By adroit diplomacy and the endurance and ruthless courage of his men Cortés conquered an empire of exotic brilliance. Spain, a country of under ten million inhabitants, had seized a land with a population and wealth as great as its own. Cortés's achievement fired the romantic Spanish imagination. – John Hemming, The Conquest of the Incas.

Prologue

The Mar Pacifico

November 4th, 1974, 4:42 p.m

The first time she'd been given the red raincoat, Paz almost smiled. It was near perfect irony. Red were the colours of anger, fear, and victory, and the shock of it against the charcoal-grey thunderclouds made her feel like a prized crown jewel. The colour of power was also of fear: it meant the Red Scare that occurred shortly after her birth; by contrast, it meant the royal colours of her ancestors. Though she was a member of the 'perfect' ideal of humanity, she had a red lineage. It did not mean that she was a Communist like the man who escorted her. It meant she was a red native; that these lands had been her birthright ever since they walked from a desert basin in Mexico to the cloud forests in the south. But the years had faded the skin from its marked tawny yellow to beige that browned nicely in the sun. Paz Ortega Andrade was indistinguishable from any other American or European student.

The rain poured around them. It was the last month of Columbia's rainy season, where the deluge covered many parts of the land in water. If the jet stream did not bring favourable weather, the season could last for a few more weeks until the dry season. Latin America seemed untouched by the dreary conditions; the weather didn't stop El Che or his followers from doing their deeds years before, and it certainly did not cool the Cold War that continued to loom over everyone's shoulders. Here, the rains fell unperturbed in this country in the backyards of the great, powerful United States. When they ended, Costa Rica returned to being the gem of Latin America that was bordered by azure oceans with legumes and wildflowers that sprinkled the interior with their various perfumes. But those days had yet to arrive.

Beside her, Ramón Gálvez Mena stared out into space. He was waiting for something, of what Paz couldn't tell, but she suspected they wouldn't be waiting out here for long. The trip to Colombia from Limón had been on a rickety and rusted boat that spewed black smoke into the sky with an engine that sounded like a Spitfire aircraft. The food was rancid; whatever came out of the kitchens was quickly tossed overboard, leaving the fish victims to the concoctions. Most of all, Ramón hated the coffee. He'd taken one sip and exclaimed that it tasted like soupy tar. The chefs only shrugged as they sipped theirs with no ill effects. He opted for water after that, fearing that the tainted coffee would age him quicker than he already had.

On the ride, while Paz sat on benches with tuft, feathers, and sharp metal coils jutting out of them, Ramón would educate her on history, politics, economics, and diplomacy. All the ways people could conquer the world without raising a hand in violence. With all the nuclear weapons being made, and annihilation imminent, it was important to stress how precious and important life was. That was only one side of the coin that he showed, however. If the professor believed Paz was not looking, he would transform into a shrewd, conniving and duplicitous man, apparent as lacquer when some of the crew members went silent whenever he approached. Clearly, the professor of peace had a way of using his talents to instill control. An impressive trait, Paz had to admit. No one would do the same for her.

Ramón, in his Iscariot nature, hadn't realized he'd stepped on some very sharp eggshells. He had taken pity on her since he met her, ignorant to what Paz knew. She acted the part of the orphaned, war-torn teenager that barely escaped with her life from the slimy, capitalist hands of CIA agents and thrust into the hands of her KGB savior. As the poster child for his memos and lectures of peace, she would get him more money and a spot on the philanthropic councils, but Paz was keenly aware that neither of them had any intention of keeping to the faith. There was no God, but there was no peace, either. Curious that a man such as him would teach the benefits of peace when he was from the Tsentr, and that all he was there for was riling up the commoners against America to ensure Communist rule. No one had time for peace. But if it meant getting the Militaires Sans Frontières involved, now that was something worth grabbing.

Paz rubbed at her arms under the coat. The red plastic shone bright in the darkness. She felt like the Red Sonja in Conan the Barbarian, having smuggled the magazines under Ramón's nose and sticking them in plastic bags under her shirt. All she was missing was the sword and the monsters, but who needed a sword when you had firearms? Ramón carried a Makarov somewhere in the folds of his coat, with some hollow point bullets hidden in another pocket. He said it was for 'protection' when Paz asked him how a man who believed in peace carried a weapon. Semantics, he called it. There were still irrational people that lived in the world, and who did not believe in the 'make love not war' slogan that was exceedingly popular? Ramón would use 'adroit diplomacy', and hammered it into Paz that she should, too. Peace could only be achieved through hardship, and he understood completely the hardship she endured.

That was only half of the story. Paz's official story was buried in a coffin somewhere, while she had to use the voodoo version to give voice to her charade. Whatever she truly thought about anything was to be buried deep within her so that her heart wouldn't thump with regret and her conscious voice doubts. Ramón's heart was doing just that – panging with heartfelt sorrow - whenever he took a cursory glance at her, making sure the shivering girl was safe at his side. Her emaciated body broke him, and her sweet, nightingale voice won him over. Now she was enrolled in his peace program at the University for Peace, tuition paid and taken care of. She would have no use for it.

Ramón's search in the darkness led to a pair of blinding headlights shining in her eyes. She hissed under her breath and raised an arm. The vehicle was awfully quiet in the rain! The headlights dimmed as if understanding her plight and Ramón's frame stepped in front of her, blocking the way. She heard a door open and close and some footsteps that squelched in the mud. Paz peered around Ramón, hoping to get a look at the newcomer.

The man was tall, well-built, with a bright yellow scarf that matched his hair. A pair of yellow-tinted aviator glasses – blue in this light - sat atop a straight, aquiline nose, and below that, his mouth was set in a line. He looked Ramón over, and held out his hand. Ramón shook it with his prosthetic hand, the firm grip matching the newcomer's. Mr. Blonde then noticed the red raincoat, the sliver of the pheasant's tail in the gloomy dark that was bold and bright.

"Is this her?" She heard over the rain. It was a young voice, bordering on boyish, yet inquisitive. One of those 'wise beyond his years' types.

Mr. Blonde had tried to peer around Ramón, but he blocked his view. Ramón was clearly saving her for the entree. An eyebrow went up over the sunglasses, and Paz saw the body tense for a single moment. She noticed that the man had a wildcat pose, one that gauged every movement and placed every footstep with care. He must have been trained in something, but in what Paz had yet to discover. She watched him under her hood.

"She is distrustful of strangers," Ramón said, as if answering Mr. Blonde's unasked question. He stood taller, shoulders straightened, chest forward, as if he was preparing to fight the wildcat. "I do not want her to be afraid of you."

"She's got nothing to worry about. She's safe here – and she'll be safe with us. We won't pressure her on anything," Mr. Blonde replied. His words were reassuring, with a degree of legitimate concern. Clearly, girls in distress didn't sit well with him.

Ramón nodded. Paz stepped around him and his prosthetic hand curled around her shoulder, a father shielding his daughter from potential danger. The feeling sent a jolt of disgust through her body, but she hid it through the shivers from the rain.

Mr. Blonde bunched his eyebrows as he assessed her. A strange man with unclear, double-meaning motives was suspicious on his own, but to cart along a girl as insurance, as cargo, now that was the writing on the warning signs. He glanced back up to Ramón, keeping all inner thoughts to himself, and gestured towards the jeep. "Come on. This rain isn't letting up, and I better get you to the Boss. We'll probably be down with the flu at this rate." The last sentence was an attempt at humour, earning a slight chuckle from Paz's guardian.

Mr. Blonde opened the door for Paz and she stepped in. The upholstery wasn't the best; it clearly had had work done to it, but the leather seats weren't sticky and were clean. It was a vast improvement from that primeval steam slag they rode to Columbia. Paz noticed the mud on her boots, thick hickory clumps overpowering russet leather, and felt bad for ruining the carpet. Oh, well. Mr. Blonde could clean it. The jeep had already been caked in mud on the outside from the lagoon-like roads Mr. Blonde had driven through. It would be covered twice over from the detour they had to take to remain incognito.

The two men entered the jeep. Mr. Blonde turned the key in the ignition. She noticed he wore a watch on his left hand. It had to be expensive, or if it wasn't, it was a very expensive copy. She couldn't see the brand from her position, so there was no telling where it was made. She could find out later. The wipers left streaks on the windshield like mortar smeared on bricks. Though it didn't seem the jeep would find purchase on the slick terrain, it leapt ahead like it was in its natural environment, and away they went. They'd hit the bad roads when Paz started bouncing on the seat. The men did not speak to each other. Paz, having a moment to herself, recalled an amusing story about another red coat that she owned when she was younger.

When she was a pan-handling orphan, she'd been given a red coat from a charity worker that had taken pity on her for being nearly naked in the rain. It fit her well, was warm, and she wore it whenever she could, even on sunny days. When the days came for her proper schooling, a classmate of hers, a Latina girl named Griselda, took one look and laughed at her.

"Why are you laughing at me?" Paz had asked. She hoped it wasn't done out of respite. She'd had enough for that for a while.

It did not end up that way, as no sneers or insults came out. Instead, Griselda shook her head and pointed at the holes in her coat. "You look like a raggedy Red Riding Hood! All you're missing is the basket and the flowers and the wolf that's going to come and take your basket."

"What do you mean?" Paz demanded, affronted, "what do you mean about the wolf coming to take my basket? That didn't happen in the fairytale. The wolf ate her grandmother, not the basket!"

Griselda just laughed at her. It was one of those 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' laughs. Her cinnamon brown hand rose to her mouth, covering her crooked teeth. She lowered it when the snickers ended. "Chica, you're too young. When you're older you'll get it."

"No!" Paz said angrily. "I want to know what it means now!" She stomped her foot for good measure.

Griselda, raising a dark, bushy eyebrow, smiled and raised her hands in mock surrender. "You want to know what it means, Ichtaca? Alright, I will tell you what it means. The wolf eats the grandmother and Red Riding Hood and is shot by the hunter, yes? That's in the fairy tales. But the wolf is another metaphor for a man, and he wants to take your basket, and before that he tries to seduce you off the trail. What it really means is a man is going to seduce you to make you give him your basket – your virtue. And then he eats you."

Paz, shocked by Griselda's tenacity, grew as red as a fresh Washington apple. Paz yelled at the girl, giving chase through the school halls so she could hit her; a smack for every vile, teasing word that came out of the Latina's crooked mouth. That little perra! Oh, how she was going to pay! As Paz chased the fleeing Griselda, graceful as a gazelle, diving through open doors and ducking under the arms of surprised schoolteachers, smells of fresh food, stale chalk, and dust from old tomes and dander alike danced around them like charreadas – a reminiscence to disappear as quickly as stale air is sucked through an open window.

The jeep had hit a deep pothole, shaking the chassis in violent tremors, sending Paz forward into Mr. Blonde's seat. Her nose smacked the leather hard, sending pain and the smell of ageing upholstery up her nose. With the snap of invisible fingers, her dream state had ended, and she was jerked back firmly into her seat.

"Ah!" she shrieked. Her hands flew to her nose. Just my luck! She whimpered, a sad mewl like a kitten.

"Are you alright?" It was Mr. Blonde. Hearing the commotion, and feeling the thump through the seat, he'd coasted the jeep to a crawl, and later to a stop. He peered over his seat at her. The edges of his mouth turned downward, pinpricks on his clean-shaven face, waiting to see if the girl needed help.

Paz rubbed her nose and nodded. She didn't meet his gaze. "Oh...I hope my nose is not broken," she sniveled. Her fingers cradled it. She winced when firecrackers of pain erupted from her nose.

Mr. Blonde, noticing her distress, reached over, but paused before her face. His pale hand hovered in front of her. "Is it alright if I...?"

"Yes." Paz raised her head a little, unlocking her fingers. She raised her head enough for him to do his inspection, but her upper face and forehead remained covered. She felt his fingers on her nose; they were surprisingly soft, not having any of the roughness of blisters or scars. He touched the ridge and felt the cartilage there, gently, careful not to offend her. His actions continued for a few minutes with exactness. His fingers were firm yet did not press against her skin too roughly. He pulled back with a smile as gentle as his touch.

"It's not broken. You just hit it hard. It might be bruised, but it'll heal in a few days," he said. Paz nodded at him, mumbled thanks, and faced the window. Mr. Blonde turned back to the steering wheel, but not before looking at Ramón. He said nothing but nodded his head as if to say he approved of his kind action. The jeep's engine roared up again. Paz cradled her nose, skimming the spots where Mr. Blonde touched previously. They tingled. The pain, strangely, was not as bad as before.

"Thank you, señor." Paz admonished herself to wear her seatbelt next time. Ramón might lecture her for the mistake, but the action would be forgotten. If none of them mentioned it, it would not be a mistake. That was his rule, and hers: it was not a mistake if it did not exist.

The jeep finally stopped after navigating through the torrential downpours – Mr. Blonde had proven to be quite the driver - in front of a ramshackle building that had seen better days. A sign in front with yellow, white and black paint showed a skull with an eye patch on one side. Below, the title Militaires Sans Frontières was emblazoned in its – former – glory.

A sound of disappointment fizzled in her throat. She had honestly expected better from all the things she'd heard about this notorious and exceptional company. But no, there were fogged windows with dust and who knew what else; sagging, drowned wood boards, with a porch ready to join the ocean that was roaring at the beach. The white foam could be seen from where she sat. She hid her disappointment. Mr. Blonde spoke again, this time to a man that was approaching from the beach. He was shirtless, but that only served to show his powerful muscles and the serpentine scar that wove around his chest. Paz was no stranger to unclothed men, but there were exceptions to the rule. She promptly leveled that thought when Mr. Blonde mentioned them to the newcomer. Paz adjusted her coat.

This is it. These are the people we must barter with. And if I can get them to do what I want, that is all the better. I will have made him proud. Cipher, I know I will make you proud.

The jeep doors opened and Paz and her comrade walked to the building, Mr. Blonde trailing behind her. Though she did not have eyes in the back of her head, Paz knew Mr. Blonde was watching her.

I do not know who you are, but know that I will not let you touch me again. I'll sew you with stones before I am done with you.

Costa Rican coffee greeted her and she took it gingerly. She had burned her lips too many times on the beverage, so she waited until it cooled a little. Back at the table, Ramón was gulping down his. The men began talking.

The water dripped from her hood to the floor. She had one ear on their conversation and the other on the droplets, to give the illusion that she, as an innocent high school girl, couldn't possibly know of the things they talked about. She would wait until she was called forward.

"No, I am not here on their behalf!" Ramón pleaded. Even though it was below him, he was close to performing the sick puppy look. "We came here all the way to see you! Please do not make us turn back after all we had sacrificed!"

Paz had to scoff under her breath.

The Conquistadores came on behalf of the King and Queen of Spain, but they weren't there for diplomacy. They stampeded their leather boots on the beaches and hacked through the jungles, and still they could not tame it. Do you think you can tame men like them? You are a fool. They'll smell you from miles away.

There was more squabbling, Ramón nearly on his knees, and then that Soviet-red hand was thrust in her direction.

"She came to me to study for peace. Her name...is Paz." There was her cue.

The red hood came down, revealing the face that had been hidden earlier. There was the wheat-blonde hair, rain drops falling from the strands like jungle leaves around a fine, narrow face with large eyes. A quiet, fragile breath escaped from her lips, adding to her innocent look. She was Little Red Riding Hood, and she was going to be undressed and appraised like a bride for sale. Snake noted her name.

It was then that Mr. Blonde introduced himself: he was Kazuhira Miller, the half-American, half-Japanese wildcat who expressed jovial surprise at the coincidence of their same names.

More like 'kamikaze', Paz noted wryly. He tried to make conversation with her by saying her name and his shared the same meaning. He offered his hand, but she did not accept it. He lowered it, caught off guard, and promptly changed the subject. The other man was the Dog of War himself – Big Boss, though he refused to take the name. He preferred his original codename: Naked Snake. The smoke from his cigar floated around him, making the entire situation seem like an L.A. Noire film. There was talk of politics. The CIA wanted Latin America. What they couldn't get by treaties they would get by force. They needed the MSF; Costa Rica was defenceless. They wanted to be in charge of their own fate.

Snake refused. He would have no part of it. He was tired of semantics like that. It wasn't proper, he said. They weren't lapdogs for political entrepreneurs. They needed to use politics, not force.

Ramón was getting frustrated, Paz could sense it. Seeing his mistake, she stepped forward. She made sure her presence, though small, would be known. She spoke with a quiet, yet determined voice:

"My name is Paz...and I will do anything to protect my namesake."

It wasn't enough. Not even the shock from the men as they saw her emaciated body: the bruised arms, the spindly legs, the sunken navel. Ramón pushed her forward, his wildcard insurance policy, as a means to seal the agreement. Even with Snake's lone blue eye widened in horror, it was not enough. As quickly as they came, they were standing in the rain again. Paz sighed.

"What will we do now? We have nothing," she said. "They turned us away, our last hope."

Ramón didn't seem affected. A smile crept onto his face, hidden in the dark. "Do not worry, dear one. They'll accept our offer...I know they will."

They stood there. The deluge continued around them, shielding them like a mourner's veil from the world.

Snake declared he would do it. He'd do it for her, the beautiful Costa Rican girl. In exchange, he'd get a new base, and Costa Rica could be saved from La Cia. All was good.

But then the discussion came of what to do with her.

"She has no place here. She needs somewhere safe to stay, and I cannot leave her alone for fear that La Cia will take her again," Ramón said, gesturing to her. "I must keep her close to me."

"We're not babysitters, and neither are you. She'll just be an open target, and if she knows things the CIA wants, then they're going to double their efforts," Snake had responded. "And you can't keep her holed up either. It wouldn't be good for her health, physical or mental."

Ramón sighed through his nose, looked down as his mug. "It was a difficult trip here from Puerto Limon. Paz was so weak. I do not think she can make the journey back."

"Columbia isn't safe, either," Snake said. "The drug cartels are setting up shop everywhere. If it's not the CIA hunting down insurgents, it's the cartels looking for blood money. And they're not above human trafficking." He growled the last part. In unsettled and untamed country, smugglers could get away with anything, including human chattel.

Paz only sat in a chair in the corner, eyes averted. It was good to dry out her clothes and not be immodest. The chill was fading from her bones. Through her peripheral vision, Miller watched her. The action seemed so natural for him.

"Perhaps you are right," Ramón conceded. "Columbia is not like Costa Rica. The latter is building an economy, the other is breeding conflict. It does make me wonder why you picked this country of all others."

Snake barely gave a shrug. "We go where we're needed. We're not aligned to any government or army."

"Yes. Nomads. You said as much. And how are these nomads going to part the sea for us?" Ramón spread his hands. "The ocean is as dangerous as the land, especially during the rainy season."

"It's November, isn't it?" Kaz piped up. "The dry season's almost here and the waters will calm down. It's a little late in the season, but it takes a few days to get to the coast. By then it should be nice."

"If all is in favour, I see no reason to stay. Though it was a waste getting here," he mumbled.

"What do you suggest then? Where's that 'University for Peace you keep talking about?'" Snake asked.

"Ciudad Colón. It still has yet to receive students, but it's the safest place for my charge," Ramón said.

Snake wasn't convinced. "But if the university is attacked by CIA militia you won't have any way of knowing whether she's alive or not. Not exactly a good recipe for 'peace', is it?"

A sardonic grin slithered across Ramón's face. "The price we all must pay if we are to end war and violence among us."

Snake grunted. He was about to retort when Miller spoke up. "Why not use the radio? If she has one, she can communicate with us anytime. She can give us daily reports and if something goes wrong, we know where she is and what we can do to help." He looked around the room. "How about it? It can't hurt anyone." Miller looked to Snake for approval. "What do you think, Boss?" When Snake did not answer after a few seconds, Miller prompted, "Boss?"

"Fine," Snake grumbled, "but don't lecture me on 'peaceful methods' when things go wrong." He noticed that his cigar was down to a stub. He grumbled in his throat.

Ramón nearly beamed. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a man of your calibre," Ramón said. "But there is one last thing..."

"What?" Snake asked. He was annoyed that his cigar was out, and two, this man was still asking him questions.

"Transportation. I cannot be seen with her. It would only arouse La Cia's suspicions. She can't make the trek on her own, and I have no way of getting her there otherwise. A boat takes too long, and anything else is too conspicuous." Ramón spread his hands. "If I can perhaps suggest –"

"I'll take her," Miller offered.

"You?" Snake asked, disbelieving. "Being a chauffeur to young teenagers, now? That's not like you."

Miller sputtered at the remark. "That's not – that's not what I meant. I'll be her escort. I'll take her to the school, give her the radio, and it'll be incognito for the both of us. If things go wrong, we can say we're brother and sister."

"Heh...funny. Are you going to imitate what's-his-face in the helicopter? James Bond?"

"Snake...," Miller almost pouted. "You know I wouldn't touch a hair on her head. Hands off, I promise. And by the way, that's Sean Connery you're thinking of."

Snaked sighed heavily. "Fine, take her. But don't take too long. We need to see if this 'Mother Base' deal is going to work out." Snake cast his lone eye on Ramón, as if daring him to oppose. Ramón was not one to show his emotions, but Paz could see a flicker of fear cross his face. If Snake could do that to him, he could do that to anyone.

I must be careful with that one.

Paz stood. She looked around at her audience. "Thank you. Especially you, Snake." Her face, now free from the hood, showcased her blonde tresses. She batted her doe-eyes and giggled. Snake spared her a glance then returned to the stub of his cigar. Miller approached her.

"So...are you ready to go? I'll try not to hit any bumpy roads this time," Miller said. He rubbed his head.

How awkward. "Yes, I am ready. Let us not waste any more time."

Miller was once again in her train and Paz felt grateful, because if Miller's watch wasn't enough to unnerve her, then Snake's was enough to crush her.

She rode shotgun in the jeep. She looked towards the horizon. Though it was near midnight, she crossed her fingers. She recited a rhyme that promised good fortune.

Red skies at night, sailor's delight. Red skies at morn, sailors be warned.

The rhyme was swallowed by the jeep's engine, the obedient creature charging forward to carry its passengers into the dark.

Notes:

- I am aware that the Incas and Aztecs are separate civilizations. However, the quote does have relevance, to which you shall see later.

- I did some extra research on the ports and towns where Paz and Ramon came from. It'd be quite a trip from there to Columbia, and for them to be sent back right away would be a hassle for both. Here, I'll give voice to those concerns.

- As MGS3 was an 'James Bond' parody, I added a reference.

- The sailor's rhyme Paz says at the end has some real scientific backing. Water vapour and dust particles, reflecting the sun's rays, indicates high pressure. In the morning, red skies mean high water pressure, indicating storm systems.

- The 'kamikaze' was a suicide attack used by Japanese fighter pilots during the Second World War. Given Kaz's Japanese background, the remark is a derogatory statement.

- In the game both Paz and Galvez work for the KGB, but it appeared that he did not know that she was in it, as evidenced by him using her as a pawn, lying to her, etc. Most KGB agents work side by side without ever knowing the other is one. For the sake of this story, both she and Galvez work for the KGB, but Galvez, truly believing her innocent, keeps things secret from her.

- At the end of the game Miller is said to have known Paz's and Galvez's true motives. For the sake of this story, I will make him suspicious of Paz, while knowing fully what Galvez is. Eventually, the truth will appear and the two will go head to head.

- The pairing, I am sure, will raise eyebrows. Eventually, I will have it so that he will know how old she really is, so that'll lower the squick factor. The pairing, and story, was inspired by Anime Borat's The Voice Beneath the Silence, particularly, the reference of Miller once loving a Costa Rican girl. I adored it, and here this is.

- For a little creativity, I have made Paz have some Aztec heritage. Though she is originally from the United States, I've made it so that she has connections to this culture.

- Griselda is an OC and she will appear later.

- Since most people have played the games or knows what happens, I won't be writing what everyone knows word for word. Since this is from Paz's perspective, it'll include her experiences, past and present, and her eventual move to Mother Base.

- As I have not written anything on this account for almost three years, all errors and mistakes, including the rustiness of the writing, are entirely my own.

- One more thing: I cannot stand Tara Strong as Paz. She hurts my ears and she slips in and out of the accent. For your pleasure, Paz will be 'voiced' by Alice Braga.

Translations:

Perra - bitch

Mar Pacifico - Peaceful sea. It is the Spanish and Portuguese name.

Charreadas - Mexican rodeo.

Ichtaca - A feminine Aztec name meaning 'secret'.