Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriot

by Project Itoh

  Snake said nothing at first. He looked out the window at the carpet of blue flowers. A vase of the roses sat on Naomi’s desk.

  “It’s just like me,” Snake said. “The botanists of old obsessed over creating a blue rose. But roses lacked the capability to produce the color blue. Thanks to advances in biotechnology, now there are fields of blue roses, created from the mixing of rose genes with those of other species of flowers.”

  Blue roses were impossible. So the existence of blue roses was proof of the impossible made possible.

  “Unnatural flowers. Unnatural Snakes. We’re all the same,” he said to Naomi.

  “It’s not over yet,” Snake said. Not to Naomi, but to himself.

  She nodded. “I know. You still have a job to do.”

  We couldn’t quit yet. Snake had to banish his sins. And the sins of his brother by blood, Liquid. And the sin of my participation in the creation of Metal Gear REX.

  “I have three months,” said Snake. “If I choose death first, will that stop FOXDIE from spreading?”

  “If the host dies, the virus dies with it. You’ll have time to think once this is all over.”

  There, waiting ahead of what I’d thought to be the worst possible fate, was an even worse one.

  For the first time, Snake looked truly shaken. He retrieved another cigarette from his breast pocket, and as he held it, his fingers trembled. And not because of old age.

  Because of fear.

  But then he regained his calm. Who could consider ending his own life and not be terrified of it? Even beset by unnatural aging, Snake had never contemplated suicide. No matter what form it took, death would come by the hands of his genetic destiny.

  And now that comfort, cold as it was, had been stolen from him.

  By then, I was already in tears.

  Why?

  Why had he been burdened with such a cruel, terrible fate? He’d saved the world. Not just once, but many times over. He ushered the people of the world past the threat of nuclear war.

  I was biting my lip so hard blood began to flow. But it was a necessary pain to keep my cry silent. Sunny was on the second floor and I didn’t want her to hear. Not my crying, not my tiny, tiny scream.

  As my tears fell, I bit my lip hard.

  Snake lit his cigarette, and this time, Naomi didn’t stop him. I just prayed the smoke would grant him some peace.

  “Snake,” Naomi said. “Tell me one more thing.”

  He simply looked at her.

  “Have you been to a hospital lately? Been given an injection?”

  “Why?”

  “Take a look at this.”

  Naomi brought up another microscopic picture on her computer screen. The object looked like FOXDIE.

  “Isn’t that just FOXDIE again?” Snake asked.

  “It’s a new strain of FOXDIE—one I’ve never seen before. Someone must have put it in you recently. Do you have any idea who?”

  What, you don’t like shots?

  Snake put his hand to his face and groaned.

  “Drebin.”

  “The new FOXDIE strain is starting to multiply rapidly. I can’t say what’s in it for sure without further tests …”

  Naomi walked to a medicine cabinet and withdrew a syringe like the one she’d injected herself with in the Middle East. She tossed it to Snake.

  “Here, take this. It contains the same substance the soldiers’ nanomachines secrete inside their bodies. It’s a drug that inhibits the nanomachines’ ability to regulate the senses.”

  “But I’m not linked to the SOP.”

  “Interference with the System can cause the older generation of nanomachines within your body to malfunction. That’s what happened to you in the Middle East—the malfunction manifested itself as a seizure. Give yourself a shot whenever they get bad.”

  Snake stared at the autoinjector in his hand. The cylinder was divided into blocks, each a separate use.

  “It’s potent, so use it sparingly—unless you want to end up an invalid.”

  Now Naomi gazed out the window. “I’ve been a fool,” she said. “I let myself drown in nanomachines, and now I’m trapped by them. I can’t escape my fate.”

  Snake grabbed her firmly by the arm, as if to pull her free.

  “Then I’ll free us both. Where’s Liquid?”

  “He left last night. As for where to, I can’t tell you yet. Not until you free me.”

  “Do you even know?”

  Naomi brought her lips to Snake’s ears and whispered, “Liquid has altered his plans.” Snake frowned. The room was bugged. “Removing the System will only cause his army to collapse from within. So he’s chosen to seize control instead. Liquid’s objective is to hijack the SOP System. He’ll use it to create the ultimate army of perfect soldiers and launch his insurrection against the Patriots.”

  She paused, then solemnly said, “He calls it ‘Guns of the Patriots.’ ”

  “Guns of the Patriots?”

  Directly between them, something rolled to a stop on the floorboards.

  A grenade!

  “Naomi, run!”

  He dove for her and pushed her aside. But before he could get away himself, the grenade went off. A flash of light. An earsplitting burst of sound. A flashbang grenade, like those favored by special ops forces on rescue and capture missions.

  Snake knew he had roughly half a second to act. For the moment, he was blinded, but still conscious. He dropped to the floor and, bullets sailing overhead, rolled into the next room.

  Over the ringing in his ears, Snake heard a voice say, “This place isn’t safe. Come with us.”

  He poked his head up through an interior window but was forced back down by another wave of gunfire. The barrage threatened to tear through the wooden walls like paper, and Snake sought cover behind a metal desk.

  In the brief moment he’d been at the window, he saw a Pieuvre Armement mercenary ushering Naomi out of the building.

  Snake raised his M4 above his head and fired his own burst in the general direction of the window.

  An eerie calm fell over the clinic. The PMC didn’t fire back.

  Were they gone? Snake gritted his teeth and stood up from the desk.

  Nothing. He ran from the building and past the rose garden to see a steep slope leading down. The medical facility was atop a tall hill with a good vantage over the forest below, where a Pieuvre Armement APC roared down the winding path away from the building.

  “This sector has been brought under the complete control of Pieuvre Armement. Pieuvre Armement, for all your future needs. Pieuvre Armement. Unfailing soldiers, unfailing strategy.”

  The infomercial voice echoed from the distance. Snake squinted at the retreating vehicle, sighed, and half ran, half slid down the nearly vertical slope.

  5

  SNAKE CAME OUT onto the road as another armored truck drove up, then skidded to a stop in front of him. The camouflage pattern on the side of the vehicle faded to reveal the words EYE HAVE YOU!

  “Yo, Snake, need a lift?”

  Drebin popped halfway from the top hatch, can of NARC soda in hand. For some reason, the man looked goddamn merry. An honest-to-God jack-in-the-box.

  Snake climbed atop the APC, pushed Drebin’s head back into the vehicle, then lowered himself inside.

  Drebin said, “It’s gonna be a bumpy ride!” He slammed on the gas, and soon Snake was tossed about the cramped quarters, sandwiched among Drebin’s wares and personal belongings. The gibbon, Little Gray—so named because the hairless monkey looked like a little gray alien—hung freely from a metal pipe that ran down the length of the vehicle.

  “I’m following a Pieuvre Armement APC. It should still be up ahead on this road.”

  “I know that, Old Snake. Why do you think I came to pick your ass up?”

  Crawling his way back to the front of the vehicle, Snake asked, “How did you know?”

  “Your partner told me.”

  “Otacon?”

  Ju
st five minutes earlier, I’d asked Drebin to support Snake. In no time, we settled on fair terms—Drebin was eager to help.

  Snake regarded the arms dealer. “You look like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  Drebin urged the APC faster, and Snake was tossed back to the rear of the vehicle like a load of laundry. Little Gray shrieked with glee.

  Snake’s codec chirped.

  “Snake, can you hear me?”

  “This is Jack, isn’t it?”

  “I am Raiden. Jack is no more.”

  The voice was emotionless. Snake slowly shook his head.

  Something had come over Jack—was it the very same darkness that had once consumed Big Boss, Liquid … and even Solid Snake?

  Snake asked, “Where have you been all this time? What have you been doing?”

  “On a mission. Finding something. For someone.”

  That didn’t help clear things up much.

  “Finding what?”

  “Something important. Something that holds the fate of the world.”

  A pause.

  “Pandora’s box, perhaps.”

  After Raiden saved Sunny from the Patriots, he’d simply said, “There’s something I have to do,” and vanished. Was this what he was talking about?

  “What are you searching for?”

  “The corpse of Big Boss.”

  For Snake, time froze.

  The corpse contained the genetic code of the legendary soldier, the greatest warrior. At Shadow Moses, Liquid demanded it delivered to him. Even after his death, Big Boss continued to hold people under his spell.

  Jack said, “I was asked to do this in exchange for Sunny’s location. I was following the only lead I had to find her.”

  Liquid wanted Big Boss’s corpse before … could he be the one who sent Raiden to find it? Snake feared it too, and asked Jack.

  “Liquid?”

  “No. The leader of a small resistance group. She can be trusted.”

  “Who is she?”

  “Her followers call her Matka Pluku.”

  Snake recognized the words. They were Czech. When he was younger and a member of special ops, his training took place in the shadow of the end of the Cold War. Naturally, his studies included Slavic languages.

  “Great Mother …”

  “Big Mama,” Jack corrected. “She seems to have some connection with the Patriots. She said she had plans for you.”

  Snake didn’t know anyone called Big Mama, but it seemed like she knew him. It wouldn’t be the first time he was contacted by a mysterious person.

  “Snake!” Drebin yelled back. “I see it!”

  Snake crawled up to the front cabin, somehow navigating the inside of the violently rocking car.

  The other vehicle was still distant. A clearing far ahead had been converted into a makeshift heliport—probably Pieuvre Armement’s doing. The PMC’s armored truck was parked next to a transport helicopter, and armed personnel stood at the ready. Snake’s quarry had already reached their destination.

  Then Snake saw them. Standing at the open rear hatch of the large transport helicopter were Naomi and Vamp, that bloodsucker.

  I yelled over the codec. “They’re taking Naomi away!”

  Drebin slammed on the gas, and the Stryker picked up speed—a feat only possible because the road had been freshly paved near the heliport. Even with the more level road, Drebin’s speed was too great for the ride to be a smooth one, and Snake was again tossed into the back of the vehicle.

  But as Snake tumbled, he grabbed onto Little Gray to keep himself from hitting the back of the APC. The gibbon, itself barely hanging on, let out a cry of anger in protest to the affront.

  Snake flipped himself upright, hefted himself up through the top hatch, and found the rooftop gunner’s seat.

  He pulled out the DSR1 he’d purchased from Drebin and aimed down the sniper rifle’s sight—right in the middle of Vamp’s forehead. The road straightened, and the Stryker was pointed straight at the target. Maybe the shot would kill the wannabe immortal, or maybe it wouldn’t, but there wasn’t time to find a better option. All he could do was shoot.

  Through the magnified rifle scope, Snake watched Vamp slump to the floor of the helicopter.

  But he hadn’t fired yet!

  Snake lowered his gun and upped the magnification on the Solid Eye. The PMC troops hadn’t reacted to the sudden collapse of their comrade and likely commander. The rear hatch remained open as the helicopter slowly lifted off the ground.

  “Drebin!” Snake shouted down through the open hatch. “Faster!”

  Drebin raised his voice over the noise of the engine and the rattling APC.

  “Hey man, I was just looking out for your senior citizen ass. Hang on tight, Old Snake!”

  The g-force pressed Snake into the back of the gunner’s seat as his body fought against the very last burst of acceleration the Stryker could muster. His dilapidated arms and back felt as if they were about to snap. The APC crested the last tiny slope before the helipad, and the tires left pavement, the Stryker practically diving into the compound.

  “Naomi!” Snake yelled.

  Then the world fell apart once more.

  Just like in the Middle East, the world collapsed onto Snake, and everything descended into chaos. The PMC soldiers on the ground writhed in agony. Only those in the helicopter seemed unaffected, impassively ascending like angels abandoning mankind.

  He still clutched the sides of the gunner’s seat, but how long could he keep that up? He was going to fall, he knew it.

  Snake looked up at Naomi, who stood still in the back of the helicopter. She pointed a finger at her neck. Even as Snake’s consciousness began to crumble, he understood the signal. He took the autoinjector from his pouch, pressed it against his neck, and pushed the button.

  Then everything came back.

  The connections between the neurons in his mind reformed, bringing back meaning, state, existence. He could breathe again. The nausea faded.

  “I’m going for it!” Drebin yelled, but Snake couldn’t hear from where he sat. It didn’t really matter—there was only one way to get the Stryker to the helicopter. The rear of the APC slid, and the tires left faint tire marks on the helipad as the car drifted to a stop directly beneath the helicopter.

  Drebin shouted, “Eye have you!”

  Snake called up to Naomi, and she leapt from the open hatch to the APC several yards below. The helicopter had been too high for her to jump to the ground, but the Stryker’s height—and Snake’s waiting arms—allowed for her safe landing. She made it inside the vehicle, and Snake followed.

  “Now let’s get the hell out of here!” Drebin’s voice teemed with excitement.

  This time, Snake grabbed onto the central bar to hold himself in place.

  “It happened again,” he said. “Like in the Middle East.”

  Naomi nodded. “Another of Liquid’s tests. The emotional control isn’t stable yet.”

  “What about Vamp?”

  “He injected nanomachines to put himself to sleep and escape the effects.”

  Drebin cut in. “Look behind!”

  Snake poked his head back out the top hatch.

  When I saw them through the Solid Eye, I thought they were a pack of T-Rexes. When I designed the Metal Gear REX, I named the machine after the dinosaur, so I could understand the association, but still, I felt silly. I knew better—they were Gekko.

  That said, the pack of IRVING chasing after the Stryker was straight out of Jurassic Park. I’d heard reports of the IRVING’s effectiveness, but I didn’t know their legs could propel them across the dirt that fast. They were like giant athletes.

  Snake positioned himself at the mounted machine gun attached to the gunner’s seat and fired at the Gekko. Although the mounted gun shot large caliber rounds, they didn’t seem nearly enough to penetrate the thick armor plating of the IRVINGs’ heads. Instead, Snake focused his aim on the exposed bits of
sensory and nerve equipment at the top of their flat, tanklike heads, on the less heavily armored connections where their weapons were mounted, and on their fleshy, organic legs.

  His strategy proved successful, and the Gekko tumbled one by one. But for each he felled, another sprang into its place.

  “I can’t believe the numbers of these guys,” said Drebin, in awe. “This is way over the war price here.”

  The “war price” was a kind of market price that fluctuated according to the demand for PMCs and munitions industries as well as the demand for production, distribution, and energy. As fighting became increasingly intense and prolonged, the war price for those commodities went up. With the prices growing by leaps and bounds, investors had started to take notice.

  Therefore, with the numbers of Gekko clearly disproportionate to the war prices for that region, Liquid’s war must not have been motivated by profit.

  Snake, who was becoming gradually overwhelmed by the swarm, called out to Drebin. The head of the pack edged closer and closer to the Stryker.

  Now, some readers might be wondering where I was at that moment. I was in a helicopter.

  When I saw Liquid launch his second test, I flew the combat helicopter out from Nomad’s cargo bay and monitored Snake’s mission from there. Factoring in my helicopter’s speed and Drebin’s, I calculated the fastest possible interception vector.

  “Head for the city!” I said to Snake.

  Drebin spun the wheel and went off the side of the road and onto a side route leading toward a nearby town. One minute, houses began to dot the landscape, and the next, the Stryker was inside the city.

  Still piloting my own helicopter—only possible thanks to a liberal usage of the autopilot functions—I sent a map of the city to Snake’s Solid Eye and said, “I’m going to land just on the other side of the marketplace. Please, somehow, just make it there!”

  Piloting his APC in a mad dash between buildings and pedestrians, Drebin drove with a skill inimitable by any ordinary man. Luckily, they’d entered the city through a less-populated area, but as they approached the market, crowds became thicker, and this feat became increasingly difficult. Even more unsettling than the Stryker’s swerving maneuvers was how, as the situation became more and more dangerous, Drebin smiled all the bigger.