Metal Gear Solid: Guns of the Patriot

by Project Itoh

  Meryl gave Snake another photograph. The subject seemed to be a woman, although her face wasn’t clear—not only was she wearing a hood, the picture was out of focus.

  “This woman’s been with him the whole time. She doesn’t look like a combatant. Probably some kind of advisor. Maybe a scientist.”

  Meryl leaned forward to get a closer look at the picture. Her face was near Snake’s now, and close-up, the affects of his aging were undeniable. His skin was dry and mottled and blotchy, and innumerable wrinkles creased the corners of his eyes. She could even hear his wheezing breaths.

  She began to tear up, and gently placed her hand on the shoulder of the man she’d once loved. But Snake shrugged her off. He would soon reach the end of his life, but he couldn’t endure her pity. He’d hurt enough people already.

  He tried to soften his rebuff, saying, “You’ve become a fine soldier.”

  But that wasn’t what she wanted to hear—not some praise about her abilities as a soldier. “Maybe it’s because someone taught me well. A certain legendary hero who suddenly disappeared?”

  Snake never did know how to talk to women, despite how talkative he was over the wireless codec. (I even grew to think of him as a big mouth.)

  “You quit the unit,” she said. “Me … I never gave up on you—or on FOXHOUND.”

  She might have even been wearing the emblem of her own accord. I doubt the army had acknowledged its use, seeing the FOXHOUND Special Forces Unit was still kept secret.

  “Snake … back then, I just wanted you to accept me. I wanted you to turn around and see who I was. But I’ve put the past behind me. I’m done playing at romance.”

  Meryl regained her composure. Snake looked pained, but just when I thought he might let his emotions come through, his face went blank. Every time his feelings began bubbling up, something seemed to crush them back down.

  “C-Commander …”

  It was the soldier who had surprised Snake from behind the door.

  Without looking at him, Meryl sighed. “Akiba, what is it? The bathroom again?”

  “Y-yes, ma’am. My stomach hurts again …”

  “Is your stomach ever normal?”

  “Y-yes, well, I think so … I’m sure it’s been at some time, although I can’t remember …”

  Meryl had heard enough and waved Akiba off. Hands clutched to his stomach, he moved as stealthily as he could and still reach the toilet in time.

  “He’s a handful,” Snake said.

  Meryl put her head in her hands. “His name’s Johnny Sasaki. But everybody just calls him Akiba. He handles traps, sensors, and cyber combat. He has a wearable computer on his right arm.”

  “I’ve come across a number of soldiers with bad stomachs,” Snake said. “It must just be my luck. Maybe I had some taste for bizarre foods in a past life and now I’m doomed to encounter the scatological.”

  “Maybe it’s been the same soldier all those times.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  They both laughed. Then Meryl asked, “So … what are you here for?”

  “Threat assessment—the PMCs.” That was partly true, at least, thought Snake. To discover Liquid’s intentions, he would have to discover the threat posed by his PMCs.

  “Really? Because I hear a rumor there’s an assassin out there targeting their leader.”

  Snake feigned surprise. “Well, that’s some rumor. I’m only here because the UN wants me to assess the impact and effects of PMCs on their refugee protection efforts.”

  “That’s all?”

  “More than enough for a retired vet like me.”

  Meryl sighed and, seeing she wasn’t going to get anywhere, returned to the subject at hand. “I know he’s plotting an insurrection. But as long as AT Security’s System is in place, there’s no way he’ll succeed.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “They’ve implemented a system that monitors in real time every single soldier engaged in combat action—whether he’s state army or PMC. Each soldier has been fully ID-tagged with nanomachines injected into their bodies for that purpose.

  “The AI at the System’s core not only collects data on the state of their bodies and the battlefield, it also monitors sensory organ data showing strong emotions such as pain and fear. This data is monitored at HQ to enable command to make quicker, more precise, and more rational decisions. It also enables crisis management for each individual soldier.”

  “Battlefield control …”

  “It’s being used by the US military, by state armies in allied countries, by PMCs. Even police agencies are starting to adopt it. Unless they agree to implement the System, PMCs aren’t permitted to send troops anywhere.”

  Snake made a connection with something strange he’d sensed in Meryl’s behavior.

  “You’ve got these nanomachines in you too.”

  “Of course. Our unit plays by the rules, same as everybody else. It was creepy at first—knowing you’re being watched twenty-four seven—but I’ve gotten used to it. It gives us a lot of advantages in the field too. We get a clearer picture of what’s going on around us, so there’s less confusion during missions. And our nanomachines communicate with each other, making teamwork a lot smoother.”

  Snake had sensed right.

  Her unnatural calm—as if something inside her quelled her rising emotions.

  Nanomachines. Nanomachines, and their link with the System, constantly scanned her mental state. They found an emotional instability and automatically stabilized her.

  “And that’s not all the System does for us,” Meryl continued. “It’s also a security guarantee against the PMCs.”

  “A security guarantee?”

  “The PMCs don’t fight out of nationalism or for a cause. They’re just bodies, fighting on someone else’s behalf. They’re mercenaries. A commodity—it’s easy to imagine them betraying their clients by joining the enemy or refusing to fight … or committing humanitarian atrocities. To keep these things in check, the System ensures that no one can use firearms or military vehicles without the proper System ID. It’s true for every piece of equipment out there.”

  “So if the PMCs tried to mount a terrorist attack or coup d’état—”

  Meryl cut in. “Right. They would automatically find themselves locked out of their weapons and equipment. They wouldn’t be able to move, attack, or engage in combat of any kind.”

  Snake wasn’t convinced. “What if someone tried to circumvent the System by getting the nanomachines out of their bodies?”

  She chuckled. “They’d be losing their IDs in the process—so they wouldn’t be able to use their weapons.”

  “We’ve progressed too far,” said Snake. “We can do too much now.”

  The more impossible circumventing the System for Liquid seemed, the more uneasy Snake felt. The System appeared to be perfect, but there had to be something he wasn’t seeing.

  Snake was struck by a suspicion.

  “And the Patriots are involved?”

  “La li lu le lo? What’s la li lu le lo?”

  Word protection.

  Her nanomachines were censoring him, interfering with her ability to hear what he said. Snake had seen this before—in the Manhattan Incident, he’d run into people under Patriot control who couldn’t speak the group’s name. When they tried, the word only came out in the gibberish phrase la li lu le lo.

  Snake sighed. “Never mind. So this System is foolproof, huh?”

  “Completely. They call it SOP.”

  “Standard Operating Procedure …”

  “No. Short for ‘Sons of the …’ It’s the network that monitors soldiers.”

  Sons of the Patriots.

  Meryl continued. “The AI that controls it is a tightly guarded secret—both at ArmsTech Security, where it was developed, and at the Pentagon. There’s no way a third party could get control of it.”

  “I just met a guy who said he could launder ID guns. The System does have holes …”


  “There can’t be more than a few hundred of those gun launderers. They’re a grassroots organization. It’s not like they can affect the entire PMC war machine.”

  “And Liquid won’t be able to make use of his military forces?”

  Meryl nodded. “His PMCs might even exceed the US military in terms of numbers. But as long as they’re registered, their troops’ activities are constantly being monitored. So long as the US responds immediately when Liquid makes his move, we can take them down by force.”

  Snake grinned wryly. By force, huh? Typical thinking for someone in the US military, Snake clearly thought—but didn’t say. I knew that smile though. What he did say was this: “How did you get involved?”

  “When Army Special Operations Command heard about Liquid’s plans, they sent us to sniff around the PMCs. Took us three months to find him. When we reported that we’d found Liquid, our superiors ordered us to provide the UN investigators with intel. But I didn’t know it’d be you.”

  “Didn’t the colonel tell you he was sending me?”

  “Colonel?” Waves of barely restrained hatred stirred her composed expression. “Don’t tell me it’s Campbell.”

  “You didn’t know?”

  “You’ve got to be kidding! You expect me to work with my uncle?” Meryl stood and paced around, kicking chairs, cursing—no longer attempting to hide her anger.

  “Meryl, calm down.”

  “This is bullshit! He’s not my father!”

  Snake was at a loss for words. She knows. She knows whose blood flows through her. Whose genes she inherited.

  Meryl considered her father a curse. Husbands and wives can choose their spouses, but children can’t choose their parents. I guess that can be a kind of curse, even though most are lucky enough never to have to think of it that way.

  But Snake and Meryl weren’t lucky. Just as Snake hadn’t chosen to be born as Big Boss’s clone, she hadn’t chosen to be born Campbell’s daughter.

  “So,” said Snake, “you knew?”

  “Yeah. Little violation of the need-to-know rule.”

  That unnatural calm had returned to her voice. Amid the nearby PMC and rebel gunfire, nothing was a bigger disturbance to a unit than its commander losing herself in a fit of anger. Still, Snake couldn’t help but abhor those nanomachines for suppressing her real and valid anger.

  “Then why are you still calling him uncle?”

  “You’re still calling him colonel.”

  “He’s your father.”

  “As far as I’m concerned, we’re still uncle and niece. I’ll never forgive that womanizing piece of shit.”

  That was going too far. Snake shook his head. “Meryl, he’s—”

  “He remarried.”

  “The colonel remarried?” Snake reeled in shock, likely chastising himself that now, with life and death and the fate of the world on the line, was not the right time or place for all this small talk of cheating and remarriage.

  Meryl’s subordinates—Johnny, the burly African-American sniper Ed, and the giant mohawked Jonathan—were clearly uncomfortable, doing anything they could—inspecting their weapons and electronics, feigning sleep—not to look at the two.

  “His new wife’s about my age,” Meryl said. “I hear she’s even got a kid. It’s as if he’s given up on making up with his own daughter. Men. Selfish, egotistical pigs.”

  Snake’s expression reflected guilt, as if she were accusing him. Which she probably was.

  He changed the subject. “Where is Liquid now?”

  Meryl suspiciously eyed the man who was working for the father she hated and said, “Liquid’s camp is up ahead. I’ll mark it on your map.”

  4

  From the skies above the abandoned city, the giant birdlike Sliders—part tactical strike bombers, part mobile advertisements—tirelessly blasted out their promotional messages. We hope you’ll consider the Praying Mantis solution for all your future combat needs. Staying out of the sight of PMC and militia ground forces was no longer enough for Snake—now he had to watch the skies. Carefully, he made his way toward the location Meryl gave him.

  The closer he advanced, the thicker the PMC patrols became. Before long, the passing of armored vehicles became frequent. The PMC headquarters must have been larger and more fortified than we’d anticipated. Snake made a few adjustments on his muscle suit and enabled its camouflage. He’d need more than his own stealth to go any farther.

  The OctoCamo system scanned Snake’s surroundings and copied them across its surface.

  The OctoCamo couldn’t make Snake completely invisible like the Mk. II’s stealth camouflage, but—much like an octopus’s natural camouflage—the suit could read the surfaces around Snake and perfectly emulate them, providing Snake the edge he needed to stay out of sight.

  The PMC stronghold was located in what used to be the city’s administration complex. The building, a boxy structure surrounded by a sizable wall, looked like about what you’d expect from a government office—a healthy mix of authoritarianism and austerity. Easy to defend and hard to assault, the complex even contained a generously sized parking lot. All in all, the facility was well suited for military purposes.

  Snake went prone upon the gravel, and his camouflage shifted to blend in. Slowly, he crawled through the open streets like an inchworm. The area outside the base provided no cover, but Snake, utilizing Native American tracking techniques, gave the soldiers nothing to see and nothing to hear.

  Of course the OctoCamo was a major factor of his success, but Snake’s sense of his connection with the world around him was even more crucial. He was a part of his surroundings, a part of the world. By closely matching himself in with that baseline, he could be more stealthy than what might seem possible.

  With his senses attuned to the environment around him, Snake easily got inside the wall. Inside, neat rows of tents and transport vehicles provided better cover than outside the complex. This clearly was a command post—soldiers busily went about their duties, and compared to the patrols outside, they were far less alert.

  It was always dark below the lighthouse, Snake knew.

  The soldiers inside shouted at each other instead of using the wireless, providing a level of background noise sufficient that Snake didn’t even have to worry about keeping quiet.

  A Canard VTOL craft flew overhead with a thunderous roar. Snake’s attention was drawn skyward, and then he saw the lone man standing on the roof.

  A man with long gray hair. Even with sunglasses on, his face was unmistakable.

  The man once known as Revolver Ocelot.

  Now known as Liquid Snake.

  But what should he be called, really?

  At the Manhattan Incident, he’d called himself Liquid—the right arm, transplanted into another’s body, awakened.

  Was that even possible?

  There had to be a better explanation.

  When he confronted Ocelot in the sinking tanker off the coast of Manhattan, Snake had felt Liquid’s presence in the man.

  After the events at Shadow Moses and the spreading of Metal Gear technology throughout the world, Snake and I founded Philanthropy, an anti-Metal Gear organization. We monitored nuclear powers for any signs they were developing new Metal Gears. After receiving intel that the US Marine Corps was smuggling an anti-Metal Gear Metal Gear, RAY, inside a decoy oil tanker, Snake intercepted and infiltrated the ship in the Hudson Bay. He intended to get photographic evidence of the Metal Gear, which I would then leak to the Internet and reveal their secret to the world.

  We were beaten to the weapon by Russian mercenaries intent on stealing it for themselves. The group was led by Colonel Sergei Gurlukovich, former head of the Spetznaz GRU and the father of Olga Gurlukovich—making him Sunny’s grandfather.

  Sergei successfully seized the tanker but lost his life when he was betrayed by a member of his forces. Betrayal might not be the right word, because Ocelot, who’d escaped Shadow Moses and left FOXHOUND, had only joined Se
rgei to spy on behalf of the Patriots.

  That’s how our paths crossed with him once more. There, as Ocelot’s explosives doomed the ship, Snake saw Ocelot the man cease to exist. Though Ocelot struggled to resist the transplanted right arm, in the end, Liquid took complete control of his body. The man who stole Metal Gear RAY and successfully escaped the sinking vessel wasn’t anyone if not Liquid Snake. Two years later, when the president was kidnapped and we faced Ocelot again, Liquid had taken full control.

  The man was both Liquid Snake and Revolver Ocelot.

  And now that man, unmistakably, stood atop the government building.

  “I knew it.”

  Meryl’s voice came over Snake’s cochlear-implant radio. He dropped to one knee and quickly scanned the area for her squad, spotting them within cover in a concealed corner of the complex.

  “Snake, you’re here to kill Liquid, aren’t you?”

  “That’s the mission. Are you going to stop me?”

  “My mission,” Meryl said, “is to inspect the PMCs. I’m not in a position to take action. All I can do is stand by and watch.”

  Whether by her own decision or orders from ARSOC, this was a tacit consent from the US Army.

  “I can’t help you,” she said. “Understand? I’m a peacekeeper, here to keep order.”

  “Understood.”

  Snake cut the transmission and gave Meryl a small wave. She hesitated, dropping her eyes for a moment, then motioned her unit to move on.

  Liquid seemed to be talking over his wireless. He was positioned where he could look down over the courtyard, where his employees, the PMC soldiers, were going about their various duties, transporting equipment and forming ranks.

  Even Snake would likely not have been able to cut through their masses, but he could at least move a little closer to where he could better observe Liquid. Snake stood and carefully advanced.

  Then the world fell apart.

  His chest felt like it was being crushed. Blinking, breathing, every act of simply staying alive brought an avalanche of pain cascading upon him. He felt like his thoughts and awareness, and everything that made up his consciousness, were completely shut off from himself. He had only made it a single step forward, and from there, he could no longer move.