A/N: This fanfiction is a sequel to my fic, "Intrude N313, Target Designate: TX-55," and assumes that you know how that fic ended. It is heavily recommended that you read that fic before this one, otherwise you run the risk of being left confused by many of the names and events referenced by the original characters of this work. You have been warned.

Prologue: The Incident on Park Avenue

The hunter watched as the water drained out into the yellowed off-white basin with signs of brown metallic residue, and all he could think to himself was that he couldn't remember the last time he'd ever been in a bathroom so filthy.

It always seemed like these city bar public restrooms never had anyone around to bother cleaning them. Every inch of the walls was marked with graffiti left behind by the various strangers who had been passing through. Some were expletive-riddled rants against the cops or the homeless of St. Louis, others were simple dirty jokes, some were doodles or drawings left by some wannabe comic strip artist or a poem by a pretentious college student thinking he was the next Charles Bukowski.

One of the stalls had a toilet filled to the brim with excrement and soiled toilet paper, spread onto the stall walls in some kind of haphazard primitive design. It left a horrid stench, acting as a forbidding wall talisman warding away all but the bravest of janitors with the biohazard exclusion zone it created.

There were only two sinks, and one of them had a broken faucet, and the mirrors were smudged and cracked with age, the walls surrounding them caked with mud or dirt or mold—in the dim fluorescent lighting, it was anyone's guess.

The hunter reached to splash water onto his face, then thought better of it when he noticed a translucent condom sticking to the basin's surface that he hadn't seen when he first came in. Who would want to get busy in a place like this, he couldn't even imagine. Chances were, even the water in the pipes was unsanitary here.

He carefully grabbed a wafer-thin paper towel and turned the faucet off.

He stared at his image in the mirror. The camouflage was immaculate. In this urban jungle, he was at no risk of being spotted. The scars hidden; the hair bleached. He tugged at a loose strand of hair and brushed it back over his head. The hair and the roots showed no trace of their natural color. He nodded to himself in satisfaction.

"You look great, Brother," said a voice into his ear.

The hunter's hand began to shake. His breathing quickened. His head felt a little fuzzy. The stench of the bathroom wasn't helping.

It always gets like this when he goes too long without his pills. The pills that keep his hands steady. The pills that made him a better hunter. Ever since the voice showed up, he noticed that the pills kept the voice away, too. Or, at least, he thought they did—sometimes, the voice would get louder, so it was kind of hard to tell. But overall, the pills did their job reliably.

Which was good. He didn't need the distraction. Especially not tonight.

He fished a small gray bottle out of his pocket, popped open the lid, and dumped two little white ovals into his palm. He considered dumping out a third but decided against it. Best not to overdo it, the hunter thought to himself. The pills had a tendency to make him a little tired after a few hours.

He knocked them back into his throat and swallowed, pinching his nose so that the smell of the bathroom wouldn't trigger his gag reflex.

It was his third dose of the day. The doctors recommended only four doses a day at most. The hunter had exceeded that a few times over the past few weeks. But it was necessary. He needed his hands steady. He needed his aim to strike true, and his previous prey hadn't made it easy for him.

But he had won in the end, as he always did. And so, the extra dosages were worth it, even if they sometimes made him sick.

The hunter leaned forward, pinching the bridge of his nose and then massaging his temples with his eyes shut.

"Okay, I see that it is time for you to go to work. I understand. We'll talk later, Brother. Yes?"

The hunter sighed in relief as he opened his eyes, looking around. He was alone. His breathing slowed. He held his hand to keep it still and to massage away the small muscle cramp it had developed.

The hunter walked out of the restroom and moved back to his corner booth in the bar. He'd already ordered a beer some time earlier. This time, he ordered a Coke and some food as he watched the bar from his position in the corner.

His prey—one of them, anyway—was there at the watering hole, taking a drink of their own. The prey looked to their side and saw another member of their old herd.

The eyes light up in recognition. They greet each other. The hunter eats and drinks in silence while the two talk.

It was this second prey animal that the hunter had been waiting for all night to arrive. It had been some time since this creature was last seen before it had gone to ground, but the hunter had been making himself busy in the meantime, knowing it was just a matter of waiting.

Always, there was the waiting.

The prey animals conferred with each other, in tongues of growling and yips between drinks. The hunter ate his fill quietly, so as not to draw attention. The first rested a comforting limb on the target, suggesting that the target join him in retreating to a cave where a third friendly creature waits. The target agreed, and together they pay their tab and amble over to the door.

The hunter quickly settles his bill and leaves the bar to enter the jungle of concrete and glass, staying in the shadows and out of sight as he stalks his quarry. Their fog of inebriation and general ease masks his following of their trail.

The streets are dark, with nary a person in sight. The city had not been welcome to outsiders for some time, and the great flood two years ago only made things worse. In the darkening hours of the night, you'd be hard-pressed to find many people staying out except for hunters and prey. The hunter, knowing this, kept far out of sight, letting any attention from prying eyes be focused solely on the two prey animals stumbling under the light of streetlamps.

The target and his fellow prey moved along the north side of Lafayette Park before reaching their destination of a small two-story residential property. The hunter broke off, moving to the corner of Park and Missouri Ave, ducking beneath dimly lit windows to find the side of a brick two-story with a front-facing white façade. Stepping onto the windowsill, the hunter climbed hand over hand until he reached the sloped side of a flat roof, scrambling over the angled shingles until he reached the flat top where he'd left his hidden stash in preparation for this moment.

At the corner near a chimney, the hunter had left behind various tools: a scoped rifle, a Motorola brick of a cellular phone, and a small device with a squeezable switch. Leveling his rifle, the hunter pulls back the bolt to hand-load a single round. He double checks the dials on his scope, which he'd adjusted earlier that day. From his position, he stared down at the lens to the house down the street where his prey holds up.

The lights in the windows turn on. The target and his friend meet the house's owner—this new third prey animal is wounded, rendered lame. The target and his friend obtain more alcohol, and together the small herd commiserates over old times.

The hunter's hands are perfectly still. His breathing is loud, excited, heavy to his own ears. It was almost time, he knew. A shadow falls over him, and he could almost feel the familiar embrace of an arm around his shoulders.

"It's almost time to work, Brother," the voice said. "Shall we extend to them our salutations?"

The hunter nodded, smiling slightly. His brother was right. It was time.

With one hand, he grabs the cellular phone from the lip of the roof where he crouched and absent-mindedly dialed the number he had recognized. Through the scope, he saw the first prey animal with the working legs stand to grab the nearby house phone.

"Hello?"

The hunter's lips pull back into a predatory smile. He licks his teeth in anticipation. He adjusts his aim to the injured prey sitting across from his real target and rests his finger on the trigger.

"Hello," he spoke in a low voice which creaked from lack of use. "I would like to speak to Solid Snake, please."

"What? Who is this?"

"Please hand the phone to Snake. I know he is there with you."

The prey hands the phone to the target, exchanges a few words. The hunter sees the target bringing the phone to his ear.

"This is Solid Snake. Am I to report in?"

"Tell us again what happened, Mr. Teegan. In your own words."

Robert Teegan's hands shook as he squirmed uncomfortably in the interview room. The lukewarm tea that they'd given him hadn't done anything to calm his nerves. The police officer leaned forward with a kind smile.

"You can take your time," she said. "I know how much of an ordeal you've been through. I promise you, it's almost over. Just take a deep breath."

Bob's head nodded shakily as he lifted the mug to his mouth to take a sip and winced. The tea at the police station was awful, but the warmth was at least a little soothing. He took the policewoman's advice and took a deep breath, letting it out.

"I, uh, was on my way back from the pharmacy. I work nights, so I'm pretty much completely nocturnal. It's usually pretty quiet and it was a beautiful night out, so I thought maybe I'd walk, y'know? Since it wasn't too far away."

The policewoman scratched some notes onto her pad.

"Go on," she urged.

"Well, I was walking up Park Avenue, a-and I could see my house from where I was walking. It was, uh, maybe just a few houses down, when I hear something like thunder only louder, like it was nearby. A loud crack and boom, like a car backfiring or something, followed by the sound of broken glass. The second-floor window of the house in front of me had a new hole in it."

"A gunshot?"

Bob nodded. "I didn't realize what it was that I had heard at first, but then came the shouts and screaming, and it became obvious. I knew that trouble like this could happen in this city, but I always thought it was never as common as they say in the news. Never thought it would happen around me."

"You're not alone in that. A lot of people tend to think that, until it does happen to them," the cop said sympathetically. "It's nothing to be embarrassed about."

Bob went on, "T-there were more gunshots, this time coming from inside the house, I guess in the direction of wherever the first shot came from. I could hear a lot of yelling coming from inside the house. It was frantic, I-I couldn't make out what they were saying. I, uh, I ran into the alleyway between the houses for cover behind a low wall, tried to make myself as small as possible."

Bob put down the mug and started rubbing his hands together.

"I squeezed my eyes shut; I couldn't see anything. I must've been shaking like a leaf, heh. When there was a minute of silence, I heard the front door thrown open, and I peeked around the wall to see two men huddled together. It looked like the younger guy was supporting the older one, they were kind of hobbling out onto the porch and moving toward the street. Then came the explosion."

"Explosion?"

Bob nodded. "The whole house went up in flames. Glass, brick, and wood splinters flying everywhere, I had to cover my head. The two men were sent flying over the small front yard and into the asphalt. I was so scared, I couldn't move. I…I didn't know what to do."

The policewoman took some more notes. "And what happened next?" she asked.

"At first, nothing. I thought maybe it was over. There weren't any more gunshots. Just the sound of the fires. Then the younger of the two guys pushed himself off the ground and sort of crawled to his friend, I think to check his pulse. He hunched over him; I think to do CPR. And then he…he called out for help. Yelled for someone to call 911."

Bob suddenly became really interested in his fingernails, not quite able to meet the police officer's eyes.

"I didn't move at first…I was too scared. Eventually I ran over, keeping my head down. But by the time I got to them, the man was already dead. I don't know, maybe if I was a little faster…"

"I'm sure you did all you could," the cop assured him.

Bob didn't look convinced. He shook his head. "Yeah…," he muttered. "I guess."

He took another breath before he finished his story.

"I helped the young man out of the street and back into the alley behind the wall. I practically had to drag him—he didn't want to leave his friend behind; he was…hysterical. He was thrashing around, too weak to actually fight back, but enough to make it hard to move him. Then I looked over, saw one of the neighbors out on their patio, and I yelled for them to call the cops. I waited with the young man until the ambulances and firefighters came."

Bob shrugged nervously. "And here we are."

"The man you saved—did he tell you his name?"

"I wouldn't really say that I 'saved' him," Bob protested weakly, shaking his head. "But no, I didn't get a name from him. I think I heard him call the man that died 'Captain,' though. Maybe they were sailors? Or cops?"

"Or military," the policewoman said. "Anything's possible. Did he say anything else?"

"It was pretty incoherent. Mostly just him asking, 'why?' and saying, 'It should have been me.'" Bob looked despondent.

"He couldn't have been much older than twenty, the poor kid," he said. "…I hope he'll be okay."

Officer Jeni McClaren stepped out of the interview room just in time to see three men dressed smartly in black suits, leading a disheveled man with singed and smudged clothes that clearly hadn't been cleaned since he had been checked into the hospital two nights ago, still bearing numerous stains of blood and sweat.

The men in suits had badges hanging from the front pockets of their jackets, showing them as being from the FBI. The man in front had brown hair and a small claw-shaped scar around the edge of his mouth, and a no-nonsense stare. He nodded to McClaren.

"Good evening, officer. My name is Special Agent Thomas Blackthorne, of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. This is Agent Steele and Agent Thompson. We're with the OKBOMB task force."

McClaren's eyebrows raised, her eyes widened. OKBOMB was the task force charged with investigating the bombing in Oklahoma City a few months back. Last she'd heard in the news, they'd already arrested and detained the culprits, but their trial dates were still pending, and the investigation was still ongoing.

She looked over at the fourth man, whose eyes were downcast and glazed over, his face looking lost. Besides the bruises on his arms, some small cuts on his face and the state of his clothes, he didn't look any worse for wear otherwise.

Her voice was a little shaky as she spoke her thoughts aloud: "Do you think he was in on it? That the bombing had to do with that thing in Oklahoma?"

Steele shrugged, but it was Blackthorne who answered, "That's what we've been sent in to find out."

He gestured to the interview room McClaren had occupied. "Who've you got holed up in there?"

McClaren cleared her throat, straightening up. "Robert Teegan. He happened to be walking the neighborhood when the bombing occurred."

"A civilian?"

McClaren nodded. "Uh-huh. Guess he lives in the area. Wrong place, wrong time. Or right place, depending on how you look at it. He's the one who pulled your suspect to safety. If not for him, you might not have a guy to question."

They all looked to the silent man, who gave no comment. The agents looked to each other.

Blackthorne addressed the policewoman. "As of now, this investigation is under federal jurisdiction. Your superiors have already been informed, but you can check with them if you want. After you turn in your interview notes, please pass them along to Agent Thompson."

"Sure," she said. "Did you want to ask Mr. Teegan any other questions, or…?"

Blackthorne shook his head. "No, you can let him go for now. Just make sure to let him know not to leave town for at least a few days. In the meantime, mind if we make use of your interview room?"

McClaren nodded. "Not a problem. I'll go see the Chief about the notes."

"Mind if I go with her, boss?" Agent Thompson asked. "Save her a bit of the walk back. 'Sides, I want to grab some coffee."

Blackthorne nodded his assent. McClaren poked her head in the room to let Bob Teegan know that he was free to leave.

"Hey, get us some too, while you're at it, huh?" Agent Steele called out after them as they walked away down the hall. Thompson simply waved without looking back.

Blackthorne motioned for Steele and their new suspect to walk inside and sit down at the table. Steele and the man sat down on opposite sides, while Blackthorne remained standing. They simply let the suspect sit and stew in silence while they waited for Thompson to come back with their coffee.

After a while, Thompson returned with the promised coffee cups for his fellow agents and then leaned against the wall in the corner closest to the room's door. The man looked over to the two-way mirror hiding the observation room, then to each agent.

After a few minutes of nothing, it was Special Agent Blackthorne who spoke first.

"So," Blackthorne said, taking a sip of his coffee.

"So," the man said. His voice was monotone.

"You know who we are, yes?"

"Yes," the man said. "FBI agents of the OKBOMB task force."

"Do you know what that is?"

"I do. You want to know whether the incident on Park Avenue had anything to do with the bombing in Oklahoma City. Probably because the two people who died were former Army servicemembers, just like that McVeigh guy and the people who supplied him."

"You seem to know a bit about the case."

The man shrugged. "I watch the news. Heard about the guy the cops picked up. Routine car stop for speeding, something about an unregistered firearm crossing state lines, something like that?"

Blackthorne nodded, smiling a little. "Something like that."

Steele spoke up, "So, you know about us, but you haven't even introduced yourself to us yet. Pretty rude, I've gotta say, man."

The man didn't say anything.

Steele tapped the table. "You had a wallet with cash in your back pocket when we picked you up, but no IDs. Nothing was found in the burnt-up house that belonged to you, except some DNA matches on the beer bottles and the phone. It's curious."

"I'm from out of town," the man said. "Just…visiting. The house belonged to an old friend."

"That old friend would be 1st Lieutenant Maxwell Reeves, I take it?"

The man nodded. "That's right, though he was a 2nd Lieutenant when I last saw him. And the other man, Captain Shawn Willard."

"We pulled up their service records when we were called in," Blackthorne said. "Green Berets, both of them. Is that how you knew them? Did you serve together?"

"Hm," the man grunted. "Long time ago."

"Sooo…," Steele said, drawing out the syllable. "What do we call you?"

The man raised his head, his eyes cleared up a little. He sighed, "I'm nobody."

The agents looked at each other briefly, none of them looking too amused by the man's evasiveness.

"Look, let me save you some time," the man said.

"Well, we'd sure appreciate it, mister," Steele replied sarcastically.

"You wanted to know whether the explosion had anything to do with Oklahoma. I can tell you right now that it doesn't."

Steele scoffed. "What, and we're just supposed to take your word on that?"

"Think about the target," the man stated, leaning forward. "It's a regular suburban house in the middle of some random block of the city. Oklahoma was a directed attack on a federal building. Doesn't make sense."

"Ah, that doesn't prove anything," Steele protested. "Maybe you were holding onto homemade explosives and fucked up the recipe. Blown up by accident or incompetence."

The suspect ignored Steele and continued, "And then there's the gunshots."

"Gunshots?" asked Blackthorne with interest.

"Before the explosion," the man said, "someone had fired on the building with a rifle from the opposite corner. I think he was firing from the roof of one of the other houses, but I didn't get a good look at him."

The man shook his head sadly. "Doesn't matter, though."

"Why not?" Blackthorne asked.

"Because I know exactly who did this, and by the time the building exploded and I pulled Cap'n Willard out of the fire, the attacker would've been long gone—no way would he have stuck around after the message was delivered."

"Message? What do you mean?" Blackthorne asked.

"Wait, wait—you said you know the guy who did this?" Steele cut in.

The man locked eyes with Blackthorne and nodded. "Yes," he replied.

"So, who was it?" Blackthorne asked.

"Someone way, way above all of your pay grades," the man responded.

"Oh, don't give us that shit," Steele hissed.

Blackthorne shook his head. "You understand that obstructing a federal investigation is a felony, Mr…?"

The man didn't take the bait, instead only nodding. He shrugged and sighed. "Look, fellas, I would love to help you, but unfortunately, it's not up to me."

"Like hell it's not!"

"Steele," Blackthorne warned.

Agent Steele shut his mouth. Blackthorne stepped forward and took a seat beside his subordinate, matching the man's Kubrickian stare.

"What do you mean, that 'it's not up to you?'"

"You already know that the two men that died are Army Special Forces. Like you said, you've checked their records yourselves. The man who did this—his identity is classified under TS/SCI, on a need-to-know basis. If I tell you his name, I'd have much bigger problems than just you."

"Bullshit," Steele scoffed under his breath.

Blackthorne ignored him. "Say that I believe you, and I'm not saying that I do. What would you suggest?"

The man matched his stare. "All parties involved are United States Army, which makes this case their jurisdiction. I know you have members of the Army's Criminal Investigation Division on your OKBOMB task force. Reach out to them, bring them in on the case."

"You're not seriously buying this shit?" Steele asked. Blackthorne waved him off with a glare.

"Is that it?" Blackthorne asked. "You want me to talk to CID and tell them that some random stranger asked for them because of some super-secret wet work assassin that shot up and bombed a city tenement?"

Blackthorne's voice was incredulous, like he himself was ready to laugh at the ridiculousness of the notion, but the suspect wasn't laughing or smiling.

"No," the man responded, his voice quiet but even. "I want you to talk to the CID and tell them that Solid Snake asked for them. I promise, you won't have any trouble getting assistance."