Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriot

by Project Itoh

  Their goal: to hunt resistance forces. The government was making a concerted effort to halt the constant rebel attacks against its capital.

  Campbell found a list of groups naming the government as an enemy of peace. The list included organizations in support of the parliamentary opposition party and NPOs opposed to specific policies. The whole thing reeked of political reprisal.

  One of the names on Campbell’s list was the Paradise Lost Army.

  But the odd thing about the group was that its political goals and strategies were completely unknown. Even the locals’ knowledge, or lack of knowledge, of the organization was strange. If they were a terrorist organization with public attacks, some level of information would get out.

  Big Mama—possibly the caretaker of Big Boss’s corpse—was the leader of this mysterious resistance group.

  On a mission. Finding something. For someone.

  That was what Raiden had said in South America. Followed by three other words: Pandora’s box, perhaps.

  The train slowed and entered into a space under a giant roof.

  The disembarking travelers were few, even considering the late hour. With the state of emergency, the number of visitors to the city had plummeted, including those from other European countries. And even though Snake came disguised with a trenchcoat and a leather travel bag, the local PMC had enough resources to run a careful check on all passenger IDs.

  According to Drebin, Liquid’s PMCs had been given a top-secret order to kill Solid Snake on sight. The local army and police forces wouldn’t know about the order, but Snake knew he couldn’t turn to them for aid.

  But Campbell told us he had a way for Snake to get past the checkpoint.

  Snake walked the lonely train platform to the door leading inside the station, where a group of PMC soldiers were checking IDs. They had a large white walk-through biometrics scanner with an AT logo on the side. The scanner read retinal patterns, fingerprints, and nanomachine identifiers.

  What now?

  Snake had no choice but to believe in Campbell. We hadn’t prepared any dummy fingerprints or retinal spoofers, and there was nothing to be done about his nanomachines. Snake stuck a cigarette between his lips only to realize he’d forgotten to bring a lighter.

  “Next,” said a soldier standing in front of Snake.

  Well this was about to get interesting.

  Snake glanced at the biometric scanner, which was probably connected to some central server. Small lights blinked on and off, and it perched before the doorway like an eager executioner. If Snake walked through, a lot of trouble would follow.

  All he could do was wait. Campbell had said it would be all right. But how long would the PMC let him stall?

  “Hey, you, I said next!”

  The soldiers raised their guns. Now there was nothing more Snake could do. He just wished he had a damn light. At least then he could face the circle of rifle muzzles with a little calm and the pleasant puff of smoke.

  “That’s enough,” said a soldier from one of the side doors. Her uniform didn’t match the others—it was American. A familiar emblem was on her chest. “I’ll take him from here.”

  One checkpoint guard confusedly said, “But … !”

  Her reply was firm. “We’ve been looking for this man.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  The American waved Snake over. He walked around the scanner and through the side door.

  Inside was the station lobby. At several coffee tables, a few scattered groups of soldiers and civilians chatted. The American withdrew a lighter and set it to Snake’s cigarette.

  “You’re looking younger,” Meryl said. “What’s your secret?”

  She was looking at Snake’s face, circa nine years prior. His face before the wrinkles spread from his eyes and mouth to cover everything else.

  “Face Camouflage. The same stuff as the OctoCamo, I was told.”

  Snake briefly switched off the face texture, and for a moment, the old, tired face she saw in the Middle East reappeared. A sadness appeared in her expression.

  “The PMCs seem to know you well enough,” he said.

  “You may not believe it, but I’m in charge of overseeing all PMC activity here as well. Having connections can still open doors.”

  Snake exhaled smoke. “You alone?”

  Meryl nodded in the direction of the back of the lobby, where the members of Rat Patrol 01—Ed, Jonathan, and the man with the poor intestinal fortitude, Akiba—all sat around one of the tables.

  “Snake!” Akiba stood and waved at Snake. “Hey, Snake! Over here!”

  Meryl and Snake sunk their heads in their hands. Ed swiftly elbowed the kid to shut him up, but the PMC soldiers had already noticed the commotion.

  With a look of disgust, Snake said, “Him again?”

  “Him again.”

  From all around the room, eyes were upon them. Meryl led Snake to an adjacent lounge where no one was around. They sat at a table.

  “Listen to me, Snake. After reporting what happened in the Middle East to my superiors, I wrote up a threat assessment. The president’s finally realized the danger Liquid’s rebellion poses. Now I’ve got more bodies than I know what to do with—a whole joint Army-Marines team. They’re already on-site, mixed in with the US forces here.”

  She looked into Snake’s eyes. “We’re ready to capture Liquid at any time.”

  Snake let out a small sigh. This young soldier still didn’t know there were things that strength of force could achieve, and there were things it couldn’t.

  “You’re planning to take him by force? That’s crazy. Look, things aren’t that simple,” he said.

  “Listen, old man. I don’t take orders from you, or from your Colonel Campbell.”

  Snake knew that would be her response before she said it. She was stubborn—like Campbell. Still, he had to warn her, even if it was futile. “It’s gonna be the Middle East all over again.”

  Meryl shook her head. “No, it won’t. If things get out of hand, we can put a total lock-down on the PMCs’ weapons. They won’t be able to fight back. Don’t forget—we control the System.”

  First force and now the System. Snake knew all too well how fragile those could be. Often those who believe themselves masters of the system—capital S or no—end up finding out they were the ones being exploited by it. Meryl, Liquid—hell, even me—we were all nothing more than the context for the formation of the Patriots’ System.

  “I wouldn’t rely too much on the System if I were you,” Snake said.

  “Even so, we’ve got them beat in sheer numbers.”

  “Meryl …”

  Some things are too complex to be solved by force. But Snake knew it would be nearly impossible to convince her to back down.

  Then she softened and spoke with a voice he hadn’t heard for nine years. The voice of the Meryl he once knew.

  “Snake, just leave this to me.” She wasn’t crying, but there were tears in her eyes. “Don’t throw your life away.”

  She laid her hands over his. “What you’re trying to do … it’s not a mission.”

  “I know. It’s not justice. It’s a hired hit.”

  “But then,” Snake wondered, “have I ever fought on behalf of justice?”

  After Outer Heaven, Snake had distanced himself from the concept. Justice is never more than someone’s idea of justice, and never in history had “justice” made the world into a better place.

  Liquid and Snake were brought into the world by the Patriots—one controlled by their System. So while this operation might have been a personal killing, wasn’t it also part of a global battle? Snake’s birth had been too strange, and his life too extraordinary, to separate the personal from the global.

  Meryl watched him smoke his cigarette. “Look,” she said, “our ways of thinking might be different, but to me, you’re still a legend … a hero. I know all about the things you did when you were young. It was what kept me going.”

  Then she a
dded, “I can’t bear to watch you die over something so pointless.”

  Snake chuckled. “Don’t worry about me. Old soldiers never die.”

  Before Snake could say the rest—they just fade away—Meryl started to cry. He’d meant it as a joke, but now he could see there was nothing funny about it.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m no hero. Never was. I’m just an old killer hired to do some wet work.”

  Meryl wiped her eyes, and the resolve returned to her expression. Any trace of sadness or doubt was gone.

  “Fine. Then we’ll just have to catch him before you do.” Meryl stood and turned her back to him. “I may have loved you once. But now you’re just a obstinate old man.”

  She walked back to her squad, not once stopping to look back. “Wake up and face reality, Old Snake. And stay out of our way.”

  By the time Snake left the station, I had already made contact with Dr. Madnar. Naomi briefly explained Raiden’s injuries, and the doctor said he thought he could help. I sent Naomi and Sunny with Raiden to his location—safely inside a noncombat zone—while I provided support to Snake.

  Although we were using the face camo to project Snake’s younger face, its primary function—just like the sneaking suit or Drebin’s APC—was to scan its surroundings while mimicking the background.

  A member of the Lost in Paradise Army arrived on a train a little over ten minutes after Snake’s. The man had a criminal history, so with minimal effort, I hacked into the police database and retrieved his background and facial recognition data.

  Snake wasn’t wearing the Solid Eye—it wouldn’t exactly help him stay low profile inside the station—and I couldn’t send him the resistance fighter’s picture. But I could access the face camo’s live image data, providing a full 360 degree view of everything around Snake. I fed that stream through a facial recognition filter and watched for the match.

  Just as Meryl was walking away from Snake, I saw him.

  “Snake, he’s leaving the station through the exit directly behind you.”

  Snake acknowledged, put out his cigarette, and stepped out into the foggy cobblestone street.

  “He’s walking away to your right. Don’t let him see you.”

  “I’m used to sneaking right past someone’s back, but it’s been a while since I’ve had to tail anyone.”

  Now that he mentioned it, he’d never had to shadow anyone in any of our missions together.

  The streetlights were lit, though only for the benefit of Raven Sword patrols. With the curfew, the streets were empty.

  Even if Snake kept a good distance, all the resistance fighter had to do was turn and see him, and that would be it. Only someone incredibly careless would notice someone behind him, when no one was allowed on the streets, and think it a coincidence.

  Supposedly, Snake had done tail work in Zanzibar Land, and I wouldn’t be surprised if he had done it as a matter of routine for the CIA, with all the dirty work they forced on him as an undercover operative. He might have done something of that nature in the Outer Heaven op as well.

  The streets were covered in fog. Snake switched off his face camo—no need for it now—and strapped the Solid Eye around his head, and its enhanced optics helped him see through the darkness and fog. Now he could stay farther back without losing the other man.

  Snake steadied his breath, and as he had done in South America, he matched his body’s rhythm with the baseline of his surroundings. The ambient urban noise faded, and his focus attuned with the city.

  The man he followed, of course, also needed to avoid being spotted by the PMC. There wasn’t much Snake could do to assist without giving away his own presence. The most he could do was hope the resistance fighter would navigate the streets wisely.

  Meanwhile Snake had to hide from not only the man he followed, but also from any PMC patrols. It’s hard for me to imagine how difficult it must have been.

  Snake was reminded of The Third Man. All that was missing was the Ferris wheel and the underground tunnels.

  At the edge of the mist, the resistance fighter’s figure looked like a ghost. He was young. In his twenties. Without his youth, it would have been hard to throw himself into the rebellion against the System.

  But me? Well, I am where I am, but back in my twenties all I cared about was anime and robotics and hacking—well, cracking. I never would have even thought about rebelling against the world. I never romanticized my cracking as an action against the system. In my work for the world’s largest manufacturer in the military-industrial complex, I never questioned my masters.

  I did it because it was fun. Because it gave me an escape. That was it.

  I think the reason I joined the fight later in my adulthood was to compensate for how long I’d spent running away from my fate. It was the retribution for so many in my family, including my own my past self.

  Snake spoke over the codec. “Otacon, he’s going into a building.”

  The young fighter stood at the service entrance to an old monastery. A guard in the doorway was looking around to see if the man had been followed. The sentry didn’t seem to have any special equipment. He checked the young man’s dog tags and waved him in.

  “Now!” I said, but Snake had already rushed from the shadows.

  Snake was one with the city, and he closed much of the distance without the guard sensing him. As he ran, he tossed his trench coat to the ground. The guard turned, stepped inside, and started to close the door behind himself. Snake jabbed the toe of his boot inside the doorway, and when the sentry finally saw him, he was already inside.

  Snake locked his arms around the man he’d followed and pressed a knife against his neck.

  The sentry cried out, “Who?”

  Inside the service entrance were three guards, including the one at the door. They quickly raised submachine guns and pointed them at Snake. But with their comrade a human shield, they dared not fire.

  Snake put his back to the wall and started moving farther inside.

  “I’m here to see Big Mama,” he said.

  “Is this the guy?” said one of the men.

  The fear drained from the hostage’s face. Then, calmly, he said, “I didn’t hear him coming at all. He’s gotta be the one.”

  But the other three weren’t convinced. Yes, the man in front of them had followed one of their own, who wasn’t without skill himself, and made it into their hideout undetected to hold a knife at their comrade’s throat. But this intruder was coughing.

  Even with his coughing fit, Snake kept his focus, of course, but his face was old. The guards pressed toward him.

  Snake kicked out his prisoner’s legs and shoved him at the nearest guard. The other two guards lifted their guns, but in those close quarters, the advantage was with the knife and CQC.

  How quickly young people turn to guns for help. I was the one who hacked into the CIA and found the CQC manual developed by The Boss and Big Boss, then gave it to Snake.

  My point being that until recently Snake had been one of those soldiers who relied on guns—he even said once that he “hated knives.” Of course he’d been trained in basic close combat techniques, but he almost never used them. I think I can get away with revealing that much since, after I discovered the CQC techniques, Snake had used me as his training dummy. It was terrible.

  Although he hadn’t practiced CQC long, he was a warrior with Big Boss’s genes, and in a flash he dropped the three guards as well as his captive.

  Another soldier, who had heard the scuffle, appeared at a side doorway, his gun drawn. Suddenly, more men—and more guns—appeared around him in numbers dwarfing his first welcoming party.

  From behind the mob of armed young soldiers came a woman’s voice.

  “Very impressive CQC, Snake.”

  Like the Red Sea parting before Moses, the group of men moved aside. Through the opening, Snake could see into a sanctuary.

  The woman was blonde, with a brown leather jacket and black leather boots.
She knelt at the altar, her back to Snake.

  “No doubt about it,” she said. “He is the legendary soldier.”

  She rose and, under the watchful gaze of the angels and apostles painted on the ceiling, slowly turned to face Snake. As if by signal, the soldiers simultaneously lowered their weapons.

  The woman was at least as old as Snake’s body looked. But she stood with poise, and the straight line from her spine to her hips to her knees held no tremor. Her face held enough sparkle to make it easy to imagine the beauty it once held. The light in her eyes, if nothing else, couldn’t have changed since her twenties.

  “Call me Mama. Big Mama.”

  She walked toward Snake. He entered the sanctuary and approached her.

  “I need to talk to you,” he said. “Raiden sent me.”

  Big Mama surveyed him from head to toe. “My, how you’ve grown … David.”

  Snake froze. Not many knew his name. Just me, one small fraction of his many foster parents, and those with high enough security clearance in the US government. Snake lived his life as Snake.

  “It was you,” she said, “not I, who was created from the rib of man. But I gave you life.”

  She looked down at her stomach and softly patted it with a gloved hand. Then she looked up and fixed her eyes upon Snake. He could just barely see they were wet.

  “I am your mother.”

  Snake was speechless. He tried to say something, but what? He’d hardly ever given thought to his mother. As far as he’d been concerned, Big Boss, his father, was the cause of his existence and his curse.

  Somewhere out there was the woman who gave him birth—that was only natural.

  “Les Enfants Terribles,” Big Mama said. “You can’t grow a human being in a test tube. Not even a clone. You need a woman’s body to give it life.”

  “You mean, a surrogate mother?”

  Her smile was mixed with irony, sadness, and self-scorn. “That’s an awfully cold way to put it.”

  The angels on the ceiling watched them—the woman who lent her body to the insubordinate imitation of God’s work, and her creation. On Shadow Moses, a native Alaskan American member of FOXHOUND on the verge of death said to Snake, “You are a Snake that was not created by nature.”