Timeline D: (x-y)=0.9 (1:12) (n:corrupt)

No matter what anybody tells you, New York is lovely this time of year.
Hal put the phone down. "Well, I should think that's it." he said.
"I'm not surprised. David growled. "We did everything except crash the damn plane into their radar dishes."
David was sulking. In a very pronounced way. Sulking and smoking. He was smoking in a very pronounced way, too. The forces combined were- overpowering to say the least. The atmosphere was literally and figuratively poisonous.
Hal waved himself a path through the stinking cloud, sat at the table.
"You know, you chose this too, you know."
The apartment, such as was, had been stripped of furniture in preparation for their departure, and the table, chairs and few oddments of technology were all that remained, besides the suspicious crack in the drywall and the patch of god-knows-what that had been quietly growing and developing sentience on the kitchen countertop.
A great sigh escaped the low-slung figure.
"Yeah, yeah," he said, grinding the cigarette out in a fairly descriptive manner. "Under duress."
Hal looked around, more for something to do. He took note of the bare walls, the joyless institution green colour of the paint.
"Well, they'll be here soon." he said "why don't we go outside?"
"Outside?" David said.
"Yeah. None of this will matter anymore," he said, cheerfully indicating the remains of their possessions, "so why don't we just lock up and, ah, get going?"
"Yeah, alright." he said, heaving himself upright. He shrugged on a coat as Hal collected phone, wallet, ID, so on.
The door was locked with a certain amount of finality. Hal slipped the key under the doormat. David was… jumpy. Not more so then he usually was when outside, but he seemed to have something on his mind. The words- more a confession- escaped his lips seemingly before he could control them.
"My favourite Walther", he lamented, as Hal locked the door.
"My 21IKP laptop with the custom 4.2 installer drive."
"Those tapes left over from Big Boss' Virtuous mission."
They began to walk.
"The interesting blueprints I found for the original Shagohod model."
"The plane. Oh boy, the plane."
"You had just got it the way you want it. All my books."
"My old pre-nano codec earphones. Those had sentimental value."
"All the Patriot names I had stored on the old grey laptop."
"That interesting rock I found."
"Sunny's Lovely Princess DVDs."
"My STABO harness."
"You never liked that thing anyway. You said it was uncomfortable in the worst way."
"Yes. But it was well made."
Pause.
"Those mission tapes from the Tanker. We never did figure out what the fake Roy was talking about."
"This is the way the world ends/this is the way the world ends/ this is the way the world ends/ not with a bang but with a whimper." Hal quoted with relish.
David looked at him with frank suspicion. "Hal, was that- a poem?"
"Let me guess- on the battle field, there's no time for poetry?"
"Oh, I wouldn't say that. Some of Wilfred Owen is pretty good."
They settled on chairs outside a relatively trustworthy cafe that (they knew from experience) stayed open well into the small hours, and did not mind wild-eyed demands for immediate coffee from irate, under-pressure, under-caffeinated otaku.
Hal surveyed the bustling roads in front of them as David lit a fresh cigarette, and continued his attempt at the world brooding record. (Which he had started, by Hal's estimation, in 1998 and kept up solidly since.)
Hal foolishly tried to lighten the mood.
"There now, you see? You've got- um- fresh air, and ah- a nice place to sit down, and-well. A lot of people in foreign countries would give-"
"Hal, you are being deliberately optimistic and cheerful. And I won't have it." Snake said flatly, shaking away a match.
"Well, shouldn't I be? Look- nice day, plenty of crowds about, the scenery-" he paused, looking at the leafy expanse across the road. "You know, I don't care what anyone says, New York really is the greatest city in the world."
"And now you're just trying to provoke me with blatant untruths."
Sirens sounded in the distance. Something- (and it must have been a pretty substantial something, considering-) was cleaving a path through the New York traffic.
"Shall we order?"
"I think not now." Snake stretched lazily, feeling the crack and pop of bones resettling.
A furore was roaring further down the street. Many voices were going up- in protest, in command, in pacification, a certain strident military edge to most. Otacon tugged at his cuff thoughtfully. Snake shifted slightly.
"Are you ready?"
"What, in general? No, never."
Snake frowned. He had always suspected that Hal's bumbling, slightly naif personality traits were protective disguise for the sharp-faced, sharp-voiced man who was capable of shaping a handful of numbers and blue paper in the Gears, and who answered questions in that frankly insolent manner. However, he had conceded to himself, if so, it was a pretty damned effective disguise. One does not see a man absentmindedly stir salt into his coffee and sugar his fries without getting to know a measure of him.
"I mean, are you ready for this?"
"Hmmm... for this, I think always. I was always ready. And you?"
"Always. And for this, never."
Otacon began to respond, but he could only mouth the words as sirens and officious panic drowned out the soft tail-ends of his voice.
(Even as rapid-response vehicles and armoured cars came screaming down the street, he was smiling.)
With a great "kachung", some frankly unnecessary spotlights sprung to life, focused on the two small figures sitting quietly by the road. Unconsciously, Hal loosened a button on his coat, trying to make it clear that the bulky coat concealed nothing suspicious/ he carried nothing suspicious concealed under the arm or at the hip. Raised voices were now directed at them, a great jumble of orders and countermands- to "get on the ground", to "freeze", to "not try anything funny", a phrase that in context, Snake had never understood. Right at the moment, he couldn't have thought of a joke if his life depended on it. As a matter of fact, every instinct in his body was telling him to run and hide in a cool, dark place until all the noise and shouting stopped.
Hal stood slowly, arms raised clear above his head, squinting into the harsh light, his body cutting long, lean shadows over the wall behind them. ("I bet the first thing he'll do is apologise to his arresting officer," Snake thought.)
(Um, sorry..." said Hal to the combat-stanced figure behind the spotlight...)
He contemplated the glowing end of his cigarette, which was glowering a contented red about halfway down. A part of his smoker's soul rebelled at leaving it half-finished, although the starred-and-barred commander with the over-large gun shouting at him to "drop it" would probably disagree. Still, this particular brand- got in Canada or Cuba or somewhere, one never know where one picks up these odd bits and pieces- tended to smoke very bitter, towards the end. Or so he remembered.
Besides, it really was time for him to start thinking about giving up.
He smiled at that, as the young SWAT officer (who, he was gratified to notice, was shaking at the knees a bit- who needs a gun when you have reputation?) slowly advanced, trying to confirm that he (Snake) was not going to suddenly turn into a whirling ball of knives, gun and hurt, as he was rumoured to do. He smiled as the young man put the cuffs on him, and even as the relieved voice politely asked if Mr, eh, Snake, would be so good as to step this way, please, sir. Because-
Because even over the roar and skitter of the bullhorns (obviously they had been expecting some greater resistance than a semi-pensioner and a greying otaku who, even now, was commenting amiably on the Comms.' nice ANTD laptop), he could hear an elderly proprietorial voice from the café, behind him say:
"What? Those guys?"

A pause, to consider it.
"Nah, there's gotta be some kinda mistake here..."

Can one not now hear the chatter of the media- the click of the cameras, the rattle of shutters, the on-the-spot reporter now truly on the spot outside the courthouse- "and yes, we're seeing the suspects now-" a meek brown-haired man in chains, stumbling slightly, blinking in the sunlight- "(surely he's not-) and yes, that is the suspect now"- flexing his wrists at the unfamiliar bite of the cuffs- the roar and swirl of the press of bodies- all rather overwhelming- one of the most dangerous men in the world? And now, being escorted- well, being helped, really, though one would not believe it- an- how shall we say it? An older man- but yes, with a much more of a look about him- see the great breadth of the shoulders, even withered, but made to bear weight- the hands, all rough and scarred- here is no hero- here is a terrorist, one who brings terror indeed. "I don't mind telling you that the guards look nervous- and yet "when they don't have a walking death machine to do their bidding, ha"- how odd that they should so meekly go- ah, but see how the older man rebels- throws a hand of his shoulder- strides tall- well, tall as he can- how, even with the restraints, the other suspect lays up a calming hand- muttered words- but still he walks taller than he should- or is that just my eyes- as the doors close, all we can see is a flash of eye- a muttered word, no longer than a heartbeat, is heard- "given the case, I'm told, from here straight to the place of execution-"
"strictly, not an American citizen, but in this case-"
"Slightly unbelievable story, all told-"
"verdict through-"
"small child currently under care-"
"mitigating circumstances, denied-"
And the last thing seen as the doors close is a flash of eye-
not one of defiance-
for how can one be defiant when one is right?


AUTHOR'S NOTES:

So here's how it went down
(Some weeks ago.)
Internet: Hey, fun fact- talk about "dodging a bullet." At the end of MGS4, Snake and Otacon were going to give themselves up as "terrorists", and get executed for their troubles.
Me: WAT
Internet: It never got done though, obviously, because, aside from other things, the gamefaqs message boards would have rent in twain under the pressure and released Gol-goroth, Keeper of the Black Stone, into our dimension. So yeah, the only thing that's left is the song about two criminals being wrongly executed at the end.
Me: ...J-joan Baez was... giving silent consent to this monstrosity? I must hear that again...
(Youtubery follows.)
Me: (listening): (sob, sob, choke, sniffle) AH HA HA HA WHO THE HELL ARE NICOLA AND BART HA HA HA (again, choke sob, sob, repeat 'til finish.)
Hence.

More to follow.