and then she would retaliate too fast for Jack to incapacitate her. He would always end up thrown on the ground, groaning in pain and The Boss would reprimand him for it. It didn't help that it had started raining a few minutes earlier that first day they'd practiced that technique, but the weather conditions didn't matter . . . whether they were favorable or not, The Boss and Jack were going to be out developing close quarters combat.

"How are you supposed to help in the creation of close quarters combat if you can't even use it effectively against me?"

"Boss, I'm — "

"Get up, Jack. Now try again. Remember: disarm, disable, dismantle."

Jack's back was aching. His entire body was remembering the pain it had felt at that time . . . The Boss had been cruel while they were creating close quarters combat together, but in the end, Jack had benefitted. He may not have been able to ever defeat The Boss using close quarters combat against her, but he did know all of the evasive, defensive and offensive actions of the combat style they had developed together. She had used all of the moves more effectively than Jack ever could . . . but in time, Jack knew that he would learn to use them just as well as she had.

A lightning bolt raced across the sky and another memory came to Jack's mind.

Thunder booms. "Who's afraid of a little thunder?" Lightning strikes from the sky and smites the electrically charged Russian. The bullets surrounding his body explode as he is electrocuted and catches fire.

"Fried by a bolt of lightning," Snake muses, "a fitting end. It's finally over."

The death of Yevgeny Borisovitch Volgin was most definitely a favor to the world. Jack felt no remorse over his death . . . definitely not.

"John," Ocelot was staring at Jack with a curious look on his features. "Something bothering you?"

Jack glanced at Ocelot, but quickly turned back to the window. "No."

Ocelot looked away, somehow understanding that Jack didn't want to talk about it. More nostalgia, maybe? Multiple bursts of lightning arced across the sky as Ocelot looked out the window next to the seats ahead of Jack and himself. The young Russian was suddenly reminded of Volgin causing his eyes to involuntarily narrow.

"John," the twenty year-old was interrupting Jack's thoughts again. "You did . . . kill Volgin, right?"

The CIA agent was eyeing Adamska funny. One eyebrow was raised slightly higher than the other and a look of almost complete shock crossed the rest of his face. "Me? No, I didn't kill him."

Ocelot's jaw dropped. "You mean he's — "

Jack laughed. "No! He's dead alright. Fried by a bolt of lightning."

Now Ocelot was laughing. "Now I understand."

"I did help him along a little though . . . wore him out a bit."

"As long as he's dead. . . ."

"Oh, he's dead." The two ceased talking after receiving odd stares from nearby passengers of the airliner. Jack went back to staring out the window and Ocelot leaned back in his seat, closing his eyes in an attempt to take a nap.

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It was a welcome change. Being back in a city, surrounded by people, buildings and stores with prepackaged food. Not in the jungle surrounded by guards armed with assault rifles and grenades, being forced to eat whatever animals he came across. Jack took in a breath and screwed his face up in disdain. The air smelled horrible; maybe he did prefer the jungle over this. He'd been back in the United States for a week before he'd traveled back to Tselinoyarsk, but he hadn't been in New York. He'd been down south, at Langley, sitting alone in his quaint little house just outside a small patch of woods. It had been then, when he was taking a walk through the woods, that he had suddenly wanted to return to Tselinoyarsk . . . one last time.

Adamska lightly punched Jack on the chest, bringing him back down to Earth. "John, come on. My apartment is only a block away and what we have to talk about is very important. It cannot wait much longer."

Jack realized Ocelot's hurry; they were both very out of place in their military attire; Jack had been wearing his field uniform when he'd flown to Tselinoyarsk and Ocelot was still in his. The two were attracting a lot of attention.

Quickly, the two men walked the last block to Ocelot's apartment.

---

"John, what I have to tell you is top secret information."

Jack nodded. "Don't worry; I'm used to hearing that."

"Good. Ah, where should I start? Well, for one, I've been triple-crossing the Soviet Union."

"Triple-crossing?"

"Yes. I've been working for the KGB, GRU and the American Philosophers."

"That must have been pretty hard to do."

"Of course. My only true alliance lies with the Philosophers. They say I was born on the beaches of Normandy, the son of some great soldier or legendary hero."

Big Boss nods, acknowledging the information, having heard it before and knowing just who his mother and father were. He completely remembered EVA's words.

"That's what I heard. They say that when they stitched her up, the scar was shaped like a snake."

"Well, that's battlefield medicine for you. What about his father, this legendary hero?"

"He didn't tell me. I don't think Ocelot's ever met his parents."

He'd been so naive at that time. Immediately jumping to the conclusion that . . . the father was the legendary hero when it was really . . . the mother. He'd seen the scar for himself and it had been then that he'd realized.

"I don't think Ocelot's ever met his parents."

He had. At least . . . his mother, anyway, though he never knew it.

Ocelot was still talking. ". . . I've never met my parents and no one has ever told me who they are. But that's beside the point." Ocelot cleared his throat. "The day that you met the president in Langley, I was there."

"You are above even The Boss. I hereby award you the title of Big Boss." Big Boss salutes the president after a medal is pinned to his shirt.

"You are a true patriot." The president and Big Boss shake hands while Big Boss' gaze wanders. He stares out a window and sees . . . no, he says to himself, that can't be . . .

. . . Ocelot.

"I was watching, outside the window."

Jack grunts. "Yeah. I saw you. I didn't think it was you at first, but . . . it really was."

"You know about The Boss' mission, correct?"

"Of course."

"She was sent in to retrieve the Philosopher's Legacy . . . and then, her entire mission had to change when Volgin shot the American warhead at the Rassvet Factory." Ocelot pauses and Jack takes the opportunity to continue the story.

"Her mission was revised and expanded . . . her mission was to be killed by her mostbeloved disciple. She was to die, known only as a traitor, so as to keep Washington's hands clean."

"The Philosopher's Legacy . . . she succeeded in retrieving it of course."

"But I thought that — "

"No. EVA was given a fake. The real Philosopher's Legacy is here, safe in the United States. But we don't have all of it. Only fifty percent has made it back."

"Where's the rest?"

"We assume the KGB has the rest of it hidden somewhere."

"Are you going back to the Soviet Union to collect the rest of the Legacy?"

Ocelot smiles slightly. "I'm under orders. I have to. In fact," Ocelot points to a plane ticket on the coffee table in front of him. "I have to fly back tonight. That is why I was insisting that we hurry when returning to the United States. I cannot wait too long. My three remaining men will report back to Brezhnev and he will soon wonder where I am if I do not return soon. It will arouse suspicion. Once I report to Brezhnev, I must report to Khrushchev."

"How long do you think it'll take to collect the rest of the Legacy?"

"I"m not sure. It depends on how well hidden Khrushchev has the Legacy. Of course . . . it will be much easier to procure the rest of it . . . with you helping, John."

"What?"

"The FOX unit is under CIA control. You are at the CIA's disposal, just as I am. If I know the Director, he will use you and everyone else within FOX to help track down the Legacy."

". . . but without our knowledge and consent, right?"

"Yes. You'll be briefed on something that is relevant to the situation you are going into and you'll have mission objectives, but your ultimate mission objective will be collecting information. I can assure you that the CIA director will question you about what kinds of things you overheard during the mission. He'll ask subtle questions and you'll hopefully have the answers he wants."

"So, what you're saying is . . . I'll be sent on a mission, with some kind of objective like . . . destroy the nuclear threat, but what I'm not supposed to know is that I'm really being sent in to do this meaningless task for the CIA so I can collect information and then relay that information to the CIA Director?"

"Yes."

". . . the Legacy . . . at what length is the CIA willing to go to get the rest of it?"

"You saw what happened to The Boss."

"The Philosophers of today have no sense of good or evil."

"They have become war itself. That's how they operate."

"The sacrifices of war cause a shift in the times. This shift leads to renewed conflict and in turn triggers the next war. Like a nuclear chain reaction, each conflict sparks countless others, forming an endless spiral of war that continues on for eternity."

"By consuming me and you the Philosophers intend to keep their cycle going forever."

"What does the CIA . . . the American Philosophers, intend to do with the Legacy?"

"Oh, well, for one . . . there's this revolutionary new nuclear attack system that a man by the name of Aleksandr Leonovitch Granin developed . . ."

"Metal Gear, the revolutionary mobile nuclear system. A bipedal tank."

"You know of it?"

"Granin and I spoke. He was crocked, but his idea was ingenious."

---

They had talked for a few hours now. The Philosophers had come up into the conversation every now and then, but the conversation would usually be steered elsewhere. It had got uncomfortable, near the end. They'd run out of things to talk about and it was nearing the time for Ocelot to leave.

"Well, John," he said, standing and picking up his plane ticket. He'd changed into civilian clothes at some time during one their breaks in the conversation. He'd been generous enough to lend Jack some clothes too. They were a bit tight, but it would do for the time being.

There was a bag next to the couch. Ocelot grabbed the strap and threw it over his shoulder. It was filled with fresh military attire, along with Ocelot's dismantled revolvers.

". . . I really should be going. You're welcome to stay here if you'd like."

"Nah. I really should head home."

"Until the next time I see you then. . . ."

Big Boss stood as Ocelot headed for the door. "Wait. Ocelot."

The Russian stopped and turned his head. "What is it?"

"Its about your mother and father."

Ocelot was intrigued. He turned around completely to face the other man.

"You're the son of The Boss and The Sorrow." Jack knew it was the right thing to tell the boy. He had a right to know who his mother and father were.

The blond was stunned. "What?"

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A flash of lightning across the sky, then a booming thunderclap. Gray clouds slowly advanced upon Tselinoyarsk. Two Russian men stood outside a small cabin, staring out at the landscape from the porch.

"Kuwabara, kuwabara," murmured the taller of the two. He was more than slightly charred; his skin blackened, with long, white cracks interrupting the black at odd intervals. The results of harboring ten million volts within his body. The smaller man reached out a hand to caress the other's arm, only to take it back after a loud crack. The electrical discharge had burnt the tips of the man's fingers.

The taller man looked down at the other as he sucked on the burnt fingertips. "There is too much static in the air because of the storm," the blackened man stated. "Touching me right now is like touching metal after rubbing your feet on the carpet."

A strong wind blew the long, blond hair out of the smaller man's face as he fearlessly placed his hand on the charred man's arm. A stronger shock traveled through his body, but he shook it off. "I don't care. It is not a pleasant feeling, much unlike the therapeutic shocks you administer during our lovemaking . . . but I will endure."

"Raikov . . . Ivan, go inside. I'll be in soon."

Raikov smiled and sauntered inside the cabin, saying with absolute concern as he did, "Don't get struck by lightning."

Volgin chuckled. "I'll say 'kuwabara' again, just for you."

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END CHAPTER 1
"What is that stance? That gun?"
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Author's Notes:
-I translated Koveskny and Petronovich into Russian manually . . . then later went back and double-checked with an online translator.

-Kalai-khumb is a real airport.

-Something I want to mention: Right after I wrote the word "curious" describing the way Ocelot was looking at Jack . . . the phrase, "curiosity killed the cat" immediately popped into my head XD