DECEMBER 26, 1994
PRAGUE, THE CZECH REPUBLIC
THE STATE OPERA THEATRE
The dancers gracefully leapt and sailed through the air as the opening bars of Swan Lake boomed and swelled to fill the theatre. The orchestra was masterful tonight—not a single note out of place. But for one member of the audience, none of the performers held a candle to one singular woman whose grace was unmatched on the stage.
With impressive muscular control and lightness of feet, Ellen Madnar captured her father's rapt attention as she led the show with a glowing intensity that if you were to ask him would make the sun itself hide its head in shame for being inadequate in comparison. Oh, if only her mother could be here to witness it!
Drago was often tired and overworked. His obligations to the state and to the greater scientific community worldwide often made it difficult for him to be there for his family. There was many a time when the USSR's Presidium would come calling for his services and he would be forced to miss time with his daughter as she was growing up, a matter for which he was very regretful. While he is still busy even after the fall of the Soviet Union when he stopped working for the government and took up a new profession as a university professor, he at least now has a chance to make up for lost time.
When he found out the Bolshoi Ballet was coming to Prague to perform, he made sure he was part of the audience so that he could surprise her after the show. What a lucky coincidence that he happened to be in the same city this month for his lecture at the symposium!
He was enchanted by her athleticism as she moved with a vibrant and youthful energy that he had missed while being at the laboratories so far away from home. It brought a tear to his eye to see such a love and zeal for life in her body language. Though he had spent so many years apart from her, he was happy to see that none of those years had hardened her or stolen the happiness from her shining face.
"She's quite good, isn't she?"
Drago glanced over at the man sitting next to him in the balcony. He was a younger gentleman with jet black hair, looking to be in his thirties, wearing a nice suit and holding a folded brown overcoat in his lap and had a good-natured smile on his face. He spoke with a foreign accent that Drago couldn't place, but he didn't give it too much thought—likely the man was a rich tourist.
Drago nodded, grinning wistfully. "She is breathtaking. Just like her mother."
"Are you, her father?"
Drago folded his hands in his lap. "I am. She doesn't know I am here tonight. I wanted to surprise her. I've never been able to come to one of her shows before."
The music shifted to something softer and sweeter as they spoke, the dancers taking on a slower cadence in their movements.
"You must be so proud," the stranger said.
Drago nodded again, happy to see that others could see the vitality and vibrancy his daughter held as well as he did. Well, of course, how could they not? he thought proudly to himself, the idea of his daughter being anything less than perfect being unthinkably offensive to him.
"I only wish I could have come to see her sooner," he said.
"I'm sure she would be happy just knowing that you were here tonight, Dr. Madnar."
Drago stopped short. How did the stranger know his name? He shook his head. The stranger came to the ballet—he probably saw his Ellen's name on the program and deduced who he was based on the fact that he mentioned she was his daughter; after all, Drago is a public figure in his own right. Still, he didn't much care for the stranger's overly familiar tone.
Drago asked curtly in formal Russian, "Are you a student at the university?"
The stranger shook his head. "Not as such, no. But I know who you are, Dr. Madnar. I've been following your work. I suppose you could say I'm a fan, and well, I wanted to meet with you."
Now Drago was annoyed. The stranger was beginning to distract him from his daughter's performance. "Well, I appreciate your interest, Mr.-?"
"Call me Smythe," said the man.
"Mr. Smythe," Drago continued, "I am here to watch my daughter perform, and would prefer not to be distracted. Perhaps, if you would like, you could find me at the symposium tomorrow if you wish to engage in discussions with me then?"
"I would love that, Dr. Madnar, thank you for the offer."
Drago looked gratefully at the man before turning his attention to the ballet, when the man continued.
"But—" said Smythe.
Drago cringed. He hadn't expected the stranger to keep talking.
"—I'm afraid this isn't something that can wait. Especially since I know you won't be able to make it to the symposium."
Drago felt a twinge of fear. Was this stranger threatening him? "What do you mean?" he asked. "What makes you think I wouldn't be there?"
"Because the Father of Soviet Robotics has a more pertinent engagement. One more befitting his stature and skillset."
A cold chill ran up Drago's spine. He hadn't heard that particular sobriquet in several years. His whole body went stiff, and he didn't dare turn his head farther to look at the stranger properly as his eyes moved sideways to stare at him.
"Are you FSB?" Drago's question fumbled out of his mouth in a frightened whisper.
The stranger's smile grew wider, showing more teeth as he leaned forward. It reminded Drago of a ravenous beast.
"Oh no, of course not, Doctor. Whatever gave you that idea?" The man made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. "We're much worse."
"W-what d-do y-you want?" asked Drago. Though in retrospect he knew that he should have, he had never considered the possibility of foreign agents coming for him before.
"I represent an organization that has need of certain…services. Of the kind that only THE Dr. Drago Pettrovich Madnar can provide. Don't worry, my friend: you will be well compensated for your efforts."
When the USSR dissolved, Dr. Madnar had sworn that he would never again work on weapons of war. For three years, he had kept that promise.
"And if I refuse?"
The stranger didn't answer at first, simply pointing to the stage, where Ellen continued to dance. Dr. Madnar understood the man's meaning implicitly.
"N-no!" he whispered forcefully.
"You can relax, Dr. Madnar," Smythe said. "I have no intention of harming your daughter. Just think of it as—a source of motivation."
"Please, I'll do anything-!"
The stranger leaned back smugly in his seat. "I know you will, Doctor. That was never in any doubt. Now, calm down and enjoy the show, will you? It's not every day you get to see your daughter dance, after all."
Drago looked on, the blood draining from his face. Together he and the stranger sat and watched the whole rest of the performance, but Drago was no longer thinking of his daughter's happiness, but of her safety.
When the show ended, Drago didn't go to visit his daughter as he originally planned, instead heading straight for the exit, with Smythe following closely behind. Unfortunately, Ellen had caught his eye and smiled brightly.
Oh, God, no. Please stay away, my sweet Ellen.
Drago shook his head at her, and she was able to immediately tell that something was wrong. Before she could run up to him, Drago and Smythe started walking quickly in the opposite direction. Eventually Smythe grabbed Drago's arm to direct him to an alleyway a block away, where a black car was waiting for him with its rear passenger door open.
The symposium the next day would note Drago's absence, though since he had disappeared without violence and without a trace, a search bulletin wouldn't be put out until the day after, when Ellen was discovered to be missing from her apartment with signs of a struggle. When it was made apparent that Drago had disappeared as well and that the disappearance may be connected, an APB was put out on INTERPOL by the end of the week.
JANUARY 29, 1995
SOMEWHERE IN THE GREAT LAKES TERRITORY
FOXHOUND COMMAND
Two knocks sounded on the door to Big Boss's small office, taking his attention off his reports of troop movements in Central Asia.
"Enter," he commanded.
Salamander admitted himself into the office. He was carrying a large manila envelope under his arm, which he presented to his commanding officer immediately upon entry without a word. Big Boss took it and opened it wordlessly, pulling out photographs, newspaper clippings, and a typed-up report. It was a threat assessment of private forces operating in Africa.
Big Boss looked up at Salamander. "What is this? Why are you bringing it to me?"
Salamander said, "Master Miller said you'd want to see it. He wanted me to point out page three, paragraph two as a particular note of interest for you."
Big Boss flipped through the pages as he scanned through the document while Salamander talked. His speed reading stopped short when he got to the paragraph Salamander had indicated. He read the lines slower, more carefully. He reread them to be sure of what he was seeing. He quickly looked over the photographs and still images of aerial satellite camera footage and maps.
"He's certain of this report's accuracy? The material is authentic?"
Salamander nodded. "All I know is what Master Miller told me, but he seemed sure."
Big Boss was silent for a moment while he considered. He took a breath. "Leave me be. I need to think about this."
Salamander bowed his head and started to walk out.
"And Salamander?"
Sal stopped just before he reached the door, looking back.
"Yes, sir?"
Big Boss looked up briefly at Salamander again before returning his gaze to the document. "Have Gray Fox sent up here, would you?"
Sal's eyes widened slightly as he nodded and said, "Right away, sir," and left Big Boss alone in the room.
Gray Fox entered about a half hour later. "You wanted to see me, Boss?"
Big Boss gestured at the chair on the other side of the desk. "Yes, thank you for coming, Frank. Please, sit down."
Fox stopped himself from smiling a little. Big Boss was the only one in FOXHOUND who ever called him by his real name—it was a small thing, but the gesture meant a great deal. He took the offered seat and waited for Big Boss to tell him what he needed to say.
"Frank, I have a mission for you. You may remember my South African connection?"
Fox nodded. The Boss had mentioned his asset to him in confidence on a couple of occasions, though he was never very specific on the details, as usually the Boss kept such things pretty close to the chest; the only ones who knew of the asset's relation to him as far as Fox knew were Big Boss, Master Miller, and Gray Fox himself.
"I have reason to believe that he may be planning something big, something which could be a threat both to America and to my own designs. Here, take a look." Big Boss slid the report over to Fox, who obediently began to read through it.
"More corporate merges and land acquisitions, weapons purchases…nothing that looks too unusual to me, Boss. I'm not sure I understand. What is the concern?"
"Check page three. The diamond mines in northern Angola, and the R&D personnel acquisition," Big Boss said.
Fox flipped the pages over and read the indicated page. His eyebrows raised in surprise. "You really think he'd be so bold?" Fox asked.
"Why not?" Big Boss asked. "It's not like it hasn't been tried before. And you know what kind of attention that brings, the kind of scrutiny, and the consequences that come with flouting it. South Africa has been a useful distraction, but if this report is accurate, then this will be more heat than can be effectively contained and controlled."
Gray Fox put the report down on the desk, his baggy eyes once more taking on the wide-eyed stare of the hungry predator. His voice cut like sharp steel as he asked, "What do you need me to do?"
Big Boss nodded. Out of all the FOXHOUNDers under his command, Fox was one of his favorites—no-nonsense, pragmatic, and always ready to get things done.
"I need you to go and investigate my contact in South Africa. You'll be inserted as a new recruit. Your objective is to find out whether he is in fact mustering the capabilities necessary to pursue his little war. The mission is solely reconnaissance—I'll expect regular reports directly from you, understand?"
"Yes, sir," Fox replied. "What should I do if the conclusions drawn from this report are accurate?"
"If we're right about his plans and the weapons he's constructing, you are authorized to conduct covert sabotage of his operation. However, you are only to do so if you are presented with the opportunity. This is still mainly a recon operation, so don't take any unnecessary risks, understand?" Big Boss stared hard into Fox's eyes. "Remember Naomi."
Naomi was Fox's adopted little sister whom he had sole guardianship over. One of the many reasons Fox was so loyal was because Big Boss had always made it a point to make sure that Fox's only family was well taken care of. Fox nodded seriously. "Always, sir."
Gray Fox stood up to leave. "I'll call you when I've landed in Cape Town, Boss. I won't let you down."
"You never do, Frank," Big Boss replied as he watched Fox leave the room.
FEBRUARY 25, 1995
FOXHOUND COMMAND
CONFERENCE ROOM
Master Miller finished listening to the tape that Big Boss had given to him containing Fox's most recent transmission and looked up the images projected on the screen in front of him from the microfiche Fox sent back.
"So, it's real, then?" Miller asked.
"So, it would seem," Big Boss replied. He added under his breath, "He's started developing some ambition of his own…it's impressive, really. Almost makes me proud. Like the son I never had."
Miller scoffed. "How ironic."
Big Boss turned and gave Master Miller a side-eye glare. "Kaz, did you know about this?"
Miller bristled at the use of his old nickname. "No," he hissed through his teeth. "But is it really that surprising to you, of all people? That the pawn would go to such lengths to become a player?"
Big Boss grunted as he folded his arms behind his back and stared out the conference room window at the FOXHOUND training grounds. "No, I suppose it doesn't."
A tense, uncomfortable silence stretched on for a few minutes as the two men stood there, one staring out into space as he thought of the future, while the other stared at his superior in hatred while he remembered the past.
It was Big Boss who broke the silence first. "I know you hate me, Kaz. I know you feel used and betrayed. I'm not expecting you to understand nor am I asking you for your forgiveness."
Big Boss turned around to face Master Miller and look him in the eye. "I am, however, going to ask you for one final favor. Two, actually. It'll be the last thing you ever have to do for me, your final role to play in this whole thing. After that, you'll be free."
Master Miller growled, clenching his cane so tightly his knuckles turned white. The audacity, the arrogance of this man, commanding him like some kind of underling, playing around with his life like a toy. It was enough to make him want to puke. And the worst part of it all was, was that Miller knew that he would do it anyway.
"When?" Miller asked. "When did you become the thing you hated most? When did you get so manipulative? When did the used become the user?"
Big Boss smirked. "You of all people should know the answer to that. After all, you were there, twenty years ago. Besides, were you ever really any different? When we started that venture together—before it was torn down and ended, you were just as manipulative and had no problem using me and our enemies to suit your own purposes. You're just angry that someone beat you at your own game."
The Boss's smile dropped, and he returned to his usual stony glare. "But this is no trick, Kaz. You do this thing for me, and our business is finished. I'll never ask anything of you again, and you'll never have to see or hear from me for the rest of your days if you don't want to. This, I promise."
Master Miller sighed angrily. He was quiet for a few seconds, but then asked reluctantly, "What do you want me to do?"
Big Boss nodded. "The DIA, CIA, and Washington are going to want a response to this, and we'll need to conduct an operation. I want you to give me a list of candidates to send. Make it short, give me your top ten."
Miller raised an eyebrow. "Is that all?"
Big Boss walked over to the end of the table and picked up a manila envelope. There was no address written on it, just the words "From the Man Who Sold the World." He handed it to Miller.
"The second thing I want you to do is have this delivered to our mutual contact in South Africa. It contains a message that I'll need him to hear before we send our man."
"What's in the message?" Miller asked with some curiosity.
"The truth," said Big Boss. Blunt, direct, no further explanation. Miller understood the significance and didn't pry further.
"And after this, that's it?"
"That's it," said Big Boss. "Once the message is delivered, you'll go on leave. You can stay with FOXHOUND or do something else with your life, but either way, you'll be a free agent after that."
"How do you know I won't come after you?" Miller asked venomously.
Big Boss shook his head with a sad smile. "I don't. You could try to kill me, could even try to interfere with my plans. But I think you know that I've taken that possibility into account. Nevertheless, you're welcome to try. I'll be waiting for you."
Big Boss turned back to the window and stepped away, indicating Miller's quiet dismissal. Master Miller took the hint and left to go about his task.
FEBRUARY 27, 1995
FOXHOUND COMMAND
Big Boss sat in his office poring over the list that was delivered to him. As promised, it wasn't very long, but there was one single candidate that caught his eye: a new addition to FOXHOUND that only a few months ago was just a trainee himself. A rookie without any special talents, save for that unspoken connection.
Was this meant to be Kaz's revenge on Big Boss, to try and send the trainee into the meat grinder for his first mission? Did he truly think that the Boss was that sentimental? Or was it an insistence from his enemies in Washington, to test the boy's skills so they could weaponize him against Big Boss himself? If that was the case, Big Boss believed that they had severely overestimated what the kid was capable of. If they send him, he will likely get himself killed. Perhaps that was their plan all along—to let his South African contact get so strong that he'd be impossible to ignore and then use it as manufactured consent for a pre-emptive strike against Big Boss himself? Big Boss shook his head. It's not paranoia If they really are out to get you.
There was a large number of variables. Usually, when a FOXHOUNDer is inducted, they get a minimum of about two weeks of R&R before being sent on their first mission, but Solid Snake was an anomaly—ever since September, he'd been spending his days training on base waiting for a mission to be sent on. The Boss knew that Snake was getting impatient, and so, it seems, has Washington. Maybe that was all it was?
It seemed like Washington was trying to put Big Boss between a rock and a hard place. If he didn't send Snake, he'd be accused of being too soft and be stripped of his position before he was ready to leave. If he did send Snake…
Big Boss stopped to think about it. If he sent Snake, he'd get one of four outcomes. If Snake went in and was killed immediately from his lack of experience, it would show the Pentagon how much of a failure their pet project was and make them think twice before testing Big Boss again, which would help him buy some time. Of course, that still left the ambitions of his contact in South Africa becoming too big and too public sooner than he or the asset can handle, but that could be dealt with at a later date; and in the meantime, South Africa could continue serving as the useful distraction it's been operating as.
Outcome number two: Snake still fails, but not without a prolonged struggle. This would buy Big Boss some more time to finish getting his affairs in order before enacting his exit strategy, while still putting up a cautionary barrier between him and his rivals in the Pentagon.
Outcome number three: Snake succeeds without any trouble. This is highly unlikely, almost not even worth considering. The asset in South Africa is simply too strong, too well-trained, too heavily funded. But on the off chance it did occur, Big Boss would have to massively accelerate his plans. A headache, for sure, but there was one plus: it would remove his South African asset as a player from the board and help to tie up loose ends.
Outcome number four: Snake succeeds far enough to remove the contact after a struggle, or better yet, succeeds in killing the asset but fails in destroying the asset's war making capabilities. This would have the benefit of outcome number three, while also leaving the weaponry and personnel intact for Big Boss to recover for his own purposes. And if Snake dies in the process, while it would be regrettable, at the very least his rivals in the Pentagon would lose another one of their bargaining chips.
Big Boss smiled in grim satisfaction, though on his face it looked more like a grimace. No matter which outcome you pick, he would still come out the victor in the end…
His course now set, Big Boss selected Solid Snake from the list of recommendations and set to work drafting the operation outline and making calls to his counterparts in the DIA and CIA to put together a plan for the new mission.
MARCH 10, 1995
FOXHOUND TRAINING FACILITY
GYMNASIUM
Vibrations ran up his arms as his fists exploded with violence on the bag. Vole—a former cadet who now goes by Sniper Rat—was having trouble keeping the bag steady as Solid Snake vented his frustrations. The pounding of his heart filled his ears as he expended his anger. He'd been at this for hours: workouts, CQC drills with Rat and Salamander, hitting the bag; he said before it was to keep his body sharp for when his first assignment rolled in. But the truth was that he needed a distraction. It's been almost six months since he graduated from the training program and received his code name, and he still hadn't received any word yet beyond "stand by and await new orders."
Snake was getting restless. What was the point of all of that training and getting beat half to death if they were just going to leave him languishing somewhere?
It's not like there's any shortage of conflict to involve FOXHOUND. Bosnia and Herzegovina had been mired in ethnic cleansing, death, and rape since 1992, and news was getting around that President Clinton would send people any day now.
On top of that, it's not like the Taliban had stopped their activities after taking Kandahar back in September. Their militancy with enforcing their radically conservative interpretation of Islam on the territories they controlled made plenty of military and intelligence analysts nervous, with some speculating that Omar might turn his eye to the higher ambition of taking over all of Kabul.
The African continent was as hardened by war as ever with many a dictator or warlord looking to seize power within their respective spheres of influence with the help of paid mercenaries and radicalized locals. Just last spring and summer, an ethnic genocide had been perpetrated in Rwanda against the Tutsi ethnic minorities by Hutu militias.
Any number of these could present economic or diplomatic opportunities or threats to the United States's interests. If the purpose of FOXHOUND was to serve as the invisible knife carving footholds of strategic importance and winning wars before they can start, there should be no shortage of work to do. So, why has Snake been sitting on his ass doing nothing for six months? Every time he thought about it, he got angrier.
Was it his lack of specialization? He knew that the "Solid" part of his moniker referred to his versatility, but maybe they needed more specific tasks to be carried out, therefore making him useless. It was that idea of being useless that he couldn't stand, the idea of him lacking in worth to the government who had invested so much in him and saved him from his unfortunate childhood.
Rat stood on the other side of the bag, grunting as he felt the impacts rippling through the sand inside. He had to quickly step back out of the way when Snake surprised him with a roundhouse kick, knocking its chain off the hook keeping it tethered to the ceiling. The silence in the empty gym was thick, punctuated by the sound of Snake's heavy breathing.
"Maybe we should take a break," Rat ventured. "No sense in letting the brass see you tired when they bring you in for your mission."
This was exactly the wrong thing to say to Snake at that moment. In one fell motion, he picked up a nearby kettle bell and shotput it an impressive distance, crashing it into a stack of equipment and narrowly avoiding putting a hole into the wall. Snake's effort spent, he marched over to the bench, sat down, and started wiping his face with a towel. He flushed slightly, embarrassed that he let someone else see him lose it.
Rat came over and sat down next to him. "Something on your mind, mein Freund?"
Snake chuckled sardonically. "You could say that." He looked around, gesturing at their surroundings. "This place picks me up from the battlefield, away from the only brothers I've ever known. They beat the hell out of me, train me, hone me into the perfect tool. Their words, not mine. And when the time comes, what do they do with me? They leave me in the box, collecting dust."
Rat nodded. He'd heard Snake's diatribe before, but he knew it was better to let his friend just vent and get it all out. "Ich weiß genau, was du meinst. I know exactly what you mean. I've been there. There's not a whole lot you can do except wait, leider."
Snake was feeling even more embarrassed. Not only had he said all of this before, but he was complaining to the one person who had dealt with his problem more than he had. He remembered what Rat had said when they first met about his restlessness before being tagged as a recruit for FOXHOUND.
"Yeah," Snake said, "but when you were on ice, you were a Fed in the middle of peacetime. Now, circumstances are different. There's no shortage of work for highly trained government spooks like us. There should be no reason to be stuck here."
Snake looked at the ground, thinking. "Rat…you know why they call me 'Solid,' right?"
Rat nodded. "Jack of all trades, ja? Good at a little bit of everything. It's a good trait to have for a soldier."
"Yeah, jack of all trades, master of none," Snake finished. "Good for a soldier, but we're not regular soldiers anymore. What if that's why they haven't given me an assignment yet? There's no shortage of specialists in FOXHOUND. They have all the talent they could ever need. What's one middle-of-the-road guy going to accomplish? Am I just fated for mediocrity?"
"Schlange, mein Freund," Rat began as he put a hand on Snake's shoulder. "Just the fact that du bist hier is an achievement unto itself. Why are you so concerned about 'achievement,' anyway? It's not like you to care about such things. Usually, your first thought has always been duty to country."
"That's the thing," Snake replied, shaking his head. "I'm here to return the favor that America's done for me: my life, training, skills. How can I do that if they don't use me? If my worth is measured as a tool, well, a tool's only as good as its utility, right?"
Rat sighed. "You can't let yourself get so inside your own head, Schlange. The mission will come, whether you're ready for it or not. Best not to greet death too warmly, ja?"
Rat stood up, extending an arm to pull up Snake. "Kommen sie mit mich. I'm famished. Let's go get breakfast before the mess hall closes."
Not really having anything else to say, Snake helped his friend clean up the mess he'd made in the gym before heading to the mess hall, where they met up with Salamander.
"How was the workout, gentlemen?" Salamander asked.
Snake sat down at the table with his tray wordlessly.
"Oof, that bad, eh?"
"Nah, it's fine," Snake replied. "Just…"
Snake trailed off, not finishing his thought. Salamander nodded sympathetically as he and Rat sat down.
"I get you," Sal said. "Sometimes this stuff can take longer than you think. If it makes you feel any better, I didn't get my first mission right after I got the code name either. When they want you, they'll come get you. So, don't be so glum—enjoy the R&R while you can, rookie."
Snake looked up curiously. "How long did they make you wait?"
"It was about a couple of months before they shipped me off to Siberia to go investigate some old missile silos."
Snake snickered. "An Arizonan salamander in Siberia?"
Sal chuckled. "Yeah, I think the brass might've been having a joke at my expense with that one. Coldest I've ever been in my life, and I spent my college years in Flagstaff."
"Where's Flagstaff?"
"Northern Arizona, up in the mountains. Y'know, a lot of people when they think of the state, they picture desert and canyons. But up north, south of the Grand Canyon, there's mountains with tons of pine trees, rain, and snow. It's actually really pretty, especially in the summertime. You should consider checking it out sometime, between missions."
"Between missions?" Snake asked. "Aren't we supposed to stay on base?"
Salamander shrugged and shook his head. "You're on leave for R&R, you can go or live wherever you like. When FOXHOUND wants to call on you for service, they'll come for you, don't worry." He glowered into the coffee as he took a sip. "Learned that the hard way," he muttered.
Snake and Rat glanced at each other. "Dare I ask what happened?" Rat said.
Sal rubbed the back of his head, grinning sheepishly. "I was in Oceanview, California. Hanging out with this pretty tourist from Amsterdam. We were having a good time, walking the boardwalk, visited this Greek restaurant for gyros, went out on a whale watch. The whole time, she couldn't keep her hands off me. So, we decided to find ourselves a hotel to shack up for the night. Well, turns out, FOXHOUND missions wait for no man—they make no respect for time or convenience."
"Oh, no…" Snake tried and failed to keep the laughter out of his voice as he realized what was coming.
"So, there we are getting busy, when we hear a knock at the door. Figured it was a noise complaint, so we ignored it. Then they knock again, this time a little louder. Then they start banging, real violent. The lady wasn't taking it too well, starts yelling something in Dutch I don't understand, getting ready to go give a piece of her mind. She sure was a fiery one." Salamander stopped to smile wistfully as he reminisced.
"Then they kicked the door open. I thought we were being attacked. I grabbed my gun from the bedside table, only to be met by my instructor. He asked me why I wasn't answering my calls or my pager, and why I didn't open the door. As if he couldn't see for himself what it was, we were up to. We were covering ourselves. I was pissed off, embarrassed—like having your parents walk in on you on prom night.
He didn't say much else, just that they had a job for me, and I needed to report to base right away. Right before he left, he said, 'sorry for interrupting your night,' and 'give my regards to your lady friend.' Since it's FOXHOUND business I couldn't really do much explaining to my date. She was pissed." Sal chuckled, before looking a little morose. "That was the last time I saw her. Never did get her number."
"Point is," he continued, "There's no way to know in advance when FOXHOUND will need you. Could be today, tomorrow, or months or even years from now. Doesn't matter. So, just enjoy the R&R while you've got it, keep up with your training in the meantime, and don't sweat the small stuff, rookie."
Snake chuckled, admittedly feeling a little better. "Point taken," he said.
Just then, Mongoose strode up to the table. "Good morning, gentlemen," he said jovially, before turning to Snake. "Solid Snake?"
Snake stood up. "Yes?"
Mongoose nodded to him. "You're to report to Conference Room 2B in the Administration Building. You've been assigned."
Snake's eyes lit up. He went to grab his tray, but Mongoose put out a hand. "Leave that there. Just follow me," he said.
Snake looked to Salamander and Rat. Sal said with a smirk, "We'll take care of it, you go. Congratulations, rookie."
The walk to the admin building was uneventful. Snake passed by a lot of familiar faces on the way, as well as many classes of first-year squads. As they walked up the stairs to the second floor, Mongoose asked, "So, Snake, you excited for your first mission?"
"Like you wouldn't believe," Snake replied.
"That's good, kid. You should hang on to that energy. You know what they say about your first time; you're never gonna forget it."
They reached the conference room door. The blinds to the windows were closed. Mongoose knocked on the door once and a familiar voice responded, "Enter."
Mongoose turned to Snake. "Wait here," he said, before going through the door. Snake could just barely hear Mongoose announce, "Sir, I've brought Solid Snake for the briefing."
A muffled response, much quieter. Mongoose emerged from the door and said, "He's ready for you. Good luck, kid."
Snake swung the door open and standing at the head of the table was none other than Big Boss himself. "Good morning, Snake," the Boss said. "Please, close the door behind you and take a seat. Anywhere's fine."
Snake complied and took a seat at the side of the table. It was just the two of them. Big Boss walked over to a coffee pot in the corner. "Would you like some coffee? It's a Costa Rican blend. A personal favorite of mine."
Snake, not wanting to be rude, accepted gratefully. It was definitely better tasting than the stuff they got in the mess hall. "Sir," Snake started, wiping his mouth as Big Boss sat down across from him. "May I ask a question?"
"Ask it, Snake. And call me Big Boss. Or Boss is fine."
"Yes sir—er, Boss," Snake said, taking another sip of his coffee. "Do you usually sit in on mission briefings? I would've figured that that would be handled by lower-level staff."
Big Boss chuckled, pulling a cigar from inside his brown coat. "You're not wrong," he said.
Following the Boss's lead, Snake pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes and pulled one out with his teeth before flicking his lighter. "So then, what brings you here, sir?"
Big Boss clipped the end off of his cigar and walked over to the window to throw it into the garbage. "The mission you're about to be sent on is an unusual one, and very sensitive even by FOXHOUND's standards. I couldn't trust anyone else to spearhead it, so I'm going to be taking over operational command myself."
Snake stopped with his coffee cup halfway to his lips before putting it back down. "Yourself?" he asked. "It's something that important?"
"It is."
It was stupid—Snake had spent the past six months just praying, practically begging for a new mission. Why was he looking a gift horse in the mouth now? But he couldn't help himself. He just had to ask:
"Why am I here then, and not somebody with more experience, like Gray Fox?"
Big Boss tilted his head forward slightly, his one eye burning as it stared directly into Snake's gaze, making him uncomfortable. "Do you doubt my selection?"
"No sir, not at all," Snake replied hastily. "It's just…surprising, I guess. To be trusted with something so important."
"Why do you find it surprising?"
"I guess…" Snake trailed off. "I don't know," he admitted as he looked down at the table to avoid the Boss's stare.
"Hmph," Big Boss grunted. "You're young. So, you feel like you have a lot to prove. And in some ways, you do. You're new, untested. But that's exactly why you're here."
Big Boss finally took the match to his cigar and started puffing on it as it burned. He breathed out, expelling a plume of heavy smoke. "Do you know why you are called 'Solid Snake'?" he asked.
"Solid as in generally good, right?" Snake said.
Big Boss nodded. "That's right. Specialization is useful, and in some situations, even optimal. But when you over specialize, you run the risk of being useless at everything else. Not everyone is useful for every role, and when you need to accomplish a diversity of tasks in a chaotic environment, it's versatility and adaptability that will save you.
You're here because that trait you have—versatility—is the one we need most right now."
Big Boss puffed again. "It's funny you mention Fox," he said. "He's actually the reason for this mission."
"Really?" Snake asked curiously. He forgot about his coffee as he leaned forward, looking again at the Boss while absent-mindedly chewing on his cigarette.
Big Boss nodded. "The details can wait until everyone else gets here, but suffice to say, you're going to be helping him with something."
This was it. He was finally going to get the chance to work with and under Gray Fox directly. Snake smirked to himself at the thought.
"What's funny?"
Snake shook his head. "Nothing, it's just…I'm happy, I guess. When I was training, I was working really hard. I wanted to become the next Fox."
"That's quite ambitious," Big Boss said in approval.
"Yeah. So, when I got my code name, I was little disappointed," Snake confessed. "Thought maybe I'd lost the chance to prove myself. Now I get to learn from the man directly."
The air in the room changed, felt a little colder. Big Boss's face hardened. There was a quick flash in his eye of something that was hard to place. Sadness? Disappointment? Guilt? Whatever it was, it was gone as quickly as it showed. All Snake saw was the roughness in Big Boss's face, and with it came the feeling that he had just said something wrong.
"I'm sure you've wondered," Big Boss began, "Why I'm called Big Boss."
Snake gulped but said nothing. He had wondered that very thing many times since he first met the man, but he knew better than to ask.
"The details, are, of course, classified. Even if they weren't, many of them are just too…personal, to mention. To put it simply, the day I got that code name was the most difficult in my entire life. Like you, I did not choose my name for myself, and like you, I resented it. It was a badge of shame in my eyes."
Big Boss sucked another mouthful of smoke from his cigar before he continued.
"Over time, however, as I pushed forward, as I continued to fight…I made it my own. I proved myself, in my eyes and in the eyes of others. I've done things I'm proud of, and things that…" he trailed off.
"You've heard plenty of rumors and stories about me in your time here. Some of them might even be true. But reputation is just that—talk and rumors. It doesn't define you; what does define you are your actions. Those who talk, do not act.
"Your name was assigned to you, but it has no true meaning until you earn it, with your actions and your blood. My name—my true name is—Big Boss. I did not choose my name, but by the end, I have come to realize that for better or worse, I have earned it with the price I've paid, and it is now who I am. To the point where there are some days, I'm not even sure I remember the name I was given at birth…"
Big Boss drained his coffee before speaking again. "You are Solid Snake. Right now, that name bears very little meaning for you beyond the reasons behind your designation. But in the coming days, you will earn it with your actions, and the name Solid Snake will be a reflection of who you are."
Snake took all this in as he looked down into his coffee cup before finishing it. He nodded.
"Just never forget," Big Boss said as Snake looked up into his eye again, "you are a warrior, a soldier. It's in your eyes, it's in your blood. Be loyal to that, to your purpose. Be true to it, and you will survive."
Big Boss's eye softened as he took in the sight of this wet-behind-the-ears rookie. The kid has no idea what's in store for him, he thought to himself.
Snake, for his part, put out his cigarette stub just as the door behind him opened and a parade of men entered the room; two men in suits, two Army officers, and one Air Force officer. Among the officers, one wore the silver clover of a Lieutenant Colonel and the other two the three stars of a Lieutenant General. Snake and Big Boss both stood up to receive them.
"Good, everyone's here," Big Boss said as he snapped a quick salute to the Lt. Generals. "Introductions first: Snake, this is Lt. Gen. Paul Blackwell, and Lt. Col. Roy Campbell. They will be our Army liaisons for this mission and our points of contact for Army chain of command, reporting directly to the Joint Chiefs of Staff. The third officer is Lt. Gen. James Clapper, director of the Defense Intelligence Agency. The two men in suits are Secretary of State William Perry and incoming CIA Director John Deutch.
Gentlemen, this is Solid Snake. He'll be the FOXHOUND agent on the ground for this mission."
"Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen," Snake said as he saluted the officers and shook the hand of each man in turn.
Everyone took their places at the conference table, except Director Deutch and Big Boss, who remained standing. "Does anyone have any questions before we get started?" Big Boss asked.
When no one said anything, Big Boss turned to the Director. "Good, then we can begin. Mr. Director, after you."
A/N: Got through this chapter quicker than I thought I would. Just a short interlude to kind of set the scene as we explore the events surrounding Big Boss leading up to the operation in South Africa. Sorry if the name change for Vole was confusing; hopefully it was clear enough that he had passed the trials, too. We also have the introduction of Roy Campbell—not a lot of fanfare, but he's not really a major character in the original Metal Gear (or a character at all, really), so it's mostly just a fun little cameo.
It's a really easy trap to want to get up in your face with lore references and what-not, but I'm trying to remember that this is an origin story told primarily from Snake's point of view and since it's the first story in the series, it wouldn't make for good storytelling to kind of blow that shot too early. Big Boss's speech to Snake about the nature of his name was another piece of dialogue I'd had sitting in my brain for the past couple of weeks, and I think it turned out pretty good.
Next chapter will be the mission briefing. It'll be pretty dialogue-heavy and probably short just like this one. Chapter 8 will cover Snake's entry into Africa and journey to Outer Heaven as the operation commences. It's been kind of a slow burn so far with the training arc and Snake's first days in FOXHOUND, but things should pick up when we get to the actual mission. Thank you for bearing with me so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy this work moving forward!