A/N: CONTENT WARNING: THE FOLLOWING CHAPTER CONTAINS MANY DEPICTIONS OF TORTURE FOR MUCH OF ITS LENGTH. READER DISCRETION IS ADVISED.
OPERATION INTRUDE N313
DAY TWO, TIME UNKNOWN
SUPPLY STORAGE FACILITY BASEMENT DETENTION CENTER
The hinges of the iron door squealed in protest as it was pushed open to admit the Russian operative. Two other mercs followed him inside and posted on either side of the door to stand guard. Shotmaker strode forward to the middle of the large room, empty save for a ratty blanket in one corner, an empty bucket in the opposite corner, and the cell's current inmate, who sat in the middle engulfed in the glow of small halogen floodlights which were placed just ahead of him.
Well, "sit" wasn't quite the right word: it was closer to kneeling, except his arms were strung up by wires forcing him into an uncomfortable upright position so that he could neither stand, sit, or kneel. The man was stripped down to his boxers, his arms, legs, and torso covered in bruises and shallow cuts, though the Doberman bite on his left arm was treated with antiseptic and bandaged.
He was wearing headphones wired to a stereo that rested on the floor next to him. The stereo played a looping set of sound bites of horrible screaming, loud and cacophonous music with violent lyrics, and recordings of cattle slaughterhouses interspersed with interruptions of silence at random intervals. After his guards had finished torturing and questioning him, the inmate was injected with hallucinogens and left with the headphones on his head hanging in front of the lamps all night.
There were no windows in the basement cell, no way to measure the passage of time. It had been roughly somewhere between eighteen and twenty-six hours since he was imprisoned, but as far as Snake's perception of events was concerned, he could have been down there for hours, days, or even weeks for all he knew.
When the drugs were in his system and even after they had worn off, he was assaulted with visions of the kid he'd mercy killed and the faces of the two mercs he'd gotten close to as their eyes were emptied of life and their faces consumed by maggots and fire while their flesh rotted from within. Their wails for mercy mixed in with the audio that played in his ears, so that he couldn't tell fact from fiction. The only thing that was certain was the hunger that gnawed at his stomach, for the guards had given him nothing to eat.
Between the lights and the sounds playing in his ears, he couldn't be sure whether he ever truly slept. That didn't stop him from dreaming, though: all through the night, dreams had infected his mind with the image of a horned blood-spattered demon stalking him through narrow corridors of shadow and flame, with a single bloodshot eye searching for him as he ran.
When Shotmaker approached, he turned off the stereo on the floor and gently lifted the headphones from Snake's head. Snake flinched at the sudden physical touch, blinking furiously as the shadow before him took on the more defined shape of a man. Shotmaker was carrying a stool in his left hand, which he set in front of Snake before taking a seat.
"Strasvutsiya, my friend. Did you have a pleasant sleep?" Shotmaker asked cheerfully in Russian. He looked over Snake's body and searched his eyes with a penetrating stare. "You don't look so good."
Snake took a shuddering breath. His eyelids fluttered. He felt nothing but hunger, pain, exhaustion, and fear. He tried to form a coherent response, but it only came out in a mumble while dribble slowly flowed over his lips onto the dirty floor.
Shotmaker made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue. "I will need to advise the guards to let up on you for a little while; it's too early for you to be breaking, friend. We have much to discuss, you and I."
Shotmaker nodded to one of the guards at the door, who walked to the pulley mechanism holding up the wires to which Snake's wrists were tied. In a short moment, Snake was let down gently onto the floor, where he collapsed. The guard then walked behind the lights back into the shadows where Snake couldn't see, opened the cell door, and returned with a chair, which he lifted Snake into. The chair had a little desk table attachment. The guard handed a bag to Shotmaker before returning to his post.
Shotmaker pulled out a can of food from the bag along with a bottle of water and a spoon. He drew his knife and opened the can, and then put the spoon inside before setting it in front of Snake.
"You are likely hungry. Here, eat. It will do neither of us any good for you to starve."
Snake eyed the tin and the Russian warily. He trusted nothing about his surroundings. At the thought of the food being poison, it suddenly turned to worms and larvae before his eyes. He closed his eyes tight and shook his head. Don't think about it, he urged to himself. Images of the dead men and of the dog he'd cut open burst in his mind, and his eyes snapped open again, and the food before him had returned to normal. Slowly and cautiously, he gathered his courage and scooped some brown foodstuff into his mouth. He tasted meat and carrots. Beef stew? It was lukewarm; unheated, but not unpleasant. Greedily, Snake began lapping it up before coughing.
Shotmaker rubbed Snake's back. "Careful," he said. "Eat slowly. You don't want to choke."
Even as the food entered Snake's stomach, he could feel himself regaining some small sense of awareness. He nodded to Shotmaker with a grateful look in his eyes before he continued to eat.
"So, you know my name, stranger," Shotmaker said. "But I do not know yours. What do I call you?"
Snake chewed slowly and swallowed. Once his mouth was empty, he replied, "Zmeya."
"Ah, a snake? I see," Shotmaker nodded with appreciation. "It is good name, Zmeya. Very fierce. I like it. So, Zmeya, what brings you to Outer Heaven? I already know you are no Resistance fighter, however much help you may have been to our prisoners. That was very good job, by the way."
Snake continued to eat, saying nothing.
"So, if you are not Resistance, how did you know of our prisoners? Did you come for them, or were they merely distraction?"
Snake scraped the last bits from the can into his mouth, chewing even slower. He then slurped the broth from the bottom of the can before turning it over to show nothing more than a couple of drops falling out. He deliberately placed the can and the spoon down in front of him before looking Shotmaker directly in the eyes.
"What happened to the prisoners?" Snake asked, now feeling just a little bit better.
Shotmaker cleared his throat. "We have rounded them up," he answered. "Whatever purpose they were meant to distract us from, I am afraid that you have missed your chance."
Snake stared hard into Shotmaker's eyes as he talked. The Russian's face betrayed no hint of falsehood. But he was also former Spetsnaz—can't trust anything the man says. Snake was physically and mentally compromised and was dealing with someone trained in both torture and deception. This was going to be much more difficult than what Major Jacobs and Mouse had put him through in training.
"How long have I been here? Wherever 'here' is?" Snake asked.
"One week," Shotmaker said. "More than enough time to recapture lost assets. Unfortunately, some of them resisted and did not make it. You are cold man, Zmeya, to put others in harm's way like that. Man after my own heart. You would have done well in Spetsnaz."
A week. Has it really been that long? Snake thought of his recently empty stomach. He had difficulty getting his mind in order. Something about that answer felt off—his hunger was the first clue. More likely he had only been down there for a couple of days at most, he thought to himself. The claim that the Resistance fighters had been taken down was also suspect, if only by association. It's possible that Shotmaker was telling the truth, but there was something about the confidence in his voice that made Snake doubtful.
At the comment about Snake in Spetsnaz, he chuckled humorlessly. The dry air caught in his throat, starting a light coughing fit. When he caught his breath, he looked up pitifully at the Russian. "You think so?" he asked.
Shotmaker nodded. "I do. Is too bad you are so young—born in the wrong decade, da? Missed your chance when the old Union fell to make way for the new government. Now, my mentor, he was old guard: Spetsnaz, and KGB. The stories he used to tell me. Enough to freeze blood like ice. He taught me, in the Siberian gulags; he showed me all the ways to get men to spill their deepest secrets and betray their dearest loves. He showed me the true depths of pain, suffering, and even hope and virtue. It was he who arranged my recruitment here in this place. He was a mercenary too, you see."
"'Dmitri,' he said, 'our old Motherland is sick and dying. Our leaders have failed us, and this world has grown soft. We no longer have a place here. But I know of new place, one which will appreciate your talents. I'd like you to come with me.' That's what he said before bringing me here. That was when I met our leader. Our Ahab." Shotmaker's eyes glistened with pride and wistfulness as he recounted his story.
"You've met him?" Snake asked. "What's he like?"
Shotmaker chuckled as he leaned forward conspiratorially, as if sharing a secret with an old friend. "Oh, he is a man unlike any other, my friend. Ahab, the man the world knows and rightly fears as 'Venom,' is a force to be reckoned with on the battlefield. He once took on an entire tank and artillery line in Afghanistan with no one else to aid him but a single sniper and a lucky sandstorm. With strength, skill, and guile, he was able to buy enough time for reinforcements to arrive. By the end of it, half the armor column was gone, and Ahab himself came out without a scratch, save for an unlucky encounter with a desert snake."
Snake was enraptured by the story, in spite of himself. "He sounds like quite a guy," he said.
"You have no idea, Zmeya. The United States likes to take credit for the insurgency's victory against us in the war, but the truth is that the Hamid would never have defeated our 40th Army without Ahab's assistance. He made a habit of capturing enemy forces and recruiting them to his cause. He's turned entire divisions against his enemies. The people here in Outer Heaven have seen what he is capable of, and we believe in him. Many days, he reminds me of my old mentor in Spetsnaz."
"What happened to the sniper? The one who helped him fight off the tank column?" Snake asked.
"Disappeared with the sandstorm. Assumed to be KIA. They were never seen again."
"Huh," Snake grunted with a slight nod. "You say he's good at recruitment. How often does he lose people? What's the turnover rate around here?"
Shotmaker shrugged. "People come and go. Some people die. It is unavoidable fact of life in this business; call it an occupational hazard. But here, our dead are honored. Here, their sacrifices are not forgotten. They are not buried in the dustbin of history like in our home nations. We carry them with us."
Shotmaker turned to show Snake his shoulder, where he saw the unit patch of Outer Heaven, a winged skull with a bullet wound in the forehead. Along the edges of the wings studded diamonds sparkled in the inlay of the patchwork.
"These are made from the ashes of our comrades," Shotmaker explained. "Even now, they join us as we go into battle, guiding us on our way to victory."
"For what cause?" Snake asked.
"No cause," Shotmaker said bluntly, shaking his head. "There is no greater cause, that would miss the point. We are the warriors that the old Norsemen foretold, and this place is our Valhalla. The cause is the fight itself—the joy and fullness of life is inherent in the defiance of death. The struggle is eternal, and it is what gives our life meaning. You would understand this, as well as I do. You are a warrior too, Zmeya. I have seen the way you fight. Perhaps there is a place for you here among us."
"You'd ask me to join you?" Snake asked. "Even after I killed your men?"
Shotmaker shrugged. "Why not? Many who serve here were once enemies. It would be no different from them. But if you would desire a place here, you would have to first prove your loyalty. Thus, we must regretfully return to business at hand."
Shotmaker leaned back into his chair. "There are questions you must answer. Who sent you, and for what purpose? I know you are not South African, and I know from your accent that you are not Russian. You speak like a Chechen, but when questioned by our Chechen personnel, you did not understand them."
Suddenly, Shotmaker switched to English as he asked in a low growl, "So, if you are not Resistance fighter, and you are not from the Motherland, then who sent you?"
Snake's eyes took on a dull look as he regarded his captor in silence. It didn't surprise him that these people were able to figure him as a foreigner. Luckily, they hadn't figured out who would have sent him. With English being one of the most spoken languages in the world, it wouldn't have betrayed anything if they realized he understood the tongue, but he still tried his best to pretend that he didn't. More than anything though, he didn't dare speak it, lest his natural accent gave him away: with Shotmaker being a former intelligence operative, it wouldn't be a shock if he was able to identify that it was one of the many American dialects.
Unfortunately, Snake's silence told Shotmaker much more than simply answering the question would have.
Shotmaker smirked. "You are trying too hard, Zmeya. The fact that you try to conceal understanding of English implies it is native tongue. Narrows down possibilities. Would have been better had you tried to answer my question, regardless of what language you'd use."
Shotmaker looked Snake over again with a more critical eye. "Pale face, blue eyes. Not Indian, clearly. Western nation, then. Most likely western Europe—probably United Kingdom, or perhaps even American. Canadian is possibility, but they don't usually send assets directly into combat zones. South American nation even less likely; they are too concerned with domestic matters to bother with foreign ones, and they lack the funding and assets that the US and UK would have access to.
You have acuity of intelligence operative, but physical stature of a soldier, and you fulfill the role of a foreign asset acting as an intelligence agent, rather than a case officer.
You don't fit the MO of the usual suspects of the American CIA or British SIS. So, a third party, then—perhaps a private contractor like us, meaning your zealous protection of your identity is likely to protect your employer, as opposed to the client. So, if we are to narrow down the enemy Outer Heaven faces, then the question is not so much who your direct employer is, but rather, who hired you?"
Shotmaker tapped his chin thoughtfully as he smiled, a strange excitement in his wolfish grin. "You are an interesting puzzle, Zmeya, and a formidable adversary. But you are still young, and you have much to learn in this shadow game we play. Assuming, of course, it does not kill you first."
Snake was spared of the indignity of his face betraying his emotions as he was too exhausted to move his facial muscles even if he were so inclined. If he was capable of more than his current dull expression, his eyes would have widened, and his mouth would have contorted into involuntary panic. This Russian was much more astute and observant than Snake had expected.
Suddenly, the iron door swung open to allow the entrance of another mercenary, who jogged up and saluted to Shotmaker. "Sir!" he said.
Shotmaker stood up. "What is it?"
The merc led Shotmaker away from Snake as he related news to his superior in a low voice. Snake strained to listen but couldn't make out the words. Shotmaker nodded as the merc spoke and pointed to the door as he gave a reply. The mercenary nodded and moved out the door.
Shotmaker turned to Snake. "Uvy, I'm afraid I will have to cut today's session short, Zmeya. I have something I must attend to. You have done well today and deserve a little reward. We will not string you up tonight, and we will give your ears a rest. Enjoy your break, my friend; you have earned it."
He picked up the stool and walked out. The guards roughly pushed Snake out his chair, sending him collapsing onto the floor. He landed on the discarded spoon, which he surreptitiously shoved into his boxers as they grabbed the chair, the bag, and empty can of food before unplugging and removing the floodlights and walking out after the Russian. They mercifully left the water bottle for him as they left. Snake crawled over to it and unscrewed the cap to take a drink.
Footsteps echoed down the hall through the barred open slit of the iron door, until Snake was left with nothing but silence as he sat in the light of the overhead fluorescent bulb. He lay on the blanket, rubbing his sore limbs as he tried to take his mind off the pain.
Across from him, he heard shuffling through the metal grate of a small air vent near the floor. It didn't share a wall with the cell door. Could it be the neighboring cell? Snake crawled over to the vent and said softly in Afrikaans, "Is there anyone else there?"
To his surprise, a gravelly voice responded in English. "Another prisoner? I thought they moved the other prisoners out of here."
"Fox?" Snake guessed. "Is that you?"
"…What did you call me?" the voice demanded, cracking a little.
"You're Gray Fox, right?"
A moment of silence passed. "So," the voice said, "they sent another one. What do I call you?"
"Snake. Solid Snake," Snake said. "It's good to hear your voice, Fox."
"Likewise," Fox said. "Though I was hoping to meet you in better circumstances. If they've captured you, too…"
"Yeah," Snake said. "I was planning to get you out, but I ran into a bit of a snag."
"Clearly," Fox replied, unamused. "Would've figured you'd be able to learn from my mistake. What, is this your first run out, or something?"
Snake didn't answer.
"Oh shit," Fox breathed. "It is your first mission isn't it? Are you fucking kidding me? They sent a rookie after me?!"
On any other day, Snake might have been offended at the insinuation of his being incapable, but under the circumstances, Fox's dismay was a perfectly reasonable reaction. "Look," said Snake, "there's two of us, now. That should increase our odds, right?"
The vent went cold for a few seconds before replying, "Yes, you're right. Between the two of us, we should be able to secure an escape. Alright, rookie. Tell me about your cell."
Snake looked around. "Not much to it. Big room, metal door, no windows, no bed. A blanket, a bucket, and this vent. That's about it."
"Same here," Fox said. "Do you have anything useful?"
Snake pulled the spoon from his boxer shorts. "I've got a metal spoon."
"How'd you manage that?"
"The guards missed it when they left."
"What about the vent cover? What's securing it in place?"
Snake looked at the corners of the vent cover in the wall. "There are metal screws here."
"How big are they?"
"Pretty decent size."
"Flathead or Philips?
"Flat."
"Okay…okay, rookie. Here's what I want you to do. Break off the round end of the spoon."
Snake didn't have the strength in his arms to do it with his bare hands, so he pressed it against the floor at an angle and pushed down with his knee using his arm to torque the handle into a bend, and then flipped the spoon over to bend it the other way. After a few times of doing this the metal of the spoon got weaker and weaker until the shear stress overcame the strength of its cross section, and he was able to pull the handle off with a yank. He examined the handle and was satisfied to see it end in a flat edge without any metal burrs.
"Okay, done," he reported.
The voice switched to German. "Now, use it to unscrew the vent cover from the wall. Quietly, now."
Snake got to work on the screws, which were rusted into place in the wall. Every few minutes, he'd spot a shadow moving through the slot in the iron door, and he'd have to stop. It was slow and methodical work, but eventually all four brown and grey screws were freed. Snake gingerly moved the grate aside and leaned it against the wall before crawling into the vent.
It was a straight shot to the other side, ending in another grating. The room inside was much like his own, except the light bulb overhead was much dimmer. A figure in the shadows could be seen huddled in the corner against the opposite wall.
"I'm here," Snake whispered in Arabic.
The figure stirred and crawled over. Snake recognized the predator's eyes of Gray Fox, although he appeared much thinner than when he saw him last back at FOXHOUND HQ. The dark shadows under his eyes were somehow even deeper, and his cheeks shallow. His body was also similarly bruised and battered like Snake's, his fingernails were cracked, and his hair coated in dirt and dust. His usual wide-eyed stare made him look crazed and delirious.
"Give it," Fox said hurriedly. "Give it here."
Snake fed the metal handle through the grating and Fox went to work on the screws of the grate on his end. Much like in Snake's own cell, it was slow work, made even slower as Fox kept stopping to look over his shoulder to make sure he wasn't being observed. His movements were twitchy, erratic, and his hands were shaking a little.
After about twenty minutes, Fox had loosened the grate enough to pull it off and grabbed onto Snake's arms to pull him through. Fox looked him over. "A little worse for wear, huh? I overheard them working you over. You're not broken, are you? Still have all your bits and pieces?"
Snake nodded. "I'm good. Still ready for duty. What about you? You look like shit."
Fox shrugged. "I'll live."
Together they walked around the cell, examining the walls while they stretched their legs. The walls were made with brick and mortar, though it was hard to tell how thick. The only way in or out was the vent and the door, same as in Snake's cell. They said little, talking in hushed voices when they talked at all, switching the language every few sentences. On the wall opposite Fox's cell door, they found what they were looking for: a small crack in the mortar between two bricks. Fox got down on his knees and used the spoon handle to start scratching and digging around inside of it, dust falling out every time he removed the handle with a tug. He wiped his forehead of sweat with his arm as he worked.
Every few minutes, they'd take turns digging, until eventually they both had to stop after running out of stamina. It felt like for all their work, they were no closer to getting out, but closer inspection of the point they'd dug at had shown that the crack in the mortar had gotten bigger, and just a little bit wider. Both of them feeling tired, they agreed to stop for the day and Snake crawled back through the vent, both of them screwing the vent covers back into place where they were.
Snake placed the spoon handle and spoon head inside the vent just inside of Fox's end within reach of his fingers so that he could quietly work on digging the mortar himself during the day when Snake was being questioned—Fox had said that it had been so long since his last interrogation he believed that the enemy may have lost interest in him when Snake showed up—chances were that the only reason Fox wasn't dead yet was so that he could be used as a hostage for leverage.
When Snake got back to his cell he screwed on the vent cover by hand; when he was finished, it wasn't tight enough to keep the vent cover from being loose enough to pull off, but it was good enough for appearance's sake and since he screwed them in by hand, it meant he'd be able to remove it by hand too.
Snake pulled the blanket over next to the vent. It was good to hear another human voice, and a FOXHOUNDer at that. It would help to keep him sane.
"I heard you get questioned by the Russian, Snake. What did they learn?"
Not asking whether Snake had succumbed to the questioning at all. Of course. Fox knew that everyone broke eventually, sooner or later—the question was what, if anything, got revealed during each interrogation.
"They know I'm a foreigner. They don't know what I'm after."
"Did you tell them who sent you?"
Snake shook his head. "No."
"Did they figure out that you and I are connected?"
"They didn't even ask about you," Snake said. "They might already suspect, but if they know about your connection to me, it wasn't from my telling them."
Fox sighed with satisfaction. "Good, that's good to hear. You did well, rookie. Not bad for your first time."
Snake smiled. A genuine compliment of his progress. It meant a lot to hear it from Gray Fox. "It's been…rough," he admitted.
"But you're still here," Fox said.
"Yeah. I'm still here." Snake leaned his head back against the wall, hugging his knees. "Fox?"
"Yeah?"
"Are all missions like this?"
"What do you mean?"
Snake furrowed his brow, trying to figure out exactly what it was he wanted to ask. "I've fought before, in my old outfit, before I joined up with this one. I've killed people before. Hurt people. But this time was…different, somehow. Closer. More…personal."
"It feels different up close, doesn't it?"
Snake nodded. "Yeah."
"It's a side effect of modern warfare," Gray Fox said. "Research and advancement of modern technology for the sake of making war more 'humane,' to make a 'cleaner' battlefield. Of course, it's all bullshit—it doesn't lessen the death and suffering any, but it does put a little bit of distance between you and the muck, and it makes the public and the politicians feel better. In older times, you didn't have a choice when it came to watching the light leave your enemies' eyes, rubbing your face in blood and dirt. Our ancestors were more connected to the violence—it was a part of them, in their blood.
In joining, you've taken on a role that was historically reserved for them. Death and violence has always been a fact of life for every soldier, every warrior on the battlefield even now, but you—you get to see it up close. It's left a mark on you—it's part of you, now. It'll never be easy—these kinds of things never are, and everybody gets sick the first time. But it will get easier over time, the more you do it. Eventually, you'll get used to it. When you walk into hell willingly, you'll make yourself into a monster to survive. You'll have to—only way to beat the monsters is to make yourself worse than they are. It's who you are, now."
Snake looked down at his rough and callused palms. "Who I am…" he muttered. He remembered what Big Boss had told him prior to the briefing, about being true to himself, to that warrior's spirit. His hands curled into fists.
"Yeah," Fox said. "Welcome to the club, Snake."
The overhead light flickered off. Light's out. Snake felt exhausted, ready to pass out.
Snake sighed. "I think I'm going to sleep now," he said as he crawled over to the blanket on the other end of the room.
"No worries," Fox said. "I'll be here. Sweet dreams, rookie."
Snake sighed as he curled up on the unwashed blanket, dreading the coming darkness. He hoped he didn't dream at all, but knew that with his luck so far, the night (if it even was nighttime) would be filled with nothing but nightmares.
"Rise and shine, Lieutenant."
Lt. David Matthews blearily opened his eyes in the light of the trashed hotel room. His CO, Cpt. Willard was standing before him, facing out the window. His back was to the Lieutenant. David looked around the room, observing the full ashtrays and empty bottles of liquor. That's right, there was a celebration last night—the cease-fire had just been announced, signaling the end of the war. Everyone was drunkenly singing, partying, and talking about what they were going to do once they got home. David wandered into the hotel room to crash.
David held his head in his hand, groaning at the headache. That was some party, he thought to himself.
He sat up in bed, standing up so he could greet the Captain properly. The room was bathed in the orange-yellow glow of early morning. "Good morning, sir," David said cheerfully.
The Captain didn't respond and didn't turn around. The light of the room got a little darker, the orange turning to dark red, the yellow accented against black. David stiffened. Something felt wrong.
"Sir?" he asked.
"You're no use to us like this, Williams."
David was puzzled at the response. A little hangover wasn't enough to break him out of fighting shape. Except…he realized that his body felt exhausted and broken, and sore all over. Just how hard did he party last night, he wondered? Why did he feel so tired?
"I don't understand, Captain," he said, shrugging. The shrug made his shoulder feel like it was being stabbed by needles.
"You left the unit, left your brothers," Cpt. Willard accused. "You abandoned them. Used us as a steppingstone for your own ambition."
David couldn't believe what he'd been hearing. Something about the accusation hit deep. Why was Cpt. Willard saying these things? "What do you mean?" David demanded.
"Your brothers in Lima. Black Mamba. The prisoners in Africa. Everyone who helps you, you abandon. And the people you killed and abandoned are left to bleed out in the dust. And in the end, you couldn't even act as a useful tool; you still got captured. What was it all for? A useless instrument, good only for death and suffering."
"Mamba? Africa? What are you talking about, sir? You're not making sense," Snake protested.
David shook his head. Who is Snake? He thought to himself. Why did I call myself that?
Still, Cpt. Willard wouldn't turn to face him. All of a sudden, Snake was filled with the intense urge to grab the Captain's shoulders and spin him around. For reasons he didn't understand, he was filled with intense panic. Why won't you look at me? He wanted to scream. He hyperventilated. It was hard to breathe. He coughed as the room filled up with smoke.
David looked around. The walls were bubbling and cracking, an unbearable heat permeating the room. Cpt. Willard nodded and shifted his body, slowly turning. David was filled with fear. He realized he now wanted desperately for Willard to do literally anything other than turn around. A banging was heard from the doors and walls. David looked down to see that the floor he was standing on had turned to sand, swallowing him up to his thighs.
David waded away from Cpt. Willard, grabbing a bottle from the nightstand. The room was under attack. Hands caked with sand and grime, covered in open weeping sores erupted from the sand below to clutch at him; attached to these arms were the men from his unit, faces rotting and ridden with pustules and maggots. Their mouths were open as they groaned in a desperate murmur, "You left us!"
Snake crawled away, climbing onto the safety of the solid bed. When he looked back down, the faces had changed to that of black and white South Africans, faces covered in blood, bodies riddled with holes and open wounds that soaked their yellow prison attire. They screeched, "You left us to fend for ourselves! You sent us to die!"
The door burst open, a blonde woman wrapped in barbed wire with her arm left dangling, flesh sloughing off, her good hand coated in red. She snarled, "You betrayed me for your own ambition!"
Snake gripped the bottle in his hand and swung down, shattering it. The shards of glass floated in the air as they spun, catching the reflections of the living corpses as the room melted around them. David brandished the broken bottle to threaten his foes, only to find that the broken bottle was now a pistol, and he was no longer standing in the hotel room, but in a burning atrium.
Lined up against the wall were four men, blindfolded to await the firing squad. One was missing an arm and had shrapnel in his legs, forcing him to lean against a crutch. Another had a face that was stitched together with what looked like staples and fishing line. The third was bleeding from a hole in the face, and the fourth was bleeding from his liver and had half his head missing, brains exposed.
Written messily on the wall above the men's heads in blood were the words, "YOU KILLED US."
Smoke was rising from the barrel of Snake's gun. The wounds on the men were fresh. David dropped it in horror as he stared at his palms, covered with scars and bloodstains.
"W-what…?" he whispered.
Behind and around him and the dead soldiers was flame and darkness. A harsh whisper hissed from deep within the black. "Yes, Snake. Do you see, now? This is what you are." The growling whisper was mixed with the voice of Captain Willard, which sounded like it was being heard from underwater.
A bloodied face appeared, and though the form was inconsistent amidst the shadows and smoke, Snake recognized it immediately: the rough, draconic, skull-like face with a shiny obsidian horn, bleeding from a bullet wound in the forehead, wreathed in sparklingly wet leathery black wings. A single, red eye with a stormy grey hurricane as its iris. No doubt about it: it was the Devil incarnate.
"Time to wake up and smell the corpses, Snake. Rise and shine."
OPERATION INTRUDE N313
DAY THREE, TIME UNKNOWN
"Rise and shine, Zmeya."
Snake opened his eyes. He found himself tied to a chair. Shotmaker was looming over him, looking amused. Snake tried to get his bearings. He felt delirious. He looked behind Shotmaker, expecting to see the demon lurking in the shadows. Instead, he only saw the two attendant guards that Shotmaker had with him last time. Or was that four guards? He felt so light-headed.
Shotmaker raised his hand. He was holding something. Snake squinted to get the double images in his vision to resolve into a single picture so that he could figure out what it was. Eventually, he was able to make it out: a syringe. Empty.
"Wha-?"
"We've given you a little cocktail. One dose of psychedelics to soften you up, and then a dose of sodium pentathol to induce a mild hypnosis. It makes the subject very suggestible. Not guaranteed as a truth serum, but it does make it more difficult to lie. You seemed to be having very nice sleep, and I didn't want to bother you with the waking, so I had my men inject you while unconscious. Hope you don't mind. Psychedelics should make for pleasant dreaming, I should think."
Shotmaker placed the syringe into a paper bag. Snake heard the clinking of glass as it bounced against the vials inside.
"Now, we are ready for conversating, da? Should be most pleasant. You know, you talk in your sleep? Bad habit for intelligence agent. Never know what sort of information those lips would let loose without an alert and conscious mind to guard it."
Snake had the feeling that he should be panicking, but he couldn't figure out why. He barely registered what Shotmaker was saying, but his voice sounded pleasant to the ears, so he just kept right on listening.
"Tell me, Zmeya, who is this, 'Captain Willard?'
Something inside Snake told him not to answer any of the Russian's questions. Nothing good would come from it. But the command fell on deaf ears; the voice sounded so nice; Snake wanted to tell it anything it wanted to know.
"Mentor…friend…" Snake muttered.
"This is good, Zmeya. Friends are very good to have. It is a luxury men like you and me tend to lack. Friends keep us sane, and in good spirits. Where do you know this friend from?"
"Old unit…" Snake replied, his eyes downcast. For some reason, Shotmaker's boots looked so fascinating to him. As did the roach scurrying along the floor.
"So, you're not with them anymore? I heard you saying, 'I didn't want to leave you,'" Shotmaker said with keen interest.
Snake slowly shook his head. "Not anymore…" he whispered.
Stop it. That's enough! Don't say anything else!
Again, that tiny inner voice. So…demanding, so rude. It was distracting. Couldn't it see that Snake was trying to have a conversation here? Then again, he was being pretty rude himself by not looking the Russian in the eye. But it was so hard to lift his head up, so he settled for looking at the Russian's legs. Snake was so tired, he felt sluggish.
"Why did you leave your old unit, Zmeya? You called them, 'brothers.' Why would you wish to leave your comrades like this?"
"I had to…I was called to serve…I'm a tool. I go where I'm needed," Snake muttered.
"What were you needed for?" the Russian asked.
Snake shook his head. Dumb question, he thought. It was so obvious, not even worth asking.
"Zmeya?" Shotmaker prompted.
"Do you think we might have used too much?" asked one of the guards attending. His friend shushed him.
"I had to…they needed me…for the new mission."
Stop! Shut your fucking mouth, the inner voice screamed. Snake's brow furrowed, teeth clenching.
"Who needed you? What was the mission, Zmeya? You can tell me," Shotmaker said.
Snake wanted to answer, he really did. But something was stopping him. He felt his lips purse, ready to shape the words, but he couldn't get it out. He clenched his fists. Why couldn't he speak?
"He's resisting," said the guard who spoke before. "Should I give him another dose?"
Shotmaker raised a hand. "The mission, Zmeya. What was it?"
"Inf-filtrate…enemy f-fortress…O-Outer Heaven…" Snake stuttered.
"Yes. And?" Shotmaker urged.
"D-d-des…tr…"
"Destroy?" Shotmaker asked. "Destroy what?"
"D…destroy…"
A boom was heard overhead. The hanging lamp swung from the ceiling as dust fell loosely from the walls.
"Chyort!" Shotmaker cursed. He turned to his guards, waving them over. They appeared to know what he wanted, because one of them handed him a walkie-talkie. "What is going on? Give me a status update," he demanded as he stepped out of the iron door. His attendants kept a watchful eye on Snake while they waited for him to return.
Something inside Snake sighed with relief, and he relaxed his fingers.
When Shotmaker returned, he was red in the face. He shoved the radio back into his guard's hands and strode up to Snake.
"Change of plans, Zmeya," Shotmaker said, grabbing Snake by the hair. "It seems your Resistance friends have a direct line with their commander. I'm going to guess that was your doing. Tell me, who did you put them in contact with?"
Wait a minute. Didn't the Russian say that they had already rounded up the Resistance fighters days ago? Snake could feel the inner voice nodding in agreement. There was something there, it was saying. Latch onto it. The fog started to lift from Snake's mind ever so slightly.
Snake grunted, rolling his eyes lazily until he could see Shotmaker's face properly. Snake didn't know what happened, but the Russian looked pissed. For some reason, Snake thought of Kyle's face when he told them that Outer Heaven had murdered his family.
"You…you killed…" Snake said accusingly.
The scowl turned into a terrible grin. Snake thought of the demon's draconic skull. "That's right," the Russian said triumphantly. "I have killed a great many men. More than you can scarcely imagine. And if you don't want to be one of them, Zmeya, you will tell me what I want to know. Now…"
Shotmaker yanked Snake up by the head, his fingers gripping tightly through Snake's hair.
"Who sent you? Why are you here?" the Russian demanded, low on patience. Snake hissed in pain.
With great ferocity, Shotmaker started striking Snake in the gut, each blow punctuated by a single word: "Who. Have. You. Been. Talking. To?"
Snake started retching. Shotmaker cut his bonds loose and threw him to the ground so Snake could empty the contents of his stomach on the floor. His throat burned. Tears flooded his eyes involuntarily. The acidic smell of the bile was terrible. But with that smell came a sudden clarity. Snake was beginning to feel more alert, more like himself. He coughed in between words:
"Fuck…you…"
A kick to the solar plexus sent him tumbling into the wall as the former Spetsnaz yelled in frustration before kicking him square in the groin and in the chest. Spots swarmed in Snake's eyes. Shotmaker stepped away, breathing heavily.
After a moment, Shotmaker calmed down. He turned to look at Snake. "Your Resistance friends are not long for this world, Zmeya. If you keep being stubborn, I will not be able to guarantee their safety. Perhaps you should think about that next time you are asked a question."
Snake simply groaned in pain as he curled up in the corner. Seeing that Snake wasn't in a state to speak coherently anymore, Shotmaker turned to his subordinates. "Let's go," he ordered as he and the men left the room.
During the whole session, Gray Fox had been whittling away at the mortar between the bricks, but it was slow work, and he'd had to take many breaks to conserve his strength. He needed Snake's help, but he knew Snake wasn't in a state to be helpful right now.
Hours passed as Snake writhed on the floor like his namesake. At some point, some food was pushed through a trap at the bottom of the door, and Snake crawled achingly across the cell to reach it and carefully put the morsels into his mouth. Eventually, he started feeling well enough to sit up and when he did, he looked over to the vent.
"Hey," he said weakly. "You there?"
Gray Fox stopped digging, happy for the excuse to take a break. "Yeah, Snake. I'm here. How are you holding up?"
"I've been better," Snake admitted. "But I'm still alive. Should count for something."
"It counts for a lot," Fox said encouragingly. "It means you can still fight."
"Don't know if you can call what I'm doing 'fighting,'" Snake chuckled humorlessly. His breath hitched in his throat. "But I'm trying, Fox. I'm trying."
"Hang in there. We'll get out of here, soon. You have to believe that. Remember what the Boss said: never give up, even when the odds are against you. We will make it out of here," Fox promised.
Big Boss. Snake hadn't thought of him once since he'd been taken prisoner. Those words he'd heard on the day of his induction felt like a lifetime ago. Something awoke in Snake like a kindling fire. Somehow, the idea of disappointing the Boss became unthinkable. Snake thought of his loyalties to America, who had given him life and to Big Boss, who had given him a future. In his mind, the two became inextricably linked.
The Boss believed in him, enough to send him on this mission when even Gray Fox himself got captured. Snake may be uncertain of his usefulness, but Big Boss wasn't, and Snake was not about to betray the faith that the Boss had placed in him.
Nodding, Snake crawled over to the vent, and with great effort set to the task of removing the grating to crawl through. Together, he and Fox continued working on the wall. The crack that had shown the night before had spread, and much of the mortar was dug out between three bricks. Another day or two, and they might be able to push them out with enough force.
When light's-out came, Snake returned to his cell. His thoughts returned to the facility he now called home. Whatever happens, I will make it out of here, he decided. I will make Big Boss proud, and I'll prove that he was right to trust me.
ELSEWHERE, MUCH LATER...
A knock on the door. A command to enter. Shotmaker arrives to give his report:
In response to another attack by Shotmaker's men, the escapees have detonated explosives on the northeastern stairway, rendering it impassable. The good news: the POWs no longer have any means of escape unless they disarm the traps and remove the barricades for the other stairways. Our men are currently working on clearing those barricades as we speak, he says, but it will take time.
The bad news: part of the stairway still exists, giving the escaped prisoners access to the roof, where they have continued to fight the staff. The men stationed on the roof have all been killed, and the POWs have obtained control. Final casualty count: eight men total lost today, not counting the deaths from the initial breakout the day before.
Shotmaker makes a recommendation: send a helicopter with a strike team to attack the prisoners from above while Shotmaker's men tackle the barricades from below. The POWs will have nowhere to run.
The demon nods its assent, breathing in smoky fumes. Shotmaker will have his bird.
A question: how goes the interrogation?
Shotmaker is visibly uncomfortable. His fingertips tap and drum against his thigh; a minor nervous tic that spoke volumes to the demon. Sweat glistened on Shotmaker's forehead.
The subject was subjected to drug treatment to make him more suggestible. It seemed to work at first, but the subject started to resist the procedure. Not much useful was gleaned from him: an old unit, whose captain had an English-sounding name. Based on this and the subject's accent, it's safe to say that the subject is American.
Subject is unlikely to be employed by the American government directly, though—likely a contractor, possibly a competitor. But as to who the client is, or the contracting company for that matter, is anyone's guess.
The demon stalked around the office, pacing like an animal that had cornered its prey. Its eye roamed over the face and body of the Russian as he stood unnerved in the demon's gaze.
With dry amusement, the demon observed him; the Russian was not telling the demon anything that it didn't already know. The identity of the man wasn't a mystery, even less so now that he was confirmed to be an American. Indeed, the man's identity was never in question for the demon, though Shotmaker had no way of knowing that. The point of the interrogation was less to do with learning about the origins of the man himself, and more to do with buying time. The demon didn't want the man to face him until the man was ready to be received.
That's not to say there wasn't any value in the questioning, however. There was still one final thing to confirm, after all.
So, the question burns forth amidst the roiling smoke: what of the man's motives?
A nervous reply is given: could not get a complete answer from the subject. Only the words: 'Infiltrate the enemy fortress, Outer Heaven,' and 'Destroy…' The rest was cut off by the stairway explosion and by then the subject had successfully resisted the drug treatment, bringing a premature end to the session.
Destroy the ultimate weapon, Metal Gear, the demon's thoughts finished the sentence, remembering the familiar words.
The demon lifts its head from its reverie, thinking on Shotmaker's explanation of how the POWs took the roof of the building. They may be expecting the bird. They did appear to be moving with an unexpected level of coordination, even without the American's involvement.
A command is given: the insects in the Resistance are planning something. Someone is guiding their hand, and they are likely to plot some kind of move. The subject may know who it is that guides them. The Russian is to find out the identity of this guiding hand, and with a hardened stare the demon shows that no delay will be tolerated.
The Russian gives his assent and scurries away, realizing that he is running out of time.
The demon stares out the window into the rolling fog of the morning, before his idle musings are once again interrupted, this time by the light and sound of distant explosions on the far side of the complex followed by sirens. It would appear that the Resistance is already making its move.
The demon looked on grimly.
RESISTANCE OPERATION
MORNING OF DAY FOUR
OUTER HEAVEN EAST – RIVERSIDE
When Kyle had lost contact with Snake upon his capture, he at once took Snake's advice and immediately set about on the task of organizing a rescue for his people, and possibly Snake as well.
Via coordination with the team of released prisoners over radio, they set to work eliminating staff on the roof and setting C4 charges on the struts of one of the two helipads which hung off the side of the building. The idea was to prevent reinforcements by air—given the value of the material held in the building, it was unlikely that Outer Heaven would attempt to bomb or mortar the rooftop, but they may try to deliver fireteams via fast-rope descent.
So, together, the POW team and Kyle hatched a plan: Kyle would send forces up the river for an assault of the east side of the base, and when the attack began in earnest the POW team would blow the charges on the helipad, leaving the other one open so they could attempt to capture a chopper should one decide to land (the POW team having already blown up and destroyed the stairway they were guarding during the previous day's fighting). Meanwhile, the POW team would set up mortar teams on the roof facing eastward to support the ground team while they moved into the base.
The only problem was the vehicles in the first-floor hangar and the lots outside—an entire fleet of tanks stood at the ready. The mortar team could suppress any tank crews outdoors, but how could they prevent the tanks from deploying from the building itself? They'd have to shut the sheet metal doors from the inside, and they only had control of the third floor and the roof.
Luckily, thanks to the third-floor armory, they had access to Stinger launchers and RPGs. They couldn't prevent tanks from leaving the building, but they could destroy any that did before they reached the heart of the fighting. That was the hope, anyway. Kyle just had to hope that the ground team didn't get caught up in the blasts of the mortars and launchers by mistake. Once the plan was set and all the teams were in place, Kyle personally led his ground team to the compound.
They came in the morning, under cover of fog, just as Snake and Kyle had done just a few days before. They waited till just at the break of sunrise when they would be turning off their searchlights but before the fog lifted. The weather was on their side.
Not wanting to lose the element of surprise, Kyle killed the engines before they reached the perimeter walls and the Resistance fighters started slowly paddling up the river with the hand oars they'd brought along. When they reached the docks, the rebels disembarked and stacked up against the wall on either side of the gate, taking care to avoid the gaze of the closest watchtower.
Moving through the gate, they dodged enemy patrols as they made a beeline towards the lot with the transport trucks. Four men split off from the trucks to head toward the lot with parked tanks, where they planted IEDs in the tanks' treads for remote detonation. Kyle and his squad, meanwhile, silently killed the patrolmen in and near the trucks and set to work removing the gas caps and stuffing wine-soaked rags into the tanks. Once finished, Kyle and his men pulled out their lighters and set the rags on fire before moving up towards the first of the warehouses.
Kyle was handed a cell phone for the IEDs. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the trucks to go off. He rested his thumb on the CALL button, waiting for the explosive signal. One by one, the trucks lit up, small fireballs lighting up against the early morning sky. Kyle nodded as each explosion sounded. He looked down at the phone and pressed the button. Explosive force knocked off the armored vehicles' treads, putting a dent in their exterior tank column. Not all of the tanks were disabled, but enough to buy the rebels time as they navigate the confusion.
Alarms sounded. Screaming could be heard. Kyle and his team heard the pounding of approaching footsteps. The battle had begun. Kyle's thoughts silently formed a prayer: Hang on, everyone. The cavalry is coming.
Kyle and his men shouldered their rifles to meet the coming tide.
MEANWHILE, IN THE DETENTION FACILITY...
Gray Fox continued to work through the night while Snake slept, and after hours and days of continuous digging, he had weakened the mortar between three of the bricks. He looked down at his hands, bloody and covered with filth from the effort, before admiring his and Snake's combined work. He could see a little bit of light leaking through from the other side. With enough force, they may be able to push out the bricks and make a hole big enough to squeeze through. But in his weakened state, Fox wouldn't be able to do it on his own; he'd need Snake's assistance. Nevertheless, the task was complete. Fox nodded in grim satisfaction as he looked over to the vent. Tonight, he and the rookie would make their escape.
For the first time in the three weeks since Fox had been captured, the door to his cell opened. Instinctively, Fox turned to face the door and placed his back against the wall as a couple of mercenaries strode in toward him. Was this the day they finally decided to kill him? No, no, no—they were so close!
But death didn't come for Fox in that moment. Instead, the mercs struck him in the gut to make him keel over before grabbing him by the arms to drag him out of his cell and into the cell next door. Shotmaker was waiting for them there, with Snake bound and sat up in the far corner, forced to face them. Fox was forced to his knees in the middle of the room, facing Snake. The Russian grabbed Fox's face by the chin and forced his gaze forward so that Snake could look him in the eyes.
"Today, we're going to do something different, Zmeya. Today, you are going to be spared your torment, and instead, that torment will be transferred to another. If you do not wish for this to happen, you will answer my questions honestly."
"F…Fox…" Snake said.
Shit, Fox cursed inwardly to himself.
"Ah, so you know each other!" Shotmaker said with faux surprise, clapping his hands together. "Good. That will make this very simple then, da?" Shotmaker crouched down low to get up into Snake's face, speaking low. "The questions are simple: who is your client? Why did they send you? Who is your contact in the Resistance forces? Answer now and spare your friend the pain."
"Don't you tell them a fucking thing, rookie," Fox growled.
Snake looked up to Fox, and Fox was quietly astonished. Rather than the crumbling face of a broken man that he expected to see, the look he saw was of hardened, steely resolve. Snake nodded to Fox, and in that nod, Fox found hope.
Snake looked over to the Russian and spat on his face. "Go fuck yourself," he growled.
Shotmaker wiped his face off, looked at the saliva in his hand with no expression. Calmly, he wiped it on Snake's shoulder before striking him hard across the mouth, drawing blood. He turned over to his subordinates holding Fox.
"Begin," he commanded.
The mercs wrapped a piece of cloth around Fox's mouth. Shotmaker produced a canteen, opened it, and handed it to the men, who poured it into the cloth. Fox was grunting muffled screaming and choking, and his body started thrashing and going into convulsions as he struggled to breathe.
"What are you doing!? Stop!" Snake yelled.
Shotmaker looked to Snake. "You alone can stop this, Zmeya. Simply tell me what I want to know."
Snake stayed silent. Fox continued to shake. His eyes started rolling up into his head. This went on for several more seconds before Shotmaker motioned for them to stop and the cloth was removed. Gray Fox coughed hoarsely, sucking in every huge breath for all it was worth. His lungs felt like they were on fire.
The Russian stooped to Snake's level once more. "Are we going to keep playing games, or will you be answering my questions?"
Fox coughed again and glared up to Snake with bloodshot eyes. "Snake. Say nothing."
Snake glanced to Fox again. The resolve had not left his eyes, but he couldn't hide his concern for Fox. Still, he said nothing. Shotmaker once more motioned for his men to continue waterboarding him. Once more the torture continued. Snake wanted to look away, wanted to shut his eyes. But he knew, deep down, that if he was going to fight this thing before him, he needed to confront it, needed to see it himself.
Torture and mistreatment of POWs is of course forbidden by the Geneva Conventions as a war crime, for both legal combatants and civilians alike. But Fox and Snake weren't legal combatants, and they certainly weren't civilians. It likely didn't matter anyway. International law doesn't really exist—in order for something to be a law it requires a body capable of enforcing it, and having a set of rules and laws being international makes it impossible to enforce by definition because there is no higher government to enforce against the atrocities that Snake witnessed.
It was just like the Secretary of Defense had said before they'd sent him out here: there would be no help. No one was coming to save them. The only way they were getting out of here was on their own, but with every second the Russian continued to inflict his torture on Fox, Snake began to feel just a little more powerless at not being able to stop it.
But he couldn't break. That would mean betraying Big Boss, betraying America. It would mean betraying Gray Fox, and likely would get both of them killed. So, Snake maintained his silence, and he used the wrath he felt towards his captors as motivation. The moment the opportunity arose, he was going to get himself and Gray Fox out of this hellhole they were in. And he silently promised himself: when they do get out, he was going to tear Shotmaker apart.
After the third round, Gray Fox looked about ready to pass out, so Shotmaker stopped his men so that Fox could collect himself. "This will go on for as long as it needs to, until you give us the answers we seek," he spoke simply.
"I have all day today to spend with you both. There will be no interruptions this time," he said. Just like yesterday, the room shook again, the walls rumbling. The mercs must be fighting with the rebels again. Shotmaker ignored it.
"I will say this for you," Shotmaker said. "You both have a very impressive resilience. It is commendable. I meant what I said before, you know. You would make very good additions to Outer Heaven's army. But if you would not join us, then the only choice left to you is to answer our questions and put an end to your torment now or extend it. Either way, you will not die until I give you permission. So, which is it, my friends? Die now, or die later?"
Silence occurred as the two prisoners were permitted to contemplate their options. Suddenly, the door sprung open as a Moroccan mercenary addressed the Russian. "Commander," said the merc, "We're under attack!"
"The escapees again?" said the Russian.
"Negative, commander! The Resistance is assaulting the base. Our men out in the warehouses are getting hammered on all sides. They need reinforcements!"
Shotmaker glared at the prisoners. "They must be making a rescue attempt," he growled. "Very well. We will go to arrange reinforcements from the basement personnel. You and you, come with me," he motioned to the Moroccan and to one of the mercs holding Fox. He pointed to the third man. "You, stay here and watch them. I will return shortly."
"Yes, sir!"
Three of the men left, leaving only the one guard, who let Fox fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. The guard walked closer to Snake and squatted to get a better look at him. "You killed a few of my friends when you showed up, you bastard," the guard said. "Don't think for one second you're getting out of here alive. We're going to make sure you get everything that's coming to you."
Behind the guard, Snake could see Fox slowly stand up, clutching the rag the guards had used to waterboard him with. Acting quickly, Snake wrapped his legs around one of the guard's, dug his foot into the guard's groin and used the strength of his legs and abdominal muscles to make the guard wobble and teeter over, making it easier for Fox to wrap the cloth around the guard's neck and pull him up over his back to strangle him. Horrific gurgling noises erupted from the man's throat as Fox pulled. After fifteen seconds of hard work, Fox and Snake were rewarded with silence as the guard's body went limp.
Fox grabbed a knife from the guard's belt and used it to cut Snake's bonds before grabbing the guard's pistol. There was no card or keyring that Fox could find, but it didn't matter. "The cell doors lock from outside," Fox explained. "But that's fine. We have a way out." Together, he and Snake yanked the loose vent cover from the wall and then Fox crawled through feet-first to kick out the other side. Once they reached Fox's cell, Fox pointed out the weakened wall.
"On the count of three!" Fox commanded. "One, two, three!"
Together they rushed the wall with their shoulders. The bricks shifted slightly, but otherwise all they got for their trouble was more scratches and bruises. Not to be deterred, they stood up and got ready to rush it again.
"Again!" Fox shouted. "One, two, three!"
Again, they bum-rushed the wall. This time, the bricks shifted outward, and the cracks in the mortar spread wide into a hole of light and they could make out some details of the hallway beyond. They reared back, hands forward, and pushed hard, shoving the bricks out into the hallway, where they landed with a series of thuds, leaving behind a hole just big enough for each man to squeeze through.
"I'll go first," Fox said. "Help push me through."
Fox wormed his way into the hole, getting about halfway through before his frame got stuck. Snake lifted Fox's legs for leverage and forced the older man the rest of the way, sending Fox tumbling onto the floor. Taking a moment to catch his breath, Snake watched as Fox pulled himself back up with a wince before waving Snake to follow after him.
Snake mimicked Fox's maneuver, this time with the other man pulling on his arms while Snake kicked his legs. In moments, both men were lying on the floor, exhausted. Fox climbed up to his feet, gripping the stolen Beretta and the knife in his hands. Snake joined his new friend in standing, feeling a little worse for wear as he leaned against the wall, wincing, and clutching at his ribs.
What a fine pair they made, Snake thought with exasperation: two broken and battered men limping through the hallways with nothing more than a single gun and knife between them. They were going to need to secure something more in the way of supplies if they were going to get out of there alive.
The lights in the brick hallway flickered and loose dirt fell from the ceiling as more explosions were heard overhead. "What's going on?" Fox asked in wonder.
"If I had to guess," Snake said, "That'd the rebels, coming to take back their guys."
"Friends of yours?" Fox asked, eyebrow raised.
"You could say that," Snake answered. He pointed forward. "Let's go. I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to."
Fox nodded. "Agreed. Stay behind me and watch our six for any incoming."
Snake nodded, breathing hard. "R-roger."
Fox led them down the hall and around a corner, before ducking into an open door to narrowly avoid a guard down the hall running back in the direction of the cells. Inside the door, they found themselves in what looked to be a small office with two desks at opposite corners with computer towers underneath, one of the monitors showing camera footage of the outside of the cells and a few of the exterior hallways.
"Look," Snake pointed.
One of the feeds shown was of the exterior of the first-floor hangar, where two tanks were driving out of the shutter doors, only to be bombarded with RPG strikes from above once they reached a certain distance from the building.
"They're really giving them hell," Snake said. "Those rocket strikes must be coming from the roof. Do you think the rebels might actually be able to take the building?"
Fox's eyes widened as he observed with grim contemplation. "Maybe," he said. "But they're outmanned and outgunned by Outer Heaven, so it's a toss-up. If they do take the building, they're not likely to hold it for very long. Several hours, a day, tops."
A picture frame on the other desktop showed Shotmaker smiling proudly. The desk and picture probably belonged to him. Snake picked it up to examine it. "And the mercenaries have more combined experience than the militia between them all…" he said.
"And there's still the matter of Metal Gear," Fox pointed out.
"Metal Gear…" Snake murmured. He looked up to Gray Fox. "Fox, where is Dr. Madnar right now? Is he still alive?"
Fox gave a slight shrug of the shoulder. "He was when I last saw him. Metal Gear still hadn't been completed yet, so I imagine they'll let him keep breathing at least as long as it takes to finish it."
"Do you think they would have finished it by now?" Snake asked with concern.
Fox shook his head. "Somehow, I don't think so. When I last talked to Drago, he'd said that when he first arrived here, they'd given him design specs for an old prototype Soviet weapon to start with, and that it had problems with its original functions. He said they'd demanded several drastic redesigns and improvements on the original idea. Meaning that the brand-new version of the weapon would involve new and novel innovations that the old specs couldn't possibly have prepped him for."
"An old prototype with new specs? You mean they modified an old weapon to make Metal Gear?"
"More like started over from scratch altogether. You'd have to ask Drago," Fox said as he started digging through the drawers of the desks. In the desk opposite Shotmaker's, Fox found another pistol sitting in the drawer, which he silently handed to Snake before walking over to a couple of metal wall lockers in the corner opposite the door. Thankfully, they didn't have locks on them. He found two spare uniforms with armor vests, tossing one set to Snake while he donned the other.
"And where can I find him?" Snake asked, wincing while gingerly pulling on the clothes to try to avoid as much stress on his injuries as possible.
"He'll be in the R&D building to the east," Fox replied as he put on the armor vest with a grunt.
"Not in Metal Gear's hangar?"
"No, they wouldn't want to risk Dr. Madnar sabotaging Metal Gear somehow. Dr. Madnar drafts the designs and passes them on to Outer Heaven, while staff performs the actual construction under Ahab's supervision."
"I see," Snake replied, checking his magazine, and pulling back the slide for a brass check. "I know where I need to go next, then. But first, there's one thing we need to take care of."
"What do you mean?" Fox asked.
"Those rebels are the only reason I was able to make contact with you in that cell," Snake explained. "They're the reason we were able to get you out. We need to return the favor. I want to help Kyle get his people back. Or at the very least, give them an edge in taking the building. I don't know that they're going to manage it without our help."
"That's not the mission," Fox objected.
"You're right. It's not my mission," Snake said. "It's yours."
"Excuse me?"
"My mission is to rescue Madnar, destroy Metal Gear, and kill Venom. That's going to be a lot easier if I can move about the base without a target on my back. Plus, I promised Kyle I'd help get his people out. With you assisting them, I'll be able to kill two birds with one stone."
Comprehension dawned in Gray Fox's eyes. "We're to be your distraction?"
"Only if the Resistance can take this building. Otherwise, it's a moot point. I'm going to try to help them, regardless. Are you in, or out?"
Gray Fox regarded the rookie, who still managed to stare him down and challenge him, broken as he was. Suddenly, he didn't appear so weak and helpless. The elder vet was impressed by the younger man's courage and determination. He might just be able to make it through this after all, Fox thought.
Fox held his pistol at the ready and took up a position near the door. "Fine, then," he said. "Let's get this over with."
Snake exhaled. He wasn't sure whether he'd have to try and convince Fox, or even that Fox would listen if he did. "Thanks, Fox," he said with a lopsided grin.
"Save it for after we get out of here," Fox replied, deadpan.
Snake nodded, and stacked up on the door behind Fox, putting his hand on his shoulder. Once ready, the duo burst through the door, making their way down the hall through two large double doors, finding themselves in a large room with rows of shelves and crates from one end to the other.
At the other end of the aisle, they saw the Russian waiting for them, holding a SPAS-12 shotgun and wearing two bandoliers around his large torso, one with extra shells and the other with four "pineapple" hand grenades. Shotmaker was sporting a deadly grin, wrath glinting in his eyes.
"Hello, boys," he said, raising the shotgun to bear on the two men. "Did you miss me?"
A/N: And here we have Gray Fox's introduction into the story as well as the lead-in to the first boss fight! Since Fox doesn't really have much of a character in the original Metal Gear game (since it was before the story of the series became more than just an afterthought), I figured this would be a good opportunity to expand on him a little bit, to make the idea that the two men had bonded over the course of Metal Gear 1 and 2 a bit more believable.
I also figured touching on Snake's perception of Big Boss and giving him a little bit of hero worship would help to make the eventual confrontation a bit more dramatic as well as give a thematic tie-in for how he might eventually become the more cynical and disillusioned figure we see in the beginning of Metal Gear Solid.
Tying the image of Big Boss together with Snake's idea of America as a whole being a stand-in for a parental figure in his life seemed like a good way to drive that point home (I'm really glad in retrospect that I established him as having a somewhat idealistic view of America in Chapter 3—it was a spur of the moment decision at the time, as was tying it together with the pedestal Snake is putting BB on, but I think it works out pretty well). This was a bit of a longer chapter, as I'm going to be busy/on vacation for the next few weeks, so I'm hoping this will help to tide people over as I won't be spending as much time writing for a while. Next chapter, we'll have the first boss fight with Shotmaker, followed by the battle for Building One! I hope everyone looks forward to it. As usual, thank you to everyone who has continued to read and follow along so far!