2
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SNAKE LOOKED OUT the window to get a view of the European countryside, but since this was the last train, Eastern Europe had already slid into the gloom of night, and all was darkness.
What he did see was a brightly lighted billboard alongside the rail line. The ad featured a raven with wings spread across a backdrop of advertising copy. Raven Sword. An American PMC. One of Liquid’s, of course.
According to Campbell’s report, the local government had declared a state of emergency in the historic capital. A curfew was in effect, and armed soldiers—provided by Raven Sword—patrolled the empty streets.
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 added, “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.”