The world was never the same; what was once a cycle of spectral color was now a deterministic, solid construct of black and white -- veiled with gray mist. The world was truly not the same -- and to one man… it will never be the same… ever again.
-- From The Obscure Spectrum by John Doe
Chapter One
Arlington National Cemetery -- 1300 hours
There was nothing new to the undisturbed ambiance. The silence -- the peace was unmatched in this part of the world, and the only trace of the fallen stood as white headstone from the green earth; and all over this seemingly hallowed place, these headstones formed the collective serenity of a timeless, space-less point from which all things came. At least that was what David felt as he stood over one of the headstones, dressed in a plain business suit -- his face, as solemn and cold as the stones themselves. It was definitely not his first time here; but marking his frequent visits was the absence of time. David lost all perception of almost everything whenever he stood in firm reverence over the resting place of the legendary warrior known famously (or infamously to some) as Big Boss -- a complete image of which David was nothing but a fading fragment. He could stay there for the stretch of eternity, but that instant figment of his imagination was soon broken by a familiar voice.
"I knew you'd be here."
David, with his deep eyes decisively fixed on the Big Boss' headstone, said nothing. Neither did his brain produce a tangible reaction. One could say that at that moment, David stopped giving two pieces of shit. And it was indeed the case in regards to pure, immaterial reality, fluctuating in the quantum depths of his brain. And it was only a matter of time before it assembled itself with the "linear", fine-tuned reality of the world of men. David knew -- as he was able to snap out of his oblivion -- that he had a job to do. He was never able to enjoy the moment again; but he felt that maybe… the time has come for one final revelation -- but again: maybe… just maybe.
"Beautiful day, huh?" said Hal Emmerich -- better known to his associates as Otacon -- as he adjusted his glasses and stood next to Solid Snake.
Snake said nothing, but continued to drift in the singularity of reality and unreality. He wished he knew why. Why was it that everything led back to this very moment? Was it a natural process of oscillation? Perhaps it was -- a curse -- a warrior's legacy. All the great heroes of the world knew about it. And all the heroes were dead -- either at their own game, or after rotting in prison. The only trace they left behind of their once-deterministic life was an evanescent memory.
"Otacon…" said Snake.
"You okay?" Otacon patted Snake's shoulder and looked at him with narrowed eyes.
"I'm fine…" Snake started walking between the headstones of section 64. Otacon quickly followed. Up ahead of them would be Patton Circle.
"Campbell should be crossing the Potomac right about now…" said Otacon.
"He's here?" Snake slightly turned his head.
"Yeah. He called me last night. He told me to tell you."
Snake continued walking. There's nothing much on his mind right now, except the anticipation of what Campbell's visit could mean at this time. He liked Campbell, but this unexpected arrival at Washington could mean only that there was still some unfinished business; and Snake grew to hate these undertakings -- especially when it involved the Cabinet Executives and their -- as Snake liked to put it -- hypocritical stance on how to solve certain issues -- notably all things connected to foreign policy.
"I wonder what's happening on the other side…" said Snake, referring to the "other side" of the Potomac -- that is, Washington, D.C. Snake was never really the die-hard patriot, and developed an evident grudge toward the capital city of the United States -- even preferring only to come as close to Washington as the banks of the Potomac in Arlington, Virginia -- and never to cross over.
"Nothing but the usual, I guess…" said Otacon; "still rubbing their chins over the economy question. Both Congress and the Cabinet are still at each other's--
"I meant, why's Campbell in Washington?" it seemed perfectly obvious now that Snake wasn't in the best of moods for idle chit-chat.
"I... I don't know, really…" Otacon shrugged; "I asked him… he never gave me anything. He just told me to tell you that we're meeting him at the Renaissance in D.C. in about an hour."
Snake frowned at that, but said nothing. Otacon thought he heard a low grunt. He knew all about Snake's feelings.
"I know how you feel..." said Otacon; "personally, I don't like it either over there. You just don't now what to think anymore. Are you sure you're okay?"
"How'd you know I was here?" said Snake.
"It's the only place you've been visiting for the past couple of weeks."
The two of them stood now at an edge of section 64; Patton Circle was right there in front of them, with Marshall Drive a little bit to the right.
"The… car's over at Bradley…" Otacon said at length with a sheepish smile as he adjusted his glasses. Snake just looked at him for a moment and the two started to walk back to Bradley Drive. The two were as silent as the dead all around.
Snake wasn't the same anymore. Otacon noticed, but he never knew why; the transition was just abrupt. Even though the forty-two-year-old Snake was aging at an abnormal rate and looked well over seventy-years-old, his view of the world around him underwent stagnation much quicker. There wasn't even a "slippery slope phase"; it just crash-landed into hell not long after the Manhattan Incident. Otacon wondered if it was ultimately related to the advanced aging caused by the mutated process of cellular degeneration. He looked into the whole subject, and had done considerable research. But since he wasn't professionally versed in biology as he was in mathematics and physics, he had to bring back his skill of memorization, and, in way -- though he did study biology for his BS -- bring himself to read high school biology once again. But being the scientifically tolerant person that he was (a geek that is), he never had a problem with it. In fact, he absorbed all the information he needed efficiently and in a well-ordered manner so that it never clashed with his official obligations as the head of Philanthropy's Technical Operations Division.
So back to the original rapid aging question, Otacon couldn't figure out the answer all by himself, and sought the assistance of a friend of his at MIT -- an Iraqi-born, American genetic engineer who went by the name of Mahmoud "Moody" al-Hamdani. Coincidentally, Mahmoud's thesis for his PhD entailed effective cloning methods that departed from the long-expired operation of extracting the nuclear DNA from the donor's somatic cell and fertilizing a nuclear DNA-deprived ovum with it -- a process known technically as the somatic cell nuclear transfer -- or, SCNT. Mahmoud worked along with the independent research groups from MIT, Harvard and the University of California, Los Angeles, in June, 2007, in studying the nature of induced pluripotent stem cells that were initially produced by Shinya Yamanaka of Kyoto University and his team.
Mahmoud was aware of the Les Enfants Terribles Project, but due to the sensitivity of the program, the details were never released to the scientific community. As a consequence, the scientists who tried to decipher the Les Enfants Terribles procedure came up with nothing more than incomplete theoretical approaches, especially when the methodological limitations of the early 1970s were brought to mind. But if the whole issue produced a spark of life, then the one entity that was born with more potency than ever was the media -- along with the plethora of conspiracy theorists who sold their cranky work to a public that didn't know what to believe and what to dismiss -- all the weird bullshit one could cook up out of a scratch of the head -- from UFOs, to the Mothman, to the Men in Black, to the Bilderberg-HIV conspiracy, etc. In any case, Mahmoud was definitely more optimistic and a hundred percent more reliable than Charles Fort and… say… Ian Wilmut who probably just wanted to defend his methods when he blamed Dolly's rapid aging on the Jaagsiekte sheep retrovirus -- JSRV. But then again; Snake couldn't have been the result of SCNT. Both Mahmoud and Otacon saw it clearly. Gene therapy was among the methods used to ensure positive results; but gene therapy was officially announced to have been first conducted in 1990. So there was obviously something lacking here -- a missing link of sorts.
That was how Mahmoud and Otacon concluded their speculation -- with no tangible results; and it did nothing but boost Otacon's concern for his friend; and he thought about it endlessly, even now as he subtly rubbed his lower lip and kept his eyes on the street as he crossed the Memorial Bridge, from over Columbia Island, around the Lincoln Memorial, and into Washington, D.C. proper.
Snake lit a cigarette and looked outside the window as the white buildings of the capital city approached. Here we go… Snake said to himself, as he blew a cloud of smoke; on to the white expanse… and whatever crap it holds.
I liked what I read. I enjoy how you fit it around MGS 4 and make a gamble in taking it from Snake's POV, I've read a lot of MGS fan fics and nearly all of them fail when it comes to actually getting Snake's mood and thoughts across, mainly because they treat Snake like John McClane or Martin Riggs, but I like what you've done with it.
Thanks. I'm glad you liked it. :D
Stay tuned for chapter two.