Hello all and welcome to my first story. This is a BRAWL STORY and will not include any characters from Sm4sh or Ultimate. The Subspace Emissary also is not mentioned and some things have been removed due to being unable to fit them into the story (such as the Gray Fox assist trophy). I've tried to write this in a way where you didn't have to play MGS or Metroid to understand it but...well I tried lol.

Also this story sticks strictly to canon of ALL games, though there may be some minor changes to fit the story better. So if you're looking for your fave ship, it's not here and if it's not canon, it will not be included.

Thank you and please enjoy.

The darkness was suffocating. It stretched endlessly in every direction, churning, invisible, yet like a thousand hands reaching out with despair. The air was thin, it was hard to breathe. There were no sounds here, only silence. The air bore down like an agonizing weight. The darkness was suffocating.

"SNAKE!"

An eruption of fire. An arm rose to shield eyes from the heat as it tore open the darkness. In it's place now was an endless corridor. The worn-out flooring was damp and laden with puddles, dripping from rusted pipes along the ceiling. The concrete walls were a dull, dilapidated gray, littered with chipped paint and bullet holes. A man stood in the center, observing the sullen surroundings.

"COME OUT AND FIGHT ME, SNAKE!"

More flames roared. The man shielded his face again and stepped back. The walls and ceiling caught fire. The flames spread quickly, circling around him, trapping him in the center.

The inferno parted and a dark figure came forth. It appeared to be human in shape but its limbs were horribly mangled. The military fatigues it wore were burned and shredded. Every inch of the creature's flesh was charred black and smoking. Half of it's face was seared down to the bone, the remaining left eye shined with an ethereal light that pierced through him.

"SSNAAAKE!" It hissed in a demonic, guttural growl. The creature started to hobble towards him.

"No...Stay back!" The man begged.

The creature lifted a clawed hand to him. "ONLY...ONE..." It sputtered, "ONLY ONE...WILL LEAVE HERE!"

The man began to withdraw. The flames flared intensely. "Get away!" He pleaded, but the creature came closer still.

He shoved his hands into the many pockets of his own fatigues, looking for some kind, any kind, of a weapon to fend it off. Feeling something in his pants pocket, he closed his fist around the metal and drew it out in front of him. To his horror, it was not a gun or a knife like he'd hoped, but a small silver lighter.

"YOU WOULD POINT A WEAPON?"

Another voice came from behind. A hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. The man whipped his head around to come face to face with a second demonic creature.

"AREN'T WE YOUR FAMILY?" It screeched.

He tore himself from the creatures' grasp. It's eyes glowed with the same ethereal light as the other, but this one's body was different. A layer of frost and ice coated the exposed flesh of it's arms and torso. Clumps of snow clung to the torn pants and lightly colored, knotted hair that dangled in the it's face.

"IT'S NOT OVER!" The creature spoke with a shrill voice. "IT'LL NEVER BE OVER, SNAKE!"

A cold wind bit his face. A heavy blizzard blew in from behind the second creature. It extinguished only parts the blaze still burning behind him. The second beast too lifted a mangled hand for him and began to wade forward through the piling snow.

"Don't come any closer!" The man changed direction, his gaze switching in between the two creatures approaching him. His back hit a wall. They drew closer still. He held his hands in front of him in a helpless effort to keep them away. There was nowhere to run.

"Stop! Leave me alone!" He begged again.

"SSNAAAAAAKE!" They both shrieked.

Something wrapped around his throat and lifted him off the ground. He cried out, clawing at the thing around his neck, but his fingernails only broke and tore against the concrete surface. It was the wall that grabbed him.

"YOU CAN'T ESCAPE FROM US."

A third voice. He could feel the concrete morph into a smooth metal, the entire wall changing into the same material. He managed to painfully crane his neck to look behind him. A third beast stared back, forming from the mass. It's scraggly white hair dripped with a dark mixture that reeked of pure crude oil. Only the left half of its aged face formed.

"WE ARE YOUR FATE. YOUR LEGACY. AND YOU ARE OURS!" It said.

Arms came forth from the churning metal and hugged him in a vice grip, one hand smothered his face, coated with the same foul liquid. He couldn't hold his fear in any more, he started screaming.

Everything went black. The compound, the raging fire, the whirling snow - it all faded back into the darkness. He tore at the slimy hand on his face and kicked wildly at the other two beasts who caught his legs.

"SNAKE!"

"SNAKE!"

He tried his hardest to squirm free. The creatures clawed and tore at his body.

"S-stop!"

"SNAKE!"

Buzz...buzz...

His vision faded. He was losing consciousness.

"Please..."

...buZZ... BUZZ!

The ice creature laughed maniacally while the burning one howled in agony. He could no longer fight them off. His body went limp, the lighter falling from his fingers. With the last of his fading vision he saw in the distance a mysterious figure. It had no face and wore a simple suit. It stood there, watching. The third creature was emitting a buzzing noise that grew louder and louder.

BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!

He jerked awake. The alarm clock was blaring. The man glanced around, looking for the mangled creatures, but they were nowhere to be seen. Neither was the corridor or the darkness. Soft sunlight shone through the curtains of his room. He wiped cold sweat from his face and breathed out to calm himself.

It was only another nightmare.

A whimpering noise came from beside him. The man had become aware of another weight on his bed. A wet, slobbery tongue swiped his face. He grunted, wiping saliva from the side of his mouth. A dog whined softly before butting it's wet nose to his face, continuing to lick his cheek.

"Chief...! Come on..." He sputtered. He twisted his head away from the animal in vain. The husky named Chief whined and pawed at him. He finally broke a small smile and scratched behind the dog's ears. "It's OK girl, I'm alright."

Chief leaned on him, her curly tail thumping on the bed, big, bi-colored eyes staring up at him. He was still scratching behind the dog's ears when it became apparent that the alarm clock was still buzzing. He looked at it on the bedside table. The time flashed 8:07 AM. He grumbled shut it off.

He playfully squished the sides of the dog's face. "Come on girl, let's get some breakfast." Chief huffed excitedly and threw herself on him, twisting around in his lap for belly rubs. He chuckled, giving her one last rub before pushing her and the blankets off him. He got out of bed, stretching out his legs and back. He thudded across the carpet, heading to the bathroom.

After washing his hands, the man observed himself in the mirror. His brown hair was messy and frazzled, as it usually was after the nightmares. The bags underneath his eyes looked heavier and the lines of his face more deep set than before. Traces of sweat still lingered on the borders of his hairline. He sighed and rubbed his chin. His face had gotten quite scruffy as he hadn't shaved in a while. His hair had grown out a bit in the back too, reaching the base of his neck. He turned on the faucet and splashed some water on his face. He wiped down with a towel, grabbed a comb and attempted to tame his hair.

There came whimpering and scratching at the bathroom door. He called out to Chief to stop. She decided he'd taken enough time. Taking one last look at himself in the mirror, satisfied with his hair, he opened the door to a fluffy barricade that had laid herself across the threshold. Chief looked up at him. He tapped her lightly with his foot to move aside.

The sun's rays peeked through the blinds of the sliding door, illuminating the sparse furnishings of the house. The man crossed the beat up kitchen floor to the sink, taking an overturned, three gallon stainless steel pot from the dish rack and set it on the stove. He turned on a burner and began filling the pot with water from the extending kitchen sink faucet.

Chief stood nearby, tail curled up with rapt attention. After the pot was full, the man opened the freezer and pulled out a brown package. Chief's tail wagged. "Today's menu is steak, how 'bout it girl?" He asked. Chief yipped in approval. He unwrapped the package and dropped the frozen meat into the pot, adding a pinch of salt to the water before covering it with a lid. The meat wasn't for him but for Chief. It was her breakfast.

From one of the kitchen cabinets he took out a small pill bottle and a bag of soft doggie treats. Chief licked her chops. "Time for your medicine." He said. He shook out a single pill and shoved it inside of a treat. They were anti-inflammatories, to help ease the pain and discomfort from the oncoming arthritis in her spine and haunches. He showed her the treat in his fingers.

"Sitz." He said, and Chief sat down. "Platz." Chief lie down on her belly, head to the floor. "Auf." Chief stood back up. He knelt and held out a hand to her. "Gib Fuß." Chief gave both paws to him, right then left. "Gib Laut!" He commanded and Chief barked loudly. "Good girl." He smiled, scratching her head as she ate the treat from his hand.

He strode to the sliding door and pulled the little chain that drew back the blinds. Flipping the lock on the handle, he slid the door open and Chief trotted out into the small backyard. He took a moment to observe the outside scenery. A nice cool breeze rustled the leaves of the Caribbean pines and the palms way down by the shore line. The brightly colored houses of the neighborhood stood out against the lush green of the trees and deep blue of the ocean. The sky was dotted with thick clouds. It was going to be a cloudy day, a nice break from the heat.

Freshly brewed coffee in hand, the man plopped down on the living room couch, grabbing the remote from the coffee table. The channel was already set to CNN. He'd been watching a lot of news lately. As expected, the anchors and their guests were locked in yet another heated discussion:

"No no no! I don't see how any of you can consider this to be a good thing or find it acceptable in any way!" A man with dark curly hair ranted, "There are no longer wars for a reason or even one country fighting another, these proxy conflicts-"

A man dressed in military fatigues interrupted him. Judging by the number of bars on his shoulder, he was a Sargent. "Now don't twist my words. I've never thought of war as a good thing. War should never have a reason-"

" -These proxy conflicts," The first man continued, "are consuming populated areas! And no one knows exactly who is fighting them! Is it still different nations? Is the country divided and fighting amongst themselves? Or is it just two bitter, loaded neighbors hiring these blossoming 'Private Military Corporations' to settle grudges with each other?"

"It may not be a pretty picture Counselor, but you cannot deny that since Private Military Corporations have become a legitimate business, the U.S. economy has boomed. America has all but earned enough money to pay off it's National Debt. Twice." The Sargent retorted.

"But they are not paying it off are they? No, they're just pumping it right back out there, right back onto the battle field! Using it to pay for that experimental new 'Soldier System' of theirs."

A third person, a woman, interjected. "The U.S. is not the ones who started these Private Military Corporations. They popped up in the Middle East and parts of Europe. They where built by these countries or their private citizens. The U.S. is merely intervening to prevent further loss of life. In fact, the very first PMC on record sprouted in-"

The curl hair man kept up his rant. "The United States is doing more than just 'intervening', they are making money off this! The 'War Economy' is becoming something very real now. It's what our country is beginning to run off of."

"Counselor, the United States spends billions of tax dollars every year to fund the military. If anything, shouldn't America be LOSING money? How do you propose they've been making it?" The Sargent asked.

The curly haired man chortled. "I suspect the Government has it's own PMC groups that they are renting out to other nations to help fuel their wars. And they even-"

The whole group erupted in disagreement.

"That's ridiculous! The U.S. does not have or lease any Private Military. The only Military we have are the Army, Navy, Marines and the National Guard and we certainly aren't renting them out to anybody." The Sargent argued.

The woman spoke again. "Right, and the Pentagon also claimed that they 'did not posses' and construct the blue prints for those 'walking battle tanks' that popped up on the internet six years ago either. And are you really going to look us in the eyes and tell us that the folks in the White House really had nothing to do with that war-class submarine that crashed into New York and Federal Hall a year ago? Not to mention the eyewitness accounts of the former President on the scene-"

"Now that is outrageous! You know what has been declared an accident by the Marines." The Sargent declared.

The curly haired Counselor interrupted himself back into the argument again, "What's outrageous sir, is that the U.S Economy is now beginning to THRIVE off of war. How long will it be until part of 'Joe Citizen's' paycheck comes from that blood money? Innocent civilians in the Middle East and Europe are DYING, caught up in the proxy war these Private Military Corporations are being paid to wage. And I don't see an end to it. One of these companies, 'Hoping Bug' or whatever it's called, has only just sprung up and already it has contracts from all over Afghanistan-"

The man bit his cheek. The news channels covered the same thing every day: The rising War Economy, the Private Military Corporations (or PMCs for short) that sprung from it and all the conflicts they were causing. Private Troops were being hired in struggling countries to fight in independence revolutions, assist in revolts, or to fight off other PMCs hired by rival forces. They operated in smaller, more efficient factions and provided their own weapons and assault vehicles that were purchased from other nations' militaries. Myriads of cities, homes and citizens had already been caught in the crossfires and lost to the flames of war.

He took a drink of his bitter coffee.

The news journalists could only speculate on why those countries started fighting and why PMCs rose in the first place. No one knew the actual truth. No one had any idea all this conflict was actually intentional, planned, orchestrated by people with an insane dream of a "system of complete control." But he knew. The ones who were behind it, the people pulling the strings.

The Patriots. A group of twelve set on setting the world on fire, in order to rebuild it under their 'perfect' vision.

The man looked at the dark liquid in his cup. After all of his efforts to stop them, continually destroying their super-weapons one right after the other, eliminating every group they sent after him to stop him, thwarting every one of their highly secretive plans, even putting an end to others that tried to gain power by leeching off theirs, he wasn't able to stop them. He didn't slow the Patriots down at all, in fact, it didn't even seem to faze them. The Patriots only grew stronger and more influential each time.

Guilt started to overcome him. What about the people who gave their lives for his cause along the way? Had he failed them? Had their ultimate sacrifices been for nothing? He should feel guilty. He was still breathing.

No...no he shouldn't feel guilty. If he'd died, there would be no way to avenge those who had fallen. Besides, he did not escape unscathed either. The Patriots dealt with him first, or at least, they tried. He still had all his limbs and all his battle wounds had healed over time, but everywhere he went it was always in the back of his mind that the Angel of Death constantly followed him, placed there by the Patriots. Not that it made him feel better.

The anchor's voices faded into an incoherent drum, the man no longer listening. His thoughts drifted back to the nightmare, back to the burning beast. He could see it's face so clearly. The stark features underneath the seared skin, the singed graying hair, and it's one remaining eye, wide and wild. The way it howled and tore at him in anguish. His mind was consumed with dark memories.

"All I've done is given you a place for it. I've given you a reason to live. Start a war, fan it's flames, create victims...Then save them, train them, and feed them back onto the battlefield. It's a perfectly logical system. In this world of ours, conflict never ends. And neither does our purpose...our raison d'etre..."

There came an ear-splitting noise from behind and the man was jolted from his dreary thoughts. He turned around to see Chief at the sliding door, nose pressed against the glass. She howled loudly again when she'd gotten his attention.

He couldn't help a small smile, it was funny when Chief got irritated with him. He got off the couch, walked to the sliding door and opened it. Chief huffed past him and went straight to her water bowl, taking hearty laps. He slid the door close. He watched the dog for a moment before his gaze drifted to a china cabinet in the corner, beside her food bowls. Inside were many gold and silver objects; pewter plates, shiny metal belt buckles, silver bowls with empty velvet pouches in them and old trophies shaped like antique lanterns. Remnants of his past as a dog sledding champion. A pretty good sledder, he should say so himself. He looked back at Chief again.

He used to have an entire team of sixteen huskies, along with thirty four other dogs and puppies. They were all gone now. Off to happy homes. He didn't have the heart to give Chief away. Not her... Done drinking, she turned to him and wagged her tail.

"Maybe after breakfast, we should check on the geek." He suggested.

Chief followed the man on the very short walk to the duplex next door, connected to his own house by a small walkway and an overhanging trellis. He wrapped loudly on the door. "Otacon? It's me, open up." He said gruffly.

He stood with Chief on the stoop for a minute, waiting for a reply, but none came. He knocked again, a little louder. "Come on, Otacon. Answer the door already. Aren't you awake?" Still no answer. The man groaned. He went back to his house, took a set of keys hanging from a cork board in the kitchen and walked back. Chief waited patiently for him. Fingering a small gold key, he unlocked the door and went inside.

"Otacon?" He called out. Again no answer. He strolled through the house. Papers covered the surface of every table - drawings and schematics for gadgets. There were copper wires here and there, and lots of tools laid about. All the lights were still off. He started for the hallway leading to his friend's room. The duplex houses had the exact same layout, give a slight moderation to his half of the property. He poked his head into the bedroom.

There his friend was, slouched at his computer desk, snoring on the keyboard. He let out an exasperated sigh. "Hey." He said, knocking loudly on the door frame. The man named Otacon did not stir. He repeated it louder. "Hey!"

When it was clear this wouldn't wake him, the man rolled his eyes, grabbed a nick-knack off the dresser by the door and threw it. His aim was impeccable. The object bounced off his friend's head and he jerked awake.

"Huh?! Wha...?!" Otacon stammered.

"Afternoon." The man greeted in a flat voice.

"Snake?"

Otacon blinked a few times, his glasses askew on his face. He sighed loudly, removing his glasses and rubbing the top of his head. "Can't you ever be nice about waking me up?"

"No." The man named Snake simply responded. He crossed his arms and leaned against the door frame.

"What time is it?" Otacon yawned.

"Just past noon."

"Noon?" His friend rubbed his eyes then looked over at a digital clock next to the computer screen. "Ugh, I feel asleep..."

The man's real name is Dr. Hal Emmerich, a gifted engineer and genius in the field of mechanics. He is also an expert programmer and hacker. Snake met the man five years ago and they'd become good friends since. He's a bit of an oddball, having an affliction for Japanese cartoons, even as an adult. 'Otacon' was a nickname he went by.

"Pull another all-nighter?" Snake asked.

Otacon finally appeared awake. His short, scraggly brown hair was mussed on the side he had been sleeping on. "Yeah. I was hacking into that disk again, the one we got from Arsenal. I was looking over the codes, trying to see if there really weren't any files with real information on it." Otacon turned his chair back to his desk and hit a key on the keyboard. The computer's monitor turned on, window after window of computer code and word documents took up the screen.

"Did you find anything?" Snake asked.

"Nothing new." Otacon replied somberly. "All of this information, every bit of it, it's all useless. Just strung together nonsense. There's nothing in here leading to the real identity of the Patriots. It's just-"

"A bunch of lies, meant to throw us off their trail." Snake finished.

"And man, did it work."

He let out a long sigh, hanging his head a little. Last year, both men went on a undercover mission at an oil clean up facility called Big Shell, located in the harbor of New York. It was built to clean up a massive oil spill caused by a tanker sinking in the harbor two years prior. The facility was actually a front though, a cover by the Patriots to build their latest super-weapon in secret. An impregnable nuclear submarine that carried a hydrogen bomb and was protected by an army of aquatic and land traveling tanks: Arsenal Gear. The men received a tip this super-weapon was being built there, and after infiltrating Big Shell's files, learned Arsenal not only served as war-class submarine, but as a safe, harboring a disk that held all of the Patriot's real identities on it.

One-third of that whole endeavor was stealing the disc, only for it to turn out to be a complete dead end. Now, Snake and Otacon had no other leads in finding out the Patriot's true identities.

Chief interrupted the men's moment of lament. She went to Otacon and pawed at his leg.

"Oh, hey Chief." Otacon rubbed the sides of the dog's face. He yawned again. "I need some coffee. You want a cup, Snake?"

"No. I've already had some. Thanks."

Snake sat at the messy dining room table while Otacon mixed sugar and creamer in his coffee. Chief made herself at home on Otacon's couch. He tried to command the dog to get down but Chief wouldn't listen to him. Otacon asked for Snake's help, but Snake just shrugged. She wouldn't listen to him either. Chief did what Chief wanted.

"Have you heard anything from Smih and the U.N. yet?" Snake asked Otacon once he sat down at the table across from him. His friend carefully shoved papers to the side.

Otacon shook his head. "No. I've emailed Smih a few times. But he hasn't answered me back yet."

Snake sighed again. "It's been six months already..."

The engineer shrugged. "I'm sure everything's fine. The U.N.'s probably got bigger things on their hands right now. You've seen the news of rebel groups causing trouble in the Middle East, thanks to those Private Military Companies. They're tearing countries apart left and right. The U.N. might be busy dealing with how to put an end to it."

"With nothing but endless meetings and bitching, not getting anything done." Snake said bitterly.

"The United Nations is a heck of a lot more effective than any other world organization out there. You and I both know that. If anyone can put a stop the uprisings, it's them." Otacon took a careful sip of his coffee, "Because of Smih, you and I have put a stop to plenty of Metal Gears around the world. Not to mentioned he's stashed us away when things got too messy."

The man they were speaking of was Callum Smih, a congressional member of the United Nations, and a great ally to Snake and Otacon. After a mission Snake underwent five years ago in Alaska in 2005, he and Otacon formed a small group called 'Philanthropy.' An organization whose sole purpose was the complete eradication of the most dangerous weapon to ever be conceived by mankind - All terrain, bi-pedal 'walking' tanks with nuclear capabilities called Metal Gears.

Metal Gears, or at least their blue prints, had originated in the U.S.S.R. in the 1960s. An American scientist had brought the plans to the United States and it was adopted as a top secret Black Project by D.A.R.P.A. and the U.S. Department of Defense. The Metal Gear project was meant to put America on top as the number one nuclear super power in the world. But after a model, code named 'REX', was hijacked by a group of terrorists at a nuclear weapons disposal facility called Shadow Moses, Snake was sent put the machine out of commission.

Unfortunately, the blueprints for REX had found their way onto the internet, and dozens of Metal Gear knock-offs begun to crop up all around the world, built by smaller nations trying to claw their way to the top. Otacon was REX's chief engineer, although he had no idea what he was actually building at the time, having been lied to by his superiors. He'd was under the impression REX was a Theater Mobile Defense Vehicle for shooting down enemy missiles.

Snake also had a previous history with Metal Gears, having taken out two others before REX earlier in his military career. Both men felt it was their job to stop these machines from spreading all over the world. So they approached the U.N., proposing their solution to the problem of these weapons and the dangers they possess with their organization Philanthropy. Callum Smih believed in their movement and was the driving force in getting the U.N. to sponsor them.

Unfortunately three years ago, after a failed mission to destroy a second American-made Metal Gear, code named 'RAY', being secretly being transported on a Tanker up the New York harbor, Snake was labeled a Terrorist by the United States government, even ending up on Homeland Security's Most Wanted List. Smih helped both men go underground until things calmed down.

And he had helped them again, after their most recent mission at Big Shell, Smih pulled some strings and now, both men were laying low in an island paradise, the British controlled territory of Bermuda, just close enough but out of reach of the United States. Smih was someone they both could trust, and whenever Otacon tracked down another lead on another Metal Gear, he would set up the transportation, telecommunications, equipment and any weapons supplies they needed for the job.

Snake shook his head. "That may be true, but you and I both know the uprisings aren't the real threat." Snake looked across the table at his friend. "Ocelot has disappeared and no one knows where he is."

Otacon furrowed his brow, "There haven't been any sightings of Ocelot since last you and I saw him at Big Shell. I've been scouring the Underground networks, I'm sure Smih's boys in the U.N. have as well, but there's been no word of his whereabouts. It's like he fell off the face of the Earth."

"The rising PMC Companies, the revolutions, it can't be a coincidence, it has to be his doing."

"Probably."

The man they were speaking of was Revolver Ocelot. An aged, gun slinging Russian mercenary and the front man of the Patriots. He was one of the people behind REX's hijacking in 2005 and solely responsible for the Tanker sinking in 2007. Ocelot was also the one who leaked the Metal Gear blueprints online, and sent photos of Snake taken on the Tanker to the media, causing him to be labeled as a Terrorist. He was even behind Arsenal Gear crashing into Federal Hall in New York in 2009. They had no doubt Ocelot was once again behind the rising PMCs in the Middle East.

"The Metal Gear blueprints may have been removed from the internet, but Black Market Arms Dealers still have their hands on 'em, and they'll be selling them to third world countries like Girl Scout cookies." Snake commented.

"That's the thing though Snake, I haven't caught any new leads on any new Metal Gears for a long time. It seems no one's building any right now." Otacon said.

"You sure about that?" Snake questioned, raising an eyebrow at his friend. "You sure you're keeping up with all your information and informants correctly?"

Otacon gave him a look. "Of course I have. You saying you actually want more Metal Gears to surface?"

"Well, no, I..." but Snake lost his words.

"Snake, listen." Otacon put down his coffee cup and interlocked his fingers. "I know you're a little on edge. We haven't had any jobs in a long time or any contact with Smih, but...who's to say that isn't a good thing?"

It was Snake's turn to look at him.

"I think we should be enjoying the little reprieve we have right now. Because it's our only moment of peace. We can't fight all the time Snake, you know that. Even soldiers need their rest." His friend finished.

Snake looked down at the table and sighed. Maybe he was right, maybe not hearing from Smih was a good thing. The Bootleg Gears could have finally stopped, just like they'd set out to accomplish in the first place. But he didn't believe it would actually happen. Something else could have happened to Ocelot that put him out of commission for the time being. After all, the last time he saw the Russian, Ocelot was having...a sort of mental health crisis, to put it mildly. Snake leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. He needed a cigarette right now. "Yeah, you're right. Sorry Otacon, I just..."

"Don't worry about it. I know how you feel. Silence can be a scary thing. The U.N.'s probably dealing with the uprisings first and foremost. Besides," Otacon picked up his cup and took another sip, "The day Smih calls us is the day the real threat returns."

Snake stayed at his friend's duplex for another hour before he went back to his own, again reminding Otacon to call him first thing whenever, and if ever, he heard from Smih. "Not a second later." He'd warned, pointing a finger at his friend. Otacon just waved him off.

Back on his couch, Snake pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket, lighting one up and inhaling the calming fumes. Tomorrow will just be another day of silence, down time and news anchor bitching. What a rut he was in.

Stars dotted the heavens like diamonds in the clear, cloudless night. Soft moonlight bathed the trees and grounds below, including the mysterious figure standing in front of a mailbox. The figure held up a parchment letter.

"This will not convince you. But a letter of invitation is always formal."

The figure opened the mailbox and placed the letter inside. Closing it back, he smiled.

Inside the duplex, from atop Snake's bed, Chief lifted her head, ears perked towards the bedroom window. After a moment, she heard nothing else and lay her head back down.