Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Day 0

The call came in the middle of the night—not itself unusual in the world of espionage, but Ocelot knew something was wrong when the operator asked, in deadpan, monotonous Russian, whether he would accept a collect call from Costa Rica. 

Only one person ever called him from Costa Rica, but never unannounced and certainly never collect. Ocelot blearily agreed to pay the charges, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. The operator connected him with a wordless click. 

Several seconds passed in silence before a low voice on the other end of the line informed Ocelot that there’d been an accident. The caller sounded shaken, his voice husky and distant. Ocelot was slow to understand, still lost in the haze of an interrupted dream, until the caller simply said:

“Snake, uh. Might not make it.”

Ocelot was at the airport within an hour, boarding a flight for Costa Rica in two. Finding a flight out of Moscow at such short notice should have been an impossible task, but money was no object. The kind of power and notoriety that came from owning the Philosopher’s Legacy often opened more doors for Ocelot than the money itself: simply mention a certain piece of microfilm and a nonstop ticket to San José instantly appeared in your hand, no questions asked.

He spent the twenty-two-hour flight in sleepless agony. Hunched forward in his seat, he twisted his gloved hands together into various contortions before setting into something resembling prayer. Someone in the cabin smoked a cigar, but its stench was unfamiliar; it wasn’t Snake’s brand of choice. Ocelot nearly choked on the fumes, sickened by the mimicry of something so close to comfort but just slightly wrong. 

At one point he rose to use the lavatory and spent several minutes leaning over the tiny metal sink, stoically examining his own face in the mirror. Every line and valley appeared more pronounced in the feeble light. Combing one hand through his hair, still as close-cropped as in his Spetsnaz days, he almost failed to notice the single strand of hair losing color at its root. Grey against blond—nearly invisible. 

Day 1

By the time Ocelot arrived at the hospital in Costa Rica, he'd gone nearly thirty hours without sleep. Snake's spacious room was awash with activity, full of concerned visitors and bustling nurses, but Ocelot pushed through the crowd without a second thought and came to rest at Snake's bedside.

He first noticed the beeping—slow and methodical, which he assumed was a good sign. Next was the breathing, the unmistakable rise and fall of Snake's chest beneath the clean white linens. Ocelot felt his tension give way as he dropped to one knee, exhausted, and knelt next to Snake's sleeping form. Without thinking he grabbed Snake's hand between his own, giving silent thanks for its usual ruddy color and warmth, feeling its heat even through the thickness of his leather gloves. Snake remained perfectly still, not even stirring when Ocelot gently kissed the back of his hand.

“Don’t you ever scare me like that again, you asshole,” Ocelot hissed. He held Snake’s palm to his face, pressing it against his cheek with the force of a future bruise, and closed his eyes.

After several minutes, Ocelot felt a polite but firm tap on his shoulder. He jumped up and dropped Snake's hand, turning around to see that one of the nurses had been standing behind him. Watching him. Before he could stammer out an explanation, the nurse smiled wearily.

"You arrived at the perfect time," she said, speaking to Ocelot in Spanish. "He just got out of surgery a few hours ago. Normally we wouldn't allow visitors while a patient is still in recovery, but we understand that he is… a very special person to so many people." Her voice was tired but kind, and even held a hint of amusement at the mention of Snake's evident popularity.

Ocelot nodded, his face reddening.

"He's stable, at least. Other than some major broken bones and internal trauma, he seems to be okay. Our main concern is that he might have sustained a head injury, so we've placed him in a coma to reduce any potential cranial swelling." She gestured towards the myriad of tubes and wires emerging from Snake's inert body. Ocelot somehow hadn't noticed the equipment until now, but he was suddenly struck by how small Snake seemed against the backdrop of screens and contraptions, less man than machine.

"A coma? Will he… be okay?" Ocelot asked haltingly. He hadn't spoken Spanish in some time, but his hesitant tongue was the result of unease rather than forgetfulness. 

The nurse nodded. "Don't worry. It's just a cautionary measure. He'll be up and awake very soon." She turned to face another hospital bed across the room, which Ocelot had also overlooked in his initial frenzy. "Your friend is lucky. That man over there jumped in front of the blast. Absorbed most of the damage, and took most of the injuries. Poor guy lost his left arm below the elbow." She grew serious and shook her head sadly. "I think he's a medic, too. Went above and beyond in the line of duty. We'd all like to believe we'd do the same thing for a patient, but how many of us really would?"

"Most people never have to."

"And I'm very thankful for that." The nurse looked Ocelot up and down, taking in his disheveled clothes and wild eyes and simply stated: "You should try to get some sleep."

"You're probably right," Ocelot said. "And thank you for taking care of my… friend."

"Of course. If you need a place to rest, we have some chairs set up over there. Not the most comfortable, to tell you the truth, but better than nothing."

There was a row of metal chairs in one corner of the room, all of them empty but for one man with a blond pompadour who sat slumped against the wall—he seemed asleep, but it was impossible to tell behind his dark sunglasses. Ocelot finally felt the weight of the previous hours settling over him, so heavy he thought he might collapse. Sheer anxiety had propelled him for the last day and a half, but the relief of seeing Snake in stable condition had stripped away any remaining adrenaline.

As Ocelot staggered towards the chairs, he couldn't help but glance at the man in the other hospital bed. Nobody was paying the medic any attention, despite his current state, instead focusing their efforts on the room's VIP and leaving this nameless man to suffer alone. His injuries were numerous and evident: a face full of stitches, several pieces of shrapnel lodged in his head, and a web of gauze wrapped over one eye—oddly enough, the same eye that Snake had lost all those years ago in a certain unmentioned incident. Unlike Snake, whose rest was unnaturally serene, the unconscious medic seemed to wince in pain. Ocelot gave silent thanks to this hero who saved Snake's life before turning away, leaving the medic ignored once more.

Ocelot eased himself into a vacant seat, unwrapping the scarf around his neck and wadding it up against his neck as a makeshift pillow. He surveyed the room and took stock of the various soldiers and civilians milling about. Even amidst the hubbub, he could feel himself fading into the recesses of sleep. The last thing Ocelot recalled before losing consciousness was a tall figure standing by the door: an older gentleman dressed in a turtleneck and glasses, his hairline receding and grey, so pale he seemed to flicker against the faded hospital walls.

Chapter Text

Day 2

The dream hit him all at once: he was young again, prowling the grounds of Grozynj Grad, armed with a shiny new revolver on each hip. The sky hung low and grey. Even after a decade of faded memories, Ocelot easily found his way to Volgin’s interrogation chamber. He straightened his beret, smoothed the folds of his jacket, and pushed open the heavy steel door. 

In the cell he found Snake, alone, his arms restrained by a set of shackles descending from the ceiling.

“Hey, Ocelot!” Snake grinned at the sight of his new visitor. “You finally came to see me.”

Ocelot froze. Snake’s face was softer, rounder, erased of the last ten years’ worth of injuries. The corners of his eyes crinkled warmly—even his right eye, which was immaculately blue and unobstructed by its usual patch. Ocelot suddenly remembered what was about to happen.

“Snake, we’ve got to get you out of here before Volgin comes back.” Ocelot looked around frantically for a way to release Snake’s restraints, some kind of lever or switch. “I know what he’s going to do to you, and we don’t have much time to stop it.”

Snake shook his head. “You can’t change what’s already happened.” He said this agreeably, without any hint of remorse.

“But it hasn’t happened yet!” Ocelot lunged forward and grabbed Snake by the shoulders, shaking him slightly with each ragged word. “Your eye, it’s still intact! If we can just leave before Volgin finds you—”

“It doesn’t matter. We both know exactly how this goes.” Snake shrugged beneath Ocelot’s grip. “And besides, Volgin’s not the one to take my eye out. It’s you, Adamska.”

Ocelot’s heart sank.

Snake slipped one of his hands out of the shackles, with all the ease of a magician performing a trick, and removed the revolver from Ocelot’s left holster. He held out the gun like an offering, gripping it by its long silver barrel. 

“Go on,” Snake said, motioning for Ocelot to accept his gift. “Don’t keep me waiting.”

“John…”

“No hard feelings. Just make it quick.”

Ocelot took the revolver and felt its weight turn over in his hand. Snake nodded approvingly. 

The chamber reeked of blood and gunpowder. Ocelot realized three things at once: first, that this was a dream; second, that he’d never noticed smells in a dream before; and third, that the room’s stench was exactly the same as it had been on that fateful day. 

Ocelot trembled as he took aim and whispered, “I’m sorry, John.” 

---

He awoke with a jolt, scrambling for purchase in the chintzy hospital chair but finding none. The sickly fluorescent lights overhead gave no clue to the time of day. How long had he been out?

Judging by the ache in his lower back, probably a good while. Ocelot was too tall to sleep like this. Even when he tried to make himself as small as possible, his elbows still jutted painfully to the sides and his legs splayed out beneath him, sending his spurs squeaking against the bleached linoleum floors. 

Ocelot hauled himself to his feet, picking up the scarf that had fallen to the floor and dusting it off before wrapping it neatly around his neck once again. Out of habit he patted his hips to ensure that his revolvers were still in place (they were unloaded, of course; not even Ocelot would bring a live firearm into a hospital) and breathed a sigh of relief at the heft of metal in each holster. Just in case.

On his way out of the room he glanced at Snake’s inert body, feeling both horror and comfort at the sight of a familiar eyepatch, before slinking off to find the cafeteria. 

Day 5

Snake was still asleep. Not sleeping, exactly, but it was a suitable euphemism for his unconscious state. Ocelot refrained from using the clinical term, comatose, taking care to sidestep the gravity of the situation as doctors puttered about with their clipboards full of notes and charts. Any minute now, they said, he should be coming around soon.

The medic, on the other hand, was awake but not quite conscious, lurking just beneath the surface of pharmaceutical twilight. Any attempts to communicate with him were met with a glassy one-eyed stare. Sometimes, as Ocelot slowly paced the length of the room, he swore the medic's gaze seemed to follow him like the shadow trailing a sundial.

Day 9

Most of Snake’s visitors had cleared out, their numbers dwindling with his diminishing prognosis, but the man with the sunglasses and pompadour was still a regular fixture among the hospital personnel. Ocelot finally took the time to properly introduce himself one night; they were milling about in the hallway together after the nurses had kicked them out for scheduled cleaning and maintenance, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. By the third time they had accidentally made eye contact, Ocelot broke the ice.

“I’ve seen you around, but I don’t think we’ve formally met,” he said, holding out his right hand. “Most people call me Ocelot. Snake and I go way back.”

The man snorted. “Ocelot. That’s funny. I think Snake mentioned you once or twice.” He took Ocelot’s hand in his own and shook it once, firmly, before folding his arms across his chest. “Kazuhira Miller. MSF’s commanding officer.”

“Ah, so you’re the Miller I’ve heard so much about. Former enemy combatant turned right-hand man, no?” 

“Hmph. I see you’ve done your research.” The overhead lights flashed against Kaz’s sunglasses as he angled his head back, staring down Ocelot from atop the bridge of his nose. “And how do you know Snake?”

“Funny story, actually—pretty much the same way as you. We started out on opposing sides... but with Snake, things have a habit of falling into place.”

Kaz nodded noncommittally. “Right.”

They lapsed into cold silence. Ocelot tried and failed to hold his judgement, and caught himself assessing Kaz, taking inventory: perfectly coiffed hair, sleeves rolled up to his biceps, a flashy silver wristwatch... those fucking sunglasses, even indoors and at night. But as much as he wanted to pretend otherwise, Ocelot could understand what Snake saw in a man like Kaz. He was broad-shouldered, assertive, and spoke strongly. He stood with his feet planted firmly beneath him, just daring anyone to try taking him down. He was even, in a word, handsome, a caricature of a model in a certain type of men’s magazine. Something resentful ignited at the pit of Ocelot’s stomach and began to simmer.

Kaz was apparently subjecting Ocelot to a similar level scrutiny, because he cut through the temporary quiet with an interjection of “So, what is that you actually do?”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking.”

“I mean, like, are you one of Snake’s henchmen? Do you work for him or something?”

Ocelot sniffed. “You could say that. I do belong to Snake, but I work for myself.” 

“And what does that mean?”

“I’m an independent agent. Mostly espionage, intelligence, a little interrogation.”

“Ah,” Kaz said. “So you’re a spy.”

“Not how I’d personally describe my line of work,” Ocelot bristled, “but I suppose you might call it that.”

“My real question, then. When all of this happened”—here Kaz gestured with one arm towards the door to Snake’s room—”where the fuck were you?”

“Excuse me?”

Kaz’s voice dropped, growing quieter and deeper, like a storm gathering force. “You weren’t there. You didn’t do anything to stop it. But shouldn’t you have known what was coming, what with all of your intelligence and your connections?”

“That’s not how these things work. And besides,” Ocelot said through clenched teeth, “if I had been able to save him, don’t you think I would have?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know what your motivations are. I don’t know what your relationship with Snake is like, or how deep your commitment to him runs.”

“That’s right. You don’t know the depth of my commitment to Snake. And I’m not sure you ever will.” 

Ocelot turned and stormed off down the hallway, heading nowhere in particular. His footsteps rang hollow through the empty halls.

Day 14

The nurses huddled around Snake’s bedside, whispering and comparing charts. Ocelot tried not to listen, but he picked up some snippets about the meager recovery chances of coma patients: 7% after only three days in a vegetative state, a pitiful 2% after fourteen. 

Snake had never been one to care much about the odds.

Day 22

Ocelot hadn’t left the hospital in several days, not even daring to make the trip to his nearby hotel room for a shave and a change of clothes. The gravitational pull was too strong, like he needed to be there, that something would happen if he stepped away for even a moment. So he wandered the halls night after night, rough and ragged and mostly sleepless. 

He also needed a haircut. Having a bit of stubble was nice—sometimes he’d run one hand up against the side of his own unshaven face, finding a soothing familiarity in the feel of whiskers against his skin—but Ocelot’s hair had never gotten this long before, and it bothered him. Sure, he didn’t maintain the standard issue Spetsnaz high-and-tight look anymore, but a man had to have some standards. 

A bit of quick scouting led him to a helpful receptionist, who handed over a set of kitchen shears in exchange for a vending machine soda and a copy of today’s newspaper. She whispered to Ocelot that this was the same pair of scissors the nurses used when they needed to trim the hair of coma patients. Not the finest tool, but it would do in a pinch. 

Ocelot ducked into the men’s room of one of the less-busy wards and draped his scarf around himself like a hairdresser’s cape. He teetered over the edge of the sink, turning his head this way and that, mimicking cutting motions in the air above his head as he planned his angle of attack. The lights flickered overhead, fracturing Ocelot’s reflection into little shockwaves. He noticed a few more grey hairs and frowned thoughtfully. 

Right as Ocelot was about to make the first snip, an older gentleman emerged from one of the toilet stalls.

“Oh, shit!” Ocelot yelped. He turned around and brandished the scissors in front of him like a dagger. “When did you get in here?”

The gentleman held up a hand in surrender. “No need to be alarmed, kotenok. You can put down the scissors.”

Ocelot’s ears pricked up at the Russian diminutive: little cat. A bit odd, but Ocelot was the one pointing dull kitchen shears at a stranger in a public restroom. He lowered his weapon sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” Ocelot said. “I thought I was alone. I checked for any feet under the stall doors, but I guess I didn’t notice you were here. You gave me a scare.”

The man smiled wanly. “You are not the first to be frightened by my presence. However, I mean you no harm.” 

“That’s a relief.” Ocelot turned to face the mirror and raised his scissors once more, this time taking aim at his own shaggy head. The strange man’s reflection was a tad hazier than the rest of his surroundings—certainly an effect of this faulty lighting.

“A haircut,” the gentleman mused. “Your hair is getting rather long.”

“See, that’s what I thought. It looks awful like this, going halfway down my face. You either need to commit to keeping it short,” he rambled, “or take the plunge and just grow the damn thing out. But I’m not ready for that yet. Maybe one day.”

The gentleman nodded. “Yes. I think long hair would suit you. Perhaps when you’re a bit older, like me.”

Ocelot squinted at the man’s reflection, trying to piece together a clearer picture of him. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and a simple black turtleneck. His own hair was whispy and grey, with a far-receding hairline, cascading down his neck in thin tufts. 

I hope my hair won’t end up like that, Ocelot thought. 

“Oh, it will,” the gentleman said, not unkindly. “But it’s not so bad.”

Had he accidentally said that out loud? “My apologies,” Ocelot stammered, “that wasn’t meant to be an insult.”

“I take no offense. Some vanity is to be expected, especially among the young... and the living.”

This guy was weird, standing motionless behind Ocelot and prattling about complete nonsense, but at least he seemed nice enough. Ocelot caught his eye in the mirror—a friendly yet piercing gaze, with irises so blue they were nearly white—and laughed nervously. 

“Right,” he said. “Ah, sorry—am I in your way? Do you want to use the sink?” Ocelot stepped aside and ushered the man towards the tap.

“That is not why I’m here.” The man’s voice suddenly grew grave. “Listen to me: something regrettable is about to transpire. You will not be able to stop it, but it will not be your fault.”

“What?” Ocelot whipped his head around, but the odd gentlemen had vanished. He blinked to himself and tried to count back the hours to the last time he’d slept. He quickly gave himself a barely-passable haircut, returned the scissors to the nice receptionist, and went to go lie down.

Day 23

The dream was pleasantly sunny and tropical, a welcome vacation from the artificial coldness of the hospital. A gentle breeze ruffled the palm trees adorning this secluded beach. More smells: this time the lightness of ocean foam mixed with the earthy decay of seaweed washed ashore. 

Snake was there, too, his bulky physique offset by a pair of comically tiny swim trunks. He grinned and struck a pose. Even though only one eye was visible, Ocelot could tell when Snake was winking at him.

“Nice day, huh?” Snake said.

“It’s almost over. But I don’t mind,” Ocelot added. “The sunsets here are so pretty.”

Snake sauntered over and placed one hand on the small of Ocelot’s back and another on his chin, resting his thumb delicately over Ocelot’s lower lip. “Sure,” he murmured, “but there’s something I like to look at more than any old sunset.” 

Before Ocelot could think of a suitable retort, Snake dipped Ocelot backwards towards the fine golden sand. He removed Ocelot’s sunglasses and—

Hold on. His sunglasses?

Ocelot held up his left arm and noticed, with dawning horror, a silver wristwatch wrapped around his very muscular forearm. 

There was no time to react. Snake went in for the kiss and Ocelot enjoyed it very much, despite himself. 

---

He awoke to the sound of a muffled explosion several floors below. The dream dissipated in an instant; Ocelot was already on his feet before he had time to dwell on it further. As he raced down the flights of stairs, Ocelot chambered six bullets into each of his revolvers and held them at the ready.

Smoke filled the hospital lobby and settled like a fine layer of dust upon the groaning hospital staff, who were holding their heads in incredulous pain and helping startled patients back to their feet. Shattered glass crunched underfoot. Ocelot darted through the debris and pushed through the front doors. 

A woman lay slumped on the ground, facedown against the concrete sidewalk, blood pooling out from under her torso. She wore the uniform of a hospital orderly. A few meters away sat a smoldering pile of tangled metal and wires—a pipe bomb?

“We need help out here!” Ocelot hollered. “Someone’s hurt!” He put away his guns and knelt down beside the injured woman, too afraid to try moving her but still attempting to check her condition. Her pulse thrummed faintly against Ocelot’s gloved fingers.

“Ma’am,” he said, “can you hear me? Are you alright?”

The woman groaned softly and turned her head to face him. “It was… a package…. I went to sign it, f-from the mailman....”

“Don’t try to move. Help is on the way.”

“But I heard.. i-it was ticking… I threw it as far away as I could and ran”—she gasped for air—”but it exploded before I could make it inside….”

A pair of nurses ran out with a stretcher. Ocelot followed them as they carried the injured woman safely back into the hospital. The lobby had devolved into utter chaos: some patients were trying to flee, tripping over tubes and equipment as their panicked nurses attempted to restrain them, while others barricaded themselves behind overturned furniture.

Ocelot sidestepped the pandemonium and trudged back up the stairs to Snake’s floor. On his way up he nearly collided with Kaz in the stairwell, who was storming down the steps two at a time.

“Oh! Miller. It’s crazy down there right now,” Ocelot said. “I’d wait if I were you.”

“Nah.” Kaz shook his head. “That’s it. I’m getting out of here for good. Call me if he ever wakes up.”

“What? Where are you going?”

Kaz shrugged. “I thought we were safe. But trouble always follows Snake, and next it’s gonna be me.” He pointed up the stairs, towards Snake’s room. “I’m not going to end up on laid out a gurney like that medic, taking another bullet for Snake. I’m out.” Kaz continued on his warpath and made it down to the next landing before Ocelot called out:

“See you around, I guess.”

Back in Snake’s room, little much had changed. Apparently not even a pipe bomb could rouse Snake from his slumber. The medic, however, was wailing quietly to himself until a nurse injected a syringeful of clear liquid into his IV. A ghastly quiet fell over the room.

Day 24

The friendly receptionist flagged down Ocelot and said that a man from England had been calling the front desk all day, asking to speak to someone with the name of a jungle cat. Could this, by any chance, be him?

It was Zero calling, of course. The dear old man was never far behind on the heels of disaster. Ocelot thanked the receptionist and took the phone, speaking with one hand cupped discreetly around the receiver.

“What do you want?”

“Ocelot, my boy! I heard all about what happened.” Zero paused. “Quite a shame. Now tell me, do you speak any Greek?”

“Little to none,” Ocelot said. “Why?”

“Then I suggest you pick up a Pimsleur tape or two. You’re going to Cyprus.”

“Really.” It was a statement, not a question. Ocelot knew better than to openly challenge Zero’s will.

“Too many people know Snake’s current whereabouts. He’s not safe in Costa Rica any longer.”

“Obviously not.” Ocelot paused and looked around for any potential eavesdroppers before asking: “But why Cyprus, of all places? I’d expect somewhere else.”

“That’s precisely why Cyprus is perfect. Nobody is going to come looking for Snake there,” Zero explained. “We’ll keep it all under wraps. I found a lovely hospital for him, and money is no object, what with the Legacy and all.”

“Right.” Ocelot nodded absently into the receiver. He thought to himself that Cyprus was just close enough to England to remain under Zero’s watchful eye. “Do you have any idea who was behind the hospital attack?”

“Not definitively, but I have my suspicions.” Zero cleared his throat. “It’s not just Snake, you know. People are coming after me as well.”

“I wouldn’t exactly say you’ve made a lot of friends over the years. Or even kept many of your existing ones, for that matter.”

“Very funny, Ocelot. I’m sure you’ll appreciate the gravity of this situation soon enough.” Zero bristled audibly, but Ocelot was an expert at pushing his buttons without going too far. “Most of the arrangements have already been made, but I’ll let you know when we’re all set to execute the plan. A plane should be coming to collect you in the next few days.”

“Understood.”

“And one more thing,” Zero added curtly. “Be sure to bring the medic, too. I have plans for him.”

Day 27

They rode to the airfield in an unmarked white van. Zero had repurposed a military aircraft and turned its interior into a makeshift hospital: it was bursting with state-of-the-art medical equipment and staffed with a private nurse, but only had two beds. 

Ocelot helped load Snake and the medic out of the van and into the plane. Ever since the pipe bomb incident, the medic had to be kept sedated or else he'd become increasingly agitated, wordlessly crying out to anyone in his proximity. But even beneath the swirl of narcotics, Ocelot could spot a flash of recognition in the medic's eyes as he was carried into the plane.

The twenty-hour flight passed uneventfully. Ocelot spent most of it on his feet, pacing the plane's interior or nervously checking Snake's vitals. The nurse explained over the roar of the engine how to read an EKG monitor, demonstrated the best way to replace an IV bag, and gently looked the other way when Ocelot held Snake's hand.

Chapter Text

Day 32

Stripped away of their minor details, nearly all hospitals are identical at heart: the physicians marching briskly from room to room, the recycled air, the perpetual sting of antiseptic. The hospital in Cyprus was no different; its only defining feature was the steady stream of armed guards that dutifully patrolled its halls.

Zero had conveniently omitted that his location of choice was technically part of a British sovereign base. Ocelot shouldn’t have been surprised. He could run as far as he wanted, but Zero would always find a way to crush him under the Union Jack’s ever-reaching thumb. 

Despite his annoyance, Ocelot did have to admit that he felt more at home in a military hospital than in the civilian facility back in Costa Rica—living among the Brits was almost tolerable if it meant he could carry his revolvers with impunity. Plus, thanks to Zero’s influence, Snake and the medic now had their own private wing. It was really just one room, two identical beds separated by a thin blue curtain, but their barracks were discreetly tucked away behind a labyrinth of winding corridors to keep out any wandering Minotaurs.

Less discreet were the soldiers who kept watch at all hours of the day. They flanked the entrance to Snake’s room with rifles in hand, each pair of men identical in expression in and attire, standing as famously stoic as the guards at Buckingham Palace.

Unlike the redcoats shipped in from dear old Blighty, most of the hospital’s medical personnel were Cypriot civilians who spoke little English. The language barrier presented a bit of a challenge since Ocelot’s Greek was about as elegant as a kindergartner’s. His weak attempts to speak with the nurses were met with uncomprehending smiles, their faces seeped in pity for these two comatose men and their ragged-eyed companion with pitiful language skills. 

Still, all things considered, Ocelot preferred their company to that of the Brits.

Snake remained oblivious to his new surroundings, his slumber undisturbed by the relocation. Ocelot still held onto a naive hope that any hour, any minute, Snake might wake up as if this had all been a bad dream, snapping to attention without so much as a yawn. But if the commotion of a transatlantic flight hadn’t roused him, it was hard to imagine what could.

The medic was also out cold. There was no reason to keep him so heavily sedated after the stress of transport had already passed, yet the nurses continued to administer vial after vial of anesthetic, tipping their loaded syringes into his IV at unceasing intervals. Ocelot couldn’t ask why—the vocabulary for such questions was still far beyond his ken—so he resigned himself to eavesdropping on their conversations and picking out what few words he understood. Though most of the talk was too complex for him, Ocelot caught wind of some snippets here and there and was glad that he’d just mastered simple numbers, for the nurses often whispered of zero, zero, zero. 

Day 35

A group of soldiers armed with power tools in lieu of their typical rifles came marching through Snake’s wing to install a private phone line just down the hall. An unexpected development, but Ocelot knew instinctively that the whole thing was Zero’s doing. The old man was probably too paranoid to keep talking over unsecured channels—he'd always been too fond of the James Bond schtick for his own good. 

It only took the soldiers half an hour to finish mounting the phone to a nearby wall. The first call came almost immediately, as if on cue, its newfound trill echoing throughout the deserted corridor.

Ocelot poked his head outside to investigate the noise. The hallway was empty, save for the usual pair of guards, their poise unbroken by the disturbance. He didn’t suppose either of them intended to answer it. Ocelot trudged over, sidestepping a fresh pile of sawdust as he lifted the shiny red phone from its cradle.

He sighed. “Hello?”

“Ocelot, my boy!” It was Zero on the other line—not surprising in itself, but his words quavered with uncharacteristic enthusiasm. “Tell me, how are you liking Cyprus?”

“Oh, it’s just lovely,” Ocelot intoned. “This Mediterranean air works wonders. Been spending all my time lounging by the seaside.” Actually, he hadn’t gone outside in days. As he stared upwards at the crumbling plaster ceiling, Ocelot wasn’t entirely sure whether it was day or night; it made no difference in a place like this.

Zero seemed oblivious to Ocelot’s sarcasm and continued on, his cheery affect no worse for the wear. “Glad to hear it. And I can see you’ve found your way to the new telephone.”

“Yes. Very generous of you.”

“Of course. No expense spared in times like these. I just thought I’d give you a ring and see how everything’s coming along.” 

“There’s not much to report. Snake is still, uh, unresponsive.” Ocelot said. ”The medic is too, believe it or not. I figured he’d be awake by now, but the nurses keep sedating him before he has a chance to come around. Not sure why.”

“Actually, about that." Zero paused. "There’s something we need to discuss.”

“What’s going on?” Ocelot shifted uncomfortably, wedging the phone’s receiver between his shoulder and ear. “Should I be worried?”

“No, not at all. Just the opposite. I’ve come up with a plan that'll solve several of our problems in one fell swoop.”

“And what exactly would that be?”

“Well.” The warmth in Zero's voice abruptly gave way to an icy chill. “Our friend the medic is about to become very useful to us.”

“I'm not sure I follow."

"After everything that's happened, he's in quite a predicament. No chance of returning to his old life. Tragic, to say the least, but there's no point in dwelling on it. But we can give him a fresh start. He'll make an excellent decoy."

"A... decoy?" Ocelot wasn't sure where this was going, but he already didn't like the sound of it. 

"You know what I'm getting at. A distraction. A body double. A new Big Boss."

Ocelot’s response was immediate, almost reflexive: "No. Absolutely not."

"The whole thing sounds impossible, I know.” Zero laughed mirthlessly. “But Dr. Clark said it can be done. We’ll turn him into an exact copy of Snake, down to the last detail."

"That's not what I mean. I don't care if it's possible or not. It's just wrong."

"Don't be so closed-minded, Ocelot. This is all for Snake's benefit, you know. He clearly has enemies coming after him—need I remind you of how he ended up like this in the first place—but if we manage to draw their fire elsewhere, onto another target, we could avoid a repeat of this unfortunate incident. I'd expect you to be on board with the idea. And besides," Zero added, "it's too late to turn back now. We've already started the first phase of the project. The medic's being primed for hypnosis therapy as we speak."

"You did what?! Without consulting me first?!”

“I wasn’t trying to go behind your back, honestly, but our window of opportunity was rapidly closing,” Zero explaned. “I assumed that you’d agree to the whole thing once we got you up to speed.”

Ocelot wordlessly inspected the stitching on his left glove. Its seam was starting to fray at the wrist, the threads unfurling into a loose bundle of wiry strands that threatened to fall apart at a moment’s notice.

Ten seconds passed in bitter silence before Zero began again with a sigh. “I'm sorry, Ocelot. We had to strike while the iron was hot. The medic’s mind hasn’t fully returned to him yet—he’s still pliable, open to suggestion. But if we wait any longer, it’ll be that much harder to mold him into our chosen image. The time to act is now.”

“So you’re putting him back into a coma?”

“Not a coma, exactly. It’s more like a semi-conscious state."

"And what does that entail?"

"It means he’ll be receptive to hypnotherapy and may even react to certain stimuli, but he won’t be able to move or speak of his own free will."

"Ah, so he'll be perfect test subject for your little experiment," Ocelot remarked curtly.

Zero ignored him and kept talking. "More importantly, he won't even remember a thing once this is all over. His only memories will be the ones we've hand-picked for him, retellings of events in Snake's life. We’ll also have to alter his appearance to match, but that’s a trivial matter by comparison—nothing a few surgeries can’t fix. As far as anyone’s concerned, he’ll be indistinguishable from the real Big Boss.”

“You can give him as much plastic surgery as you want,” Ocelot pointed out, “but the poor bastard’s still missing a hand.”

Zero was unfazed. "State-of-the-art military prosthetics should do the trick. Better than the real thing.”

“Jesus, Zero.” Ocelot shook his head into the phone. “You and Dr. Clark may have gone too far in the past... but this is a new low, even for you.” 

“I’m surprised you’re so hung up on the fate of one nameless medic,” Zero scoffed. “It’s not like you to be sentimental about these things.”

Ocelot quietly seethed at this judgment, but it was true—he'd never cared much about incurring some collateral damage in the pursuit of his goals. This medic was hardly more than a stranger to him; Ocelot had done far worse things to much closer acquaintances. But there was something different about this. It felt wrong to take advantage of a stranger whose pain you knew so intimately, someone who'd sacrificed everything to protect the same man whose life you valued above your own.

And it wasn’t just out of sympathy for the medic. Ocelot still hadn’t forgiven Zero for Les Enfants Terrible and its ensuing fallout, and neither had Snake. It was hard to believe that Zero was truly acting in Snake’s best interests, especially after their previous schism, but Ocelot couldn’t come out and say so. Not if he wanted to remain in Zero’s good graces.  

Pledging his loyalty to Zero (with his fingers crossed behind his back) had been the only way for Ocelot to keep Zero from meddling too closely in Snake’s affairs, and for a while it seemed to work. But now that Snake was incapacitated, the balance had shifted decisively in Zero’s favor. With a single word Zero could revoke his support, withhold medical care, and cut Snake off from the endless buying power of the Philosophers’ Legacy. 

Ocelot had no choice.

“Look.” He chose his words carefully. “I have some reservations about the whole thing, and I won’t pretend otherwise. But if it’s for Snake, then I suppose I can go along with your plan. For now. Just promise me there won’t be any more surprises.”

“No more surprises. You have my word."

Zero’s word was worth about as much as his namesake, but it would have to do.

Ocelot rubbed his eyes wearily. “Who else knows about this?”

“So far it’s just you, me, and Dr. Clark. The hospital staff are already acting on my orders, but they don’t know the reason behind it. I’ll eventually confide in a few of the head physicians and explain everything in more detail—once they’ve earned my trust, of course.”

“And the doctors and nurses are just going along with everything? No objections? Doesn’t strike me as particularly Hippocratic... 'do no harm' and all of that.”

Zero scoffed. “Who says he’s being harmed? I think the transformation will suit him quite nicely. We’d all like to be Big Boss for a day, and he gets to do it for the rest of his life.”

“Oh, is that what you've been telling them?” 

“No, don’t be ridiculous. But if you wield a certain level of influence, people will do whatever you ask of them, no questions or complaints.”

So Zero paid off the doctors. Go figure. “If you say so.”

“This is all for the best, you’ll see. I’m counting on your help to make it happen.”

“Yes, sir,” Ocelot drawled. 

“And one more thing.” Zero paused. “I trust that you won’t discuss these matters with anyone else, at least until further notice. But I especially ask that you do not share any of this with Kazuhira Miller.”

And with that, Zero hung up, leaving Ocelot alone in dead air.

Day 39

Ocelot paced back and forth at the medic’s bedside as he read Dr. Clark’s note for the dozenth time, his steps ringing out in time with the EKG’s readout, folding and unfolding the paper in his hands until its carefully-typed instructions were hardly visible between the creases. He’d nearly memorized the note line for line, but Ocelot read it through again and again, each word still landing with full force.

The note read as follows:

“Phase One: Gradually ease subject into long-term hypnogogic state through the use of intravenous sedatives. Please consult the attached document for guidelines on dosage and administration. Vitals must be monitored throughout to ensure that subject’s condition remains stable as sedative levels increase.

“Phase Two: Once full dosage has been reached, hold sedative levels constant for five days. During this time, place subject under period of observation to determine whether current state is conducive to hypnotherapy regimen; adjust dosage as needed, taking care to taper slowly. Pending success, continue to next phase.

“Phase Three: Begin immersive hypnotherapy by exposing subject to a series of pre-recorded cassette tapes at regular intervals. Each tape designed to modify the mental state, memories, and self-identity of subject to match those of the target individual (known as “Big Boss”). These tapes begin as thirty-second loops of spoken information, played continuously through headphones in six-hour intervals, followed by a two-hour rest period to maximize subject’s retention of information and re-open window of suggestibility. Over time, each tape loop is increased to three-minute snippets to accomplish more complex topics. Consult the attached list of tapes for more details on intervals and listening order. Additional cassette tapes will be sent as needed.

“Phase Four: Await further instructions.”

The note was signed by hand: Dr. Clark, each letter of her name written in perfect cursive script. Such a formal title. Ocelot remembered the old days when she'd gone by Para-Medic, when her motivations had been to help Snake rather than to use him for Zero's ends, but she'd lost both the title and Snake's trust many years ago.

Dr. Clark wasn’t the only one with a new alias. Her test subject, the medic with no name, had been christened Venom Snake to distinguish him from the genuine Naked Snake. The title was Zero’s idea, of course; he had an almost boyish enthusiasm for codenames. The moniker was perversely appropriate, in some ways—a nod to this more lethal reincarnation of Big Boss, a finely-cultivated war machine, his essence transferred through injury.

Venom had just entered the third phase of Dr. Clark's plan. He lay motionless beneath the crisscrossed tubes and wires, yet his brow glistened with the sweat of exertion, a captive beast fighting to cast off its chains. A nurse came around to check his vitals, pressing two fingers against Venom’s neck to corroborate his EKG’s readout before carefully readjusting one of the earbuds that had fallen out of his ear. A cassette player dangled precariously from a nearby IV stand, held aloft by a series of cords, its form nearly camouflaged amidst the backdrop of medical equipment.

Ocelot glanced at the clock: five til. The nurse left right on schedule. She’d be back again in fifteen minutes once she finished making her other rounds, but for now Ocelot was left unsupervised with the two Snakes. 

All of the nurses here were nice enough to him, language barrier notwithstanding—he was still working on those Pimsleur tapes—but Ocelot knew that they reported everything back to Zero. Good intentions or no, they were liable to snitch. Any deviation from this whole facade had to take place alone and in secret. 

So when the nurse stepped out, Ocelot seized his opportunity. He rushed over to Venom’s bedside, carefully untangled one of the earbuds, and held it up to his own ear. 

It took a moment for the audio to come into focus. 

“...who ever lived. Your name is John,” recited a woman’s voice—Ocelot instantly recognized it as Dr. Clark’s cool and methodical tone. “Your codename is Snake, but your friends call you Big Boss. You are a soldier, and you love to fight.” She enunciated each word carefully, with the cadence of a teacher reading a storybook aloud to her students. “Many years ago, you surpassed the level of your mentor, The Boss, and you became the greatest soldier who ever lived.” The tape crackled and looped around back to its beginning. “Your name is John. Your codename—”

Ocelot blanched and let the earbud fall from his grasp. He turned away in disgust before remembering the need to cover his tracks; even the tiniest misstep could incite suspicion. Gingerly, without looking at Venom’s battered form, Ocelot placed the earbud back in his ear, trying all the while not to think about how this stranger’s face would be surgically altered to mimic that of the man he knew best.

Keeping his head down, Ocelot briskly pushed through the room’s privacy curtain and slumped into the chair he’d positioned next to Snake’s hospital bed. Not Venom, not even Big Boss, but the real Snake—his Snake, the John with whom he’d grown so acquainted, all of the legends and rumors stripped away to reveal his unobscured center. 

The things on that tape were just... insulting. Snake had always shunned the title of Big Boss, always hated the reminder of how he’d earned such a name in the first place—something his “friends” would have known—and now it was being foisted upon his double with all of its ensuing baggage. 

Snake himself was as serene as ever, reclining gently in his hospital bed, a slumbering cherub surrounded by a halo of starched linens. The corners of his mouth almost seemed to curl upwards in a wry smile, like he was dreaming about some amusing secret. It seemed ignorance really was bliss.

Ocelot let himself relax. He felt his muscles unclench against the plastic chair’s hard angles, exhaled through his nose, cracked the bones in his neck. After giving Snake’s hand an affirmative squeeze, Ocelot reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his own cassette player. The headphones were impossibly tangled, folded into themselves a dozen times over, and he set to work unknotting them. 

Another nurse entered the room—not the woman from earlier, but an older gentleman whom Ocelot had never seen on duty. A surgical mask obscured most of his face, completing hiding his nose and mouth, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses poked out from beneath the pale fabric. Ocelot barely caught a glimpse of the man before he disappeared behind the gauzy curtain, yet there was an uncanny familiarity to his hawkish gaze. 

Diverting his attention back to the snarled headphones, Ocelot delicately wove his fingertips through the wires and untangled each knot one by one. He finished in less than a minute, but by the time he looked up the new nurse had already vanished without a trace, not even making a sound as he left. 

Ocelot put on the headphones and unpaused his cassette player. The tape picked up right where he left off in Intermediate Greek II. Each lesson was helmed by a nameless male voice who recited a phrase in Greek, then gave its corresponding English equivalent—but Ocelot barely paid attention as he listened, instead recalling the things he'd heard earlier and imagining Venom listening to his own tape on the other side of the curtain. He closed his eyes.

Your name is John.

“Échete domátia diathésima? Do you have rooms available?”

Your codename is Snake, but your friends call you Big Boss.

“Echo kánei krátisi. I have a reservation.”

You are a soldier, and you love to fight.

“Échete chóro gia dýo átoma? Do you have a room for one person?”

Many years ago, you surpassed the level of your mentor, The Boss…

“Échete domátio gia éna átomo? Do you have a room for two people?”

...and you became the greatest soldier who ever lived.

“Póso kairó tha meínete? How long will you stay?”

---

Ocelot dozed off and fell headfirst into REM sleep. He knew instinctively that he was asleep, but this knowledge only brought him a vague sense of unease rather than the confidence of a typical lucid dream.

The tiny room was packed with folding chairs from wall to wall, each seat filled with a different somber-faced individual, most of them dressed in military regalia—Ocelot spotted Spetznaz, KGB, Green Berets, RAF, and Sandinistas among them. He found himself standing before his audience, cue cards in hand, delivering a speech for reasons unknown to him.

"When I first met Snake... he was...." Ocelot trailed off. The words felt distant, rehearsed but not his own, like he was reading from someone else’s script. "Snake was the sort of man who, well, once you knew him, y-you just...."

Ocelot looked down and found he was wearing a pair of plain black slacks. At least it wasn't that kind of dream.

"John—I mean, Snake... he was... he was my...." He glanced at the cue cards for help, but their words seemed to slide right off the paper, his unconscious mind apparently unable to process written language with any fidelity. Not much help.

The crowd trained their attention on him, keenly awaiting his next words. Ocelot noticed with bewilderment that some of them appeared to be crying quietly. 

Ocelot tugged at his shirt collar and was surprised to find that his grip settled on a silk necktie. He gulped, searching the room for some sort of distraction, an emergency exit, any way out of this situation. Behind him stood a table filled with votive candles, a portrait of Snake propped up on an easel, and a polished oak casket. The casket was both open and empty.

Ocelot felt the horror of this realization dawn on him all at once, and he inadvertently let his cue cards flutter to the floor. The sickly-sweet smell of incense overpowered him on all sides. Surely this wasn't happening, there was no way—

Desperately scanning the crowd for any kind of explanation, Ocelot spotted a new face seated in the back row. It was John, dressed in a jet-black tuxedo and matching eyepatch, smirking coyly as their gazes met. Blood rushed to Ocelot's cheeks as John performed an impossible task for a one-eyed man:

He winked.

Day 47

“I don’t know if I can go through with this.” Ocelot kept his voice low and spoke into the phone with one hand cupped around the receiver. "Zero’s done some questionable shit before, but this is just... something else. It’s ghastly.”

“Finally going soft on me, Adam?” Eva teased. 

“I’m serious. The things on those tapes... you’d feel the same way if you heard them. All kinds of half-truths about Snake, his life, his beliefs. None of it's wrong, exactly, but it's just not the full story."

"Well, that's Zero for you. He's less concerned with the man than he is with the myth behind him."

He sighed. "I know. I shouldn’t be surprised.”

“Surprise or no surprise, it’s still shitty. Zero and Snake always clashed, but Zero was usually the one to take things too far.” Eva paused. “What is surprising to me is that Zero’s actually trying to help Snake this time—in his own twisted way, at least.”

“But is all of this really helping him?”

“What makes you say that?”

“Think about it, Eva. Zero must have some kind of overarching agenda here. We just haven’t figured it out yet.”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s turned over a new leaf. People change.” Eva didn’t sound fully convinced, but her suggestion was still genuine.

“Doubtful, if you ask me. And even if he is trying to help Snake, this is one hell of a way to go about it—turning an innocent bystander into an unwilling martyr? It’s grotesque, Eva. He looks like he’s in constant agony.”

“So put him out of his misery. Step on his breathing tube and say it was an accident.” Ocelot could hear Eva’s sadistic grin through the phone. “I won’t tell anyone.”

"Oh, believe me, I'd get caught if I tried. They're constantly watching me here." Ocelot turned to glance over his shoulder, as if he expected to find Zero himself eavesdropping in the hallway. "I probably shouldn't even be calling you from this number. Zero definitely keeps a record of all the calls I make here."

"He's still as paranoid as ever, huh?"

"You have no idea. Get this—he had a private phone line installed outside Snake's room. Claimed it was a gift and acted all generous about it, but I know better. He’s manipulating me, keeping tabs on me, expecting me to come running whenever he calls. ”

“Now it sounds like some of Zero’s paranoia might be rubbing off on you.” Eva chuckled at her own joke, though her amusement was gentle, humane.

Ocelot said nothing.

“Come on, Adam. I know there’s more you’re not telling me.” Eva never let Ocelot off easy—a fact that he usually appreciated about her—but sometimes she could be too perceptive for her own good. “What else is going on?”

“I just...” Ocelot trailed off and sighed again. “I’m worried about Snake, you know?”

Eva’s voice softened. “Of course. I’m sure he’ll be okay. He’s in good hands, and those doctors are doing everything they can. We’ll have him back before you know it.”

“Not just that.” Another pause. “I mean, that too, obviously. But I feel like I’m going behind his back with all of this Venom stuff."

“Hey, who knows. Snake might appreciate having someone else to do his dirty work for him. Having a body double could be useful.”

“Maybe...”

“I do understand where you’re coming from,” Eva assured him, “but I don’t think there’s any harm in playing along for now. Just see where this all goes.”

“Not like I have much of a choice,” Ocelot grumbled.

“That too. But Snake is more forgiving than you give him credit for. He still likes me after everything I’ve done to him.”

“I guess you’re right.”

“Trust me.” Eva sounded oddly nurturing. Maybe motherhood had changed her after all. “No matter what happens, I don’t think he could ever hate you.”

Day 55

When the next batch of tapes arrived in a nondescript parcel, Ocelot took the liberty of secretly listening to each one before handing them over to the nurse in charge of Venom’s hypnotherapy regimen. She didn’t notice that the tapes had been opened, listened to, and carefully rewound with a pencil.

The tapes were mostly full of mundane nothings and half-truths about Snake’s life, narrated by Dr. Clark in her unwaveringly blunt fashion, but Ocelot had the idea to catalog everything being imprinted onto Venom’s pliable new mind—just in case. And there were some interesting tidbits here and there. Ocelot was hard-pressed to believe that any of these claims held more than a kernel of truth to them, but years of espionage had taught him that all good lies are just heavily-obscured confessions.

Snake himself had always been notoriously tight-lipped about his past. After ten years of rivalry and companionship, Ocelot had only managed to string together a partial history of Snake’s time on this earth. Though he respected the desire to leave some things unspoken, Ocelot still wondered what secrets Snake could possibly be hiding. 

So he listened to the tapes. And he took notes. 

Day 71

Much to Ocelot's surprise, the hospital in Cyprus had a tiny gift shop tucked away on one of its lower floors. Even though civilians rarely came through this place, it seemed that no hospital would be complete without a place to buy overpriced baubles and get-well-soon cards.

He stumbled upon it by accident late one night while searching for the cafeteria. It was closed, a sign posted in its window apologizing for the inconvenience, but curiosity drove him to return again during business hours. A lone soldier sat behind the register reading a magazine, idly licking his finger before turning each page, but he shot Ocelot a lethal glance to indicate that he would not remotely fuck around if any sort of situation were to occur. Quite a show of force from the guy stuck on retail duty.

Most of the stuff for sale was cheap garbage, but Ocelot sifted through the tasteless gifts anyway, searching for nothing in particular. It was a way to kill time, at least. He certainly wasn't expecting to find anything nice, not wedged between the birthday cards laced with toilet humor and the plush flowers that honked out an awful rendition of "You Are My Sunshine" every time you pressed a button—so he was delighted to find that the store carried a line of tiny stuffed animals, among them a spotted cat with triangular felt ears and yarn whiskers. It wasn't exactly an ocelot... to the discerning eye, it seemed closer to a leopard or maybe a jaguar, but the resemblance was close enough. He bought it without a second thought, happy just to have any lifeline of comfort in this place. And it was awfully cute.

The cashier’s snide remarks hardly dampened his spirits. Ocelot tucked the toy into his coat and carried it upstairs, enjoying the act of petty subterfuge. He placed the little cat on the table next to Snake's bed, its snout facing forward, eternally keeping watch with glassy black eyes.

Day 94

Zero’s calls were liable to come through at any hour of the day, but they invariably managed to strike at just the right moment to interrupt Ocelot in the middle of some important task. This time the phone rang as soon as Ocelot had settled into bed, or in his case, settled into a rickety metal cot stretched out in the corner of Snake’s room. The nurses all shook their heads at Ocelot and made a show of painstakingly stepping over his outstretched form, but nobody dared tell him to move. He’d become a regular fixture around these parts, his continued presence as mundane as any of the fire escape routes posted in the hallways or the sharps disposal bins in each room.

So when a shrill ring roused him from the shallow beginnings of sleep, Ocelot hauled himself to his feet and answered the call with bitter resignation. 

He gave Zero the usual sit-rep, though there was never much to report: maybe a muscle twitch from Snake that seemed promising at first but was probably just an involuntary spasm, Venom showing abnormal eye movement during one of his hypnotherapy sessions, or the nurses switching to new IV bags with a higher saline count. Comatose men didn’t make for great entertainment. 

These calls were a routine occurrence by now, practically rehearsed down to the last detail, but this time something compelled Ocelot to deviate from his usual script.

“One more thing,” he’d added before hanging up. Ocelot struggled to remain nonchalant, imbuing his words with an excessively casual tone. “I know this is a bit out of the blue, but I’ve been wondering about a few things from Snake’s past. Thought you might be able to answer some of my questions.”

“I can certainly try my best,” Zero replied jovially. “What’s on your mind?”

Ocelot hadn’t been expecting such an easy way in. It wasn’t that Zero was particularly tight-lipped—he could be downright chatty when the mood struck—but he didn’t usually take well to being interrogated. Serving as Zero’s loyal lapdog must have lowered his defenses, months of obsequience paving the way for one small favor, and Ocelot fully intended to cash in on his reward.

Dozens of potential questions sprang forth in his mind, but most of them were too outlandish to ask. Ocelot couldn’t say anything that would make it obvious that he was secretly listening to Venom’s tapes or plotting behind Zero’s back, and he only could only get away with asking two or three questions, tops. He had to play his cards right.

Ocelot took a deep breath. “Nothing too serious. But spending so much time at Snake’s side has made me realize how many things I still don’t know about him.”

“I understand completely.” Zero had never been this nice to him before. If he hadn’t known better, Ocelot might have chalked it up to pity. “Snake and I share quite a bit of history, so I may be able to help you out.”

“I really appreciate it.” Ocelot winced at the sound of his own contrived gratitude. He inhaled sharply before continuing. “Well, I’ve always wondered how he ended up in Tselinoyarsk back in the 60s. That’s when we first met, as you know, during Operation Snake Eater. And I was obviously well-informed about that whole affair”—here he forced a light chuckle—”but as for Snake himself, my briefings just described him as another one of the CIA’s dogs.” He paused for what he hoped was a thoughtful amount of time. “But I’ve never fully understood how he ended up working for The Boss to begin with. He doesn’t like to talk about it much.”

Zero laughed heartily. “That’s a wonderful question—though I’m afraid I can’t answer it completely, since Snake’s history with The Boss goes back even further than his time with me. But she was a close friend of mine, so I should be able to piece most of it together for you.” He was silent for a moment, lost in the effort of recall, then began again slowly. “I think The Boss took Snake under her wing when he was just a boy, believe it or not. They were both caught in the crossfire of atomic testing, and she grew fiercely protective of him because of it. He was almost like a son to her.”

The Boss thought of Snake as a son? Ocelot didn’t fully buy it; he couldn’t imagine such a distinguished soldier putting herself in a position of motherhood. Zero’s stories were always like this, just a little too far-fetched to be convincing, but Ocelot reacted with enthusiasm anyway. Anything to keep Zero talking, to grease the wheels of their conversation. “Makes sense,” he lied.

“And like any good mother, she taught him everything she knew. Raised him to fight and to fight damn well, as you’ve surely seen. They even developed CQC together, created a whole new style of fighting by their collective genius. Then she brought him to me. That’s when we founded FOX, and everything was just lovely.” Zero sighed, apparently overcome with longing for days gone by. “Until it all went to pieces.”

“Right, I remember how that played out. She pretended to defect to the Soviet Union, but Volgin’s little tantrum threw a wrench in your plans, so you sent Snake to come clean up the whole mess.” Ocelot let a beat pass in silence for the fallen soldier, but his gesture was only partly bravado—he did have a great deal of respect for The Boss. Though he’d only known her for a short time, Ocelot had felt her aura of terrifying confidence and the empty space left behind in the wake of her death. “I can’t even imagine how he must have felt.”

Here, Ocelot was telling the truth.

“Yes,” Zero said quietly. “He took it quite hard. Harder than any of us.”

Ocelot tried to picture it: watching your closest ally betray you without warning, seeing them march directly into the arms of the enemy—not knowing that the whole thing was manufactured from the start, all smoke and mirrors—then being ordered to chase after them and put an end to a life irreversibly entwined with your own. He shivered.

“Then it must have really re-opened some wounds when he encountered that robotic version of her in Central America,” Ocelot added, a clumsy segue into his next line of questioning. He’d heard a little bit about the Peace Walker incident from Snake, but Ocelot wanted to hear Zero’s version of events—and the best way to do that was to intentionally say something a smidge untrue, knowing that Zero’s impulsive need to correct other people’s mistakes would spur him to elaborate in greater detail. 

Zero took the bait without a moment’s hesitation. “It wasn’t exactly a robot,” he chided. “At least not in the traditional sense. Peace Walker was an AI-controlled weapon governed by several autonomous decision-making systems, one of which was loosely based on The Boss’s personality: the Mammal Pod, to be specific. I suppose Peace Walker was a robotic creation, technically speaking, but the Mammal Pod itself was more like an echo of The Boss than a perfect facsimile.”

“I see. Almost like her phantom, then.”

“Precisely.” Zero sounded pleased with himself, the teacher proud of having led his pupil to the correct answer. “Not so different than what we’re trying to accomplish with the Venom project, really. If Peace Walker weren’t at the bottom of Lake Nicaragua, it would be an excellent prototype for us to study. And speaking with its creator would be the next best thing, but I haven’t been able to get in touch with her—it seems that she’s keeping a low profile after the Mother Base incident.”

“So, about that....” This was the chance Ocelot had been waiting for. In as nonchalant a voice as he could muster, he asked: “What exactly... happened that night? During the Mother Base attack?”

“A tragedy happened, Ocelot. Nothing more.” The goodwill seemed to drain out of Zero’s demeanor, leaving Ocelot feeling as if he’d taken two steps too many off a cliff’s edge and was scrambling wildly for purchase in the empty abyss. “A man as infamous as Snake is bound to make some enemies. We may never know who attacked him that night, or why they did it. We can only do our best to keep him safe in the future.”

“Of course, but don’t you have even the slightest idea of who mi—”

“No, Ocelot. And there’s no point in dwelling on it. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must be going.”

Ocelot didn’t bother protesting. His only audience would have been the dial tone’s persistent hum.

He swore under his breath.

All things considered, it had still been a reasonably fruitful conversation. But he’d been so damn close to squeezing some real answers out of Zero for once. If nothing else, he supposed, Zero’s sudden hostility at even the merest mention of the Mother Base incident seemed to hint towards some larger truth dwelling beneath the surface.

Before Ocelot could go spelunking for the truth, though, he needed to rest. And before that, he needed to pee.

There was a single-occupancy restroom just down the hall that doubled as Ocelot’s private sanctuary. It was the one corner in this place where he could truly be alone—no doctors, no nurses, and no risk of enigmatic old men lurking silently in toilet stalls. As harmless as that encounter in Costa Rica had been, something about it still left Ocelot shaky and paranoid; he often found himself instinctively double-checking doors as they locked behind him.

Washing his hands was usually a furtive affair, fixing his gaze steadfastly to the lather of antibacterial soap rather than the mirror hanging before him, but today Ocelot dared broach a glance at his own reflection. The man staring back was gaunt, his hollow cheeks more pronounced than ever. And he needed a haircut. 

Ocelot kept his facial hair in check with haphazard shaves over the sink every few days—and now that the patchy spots had filled in, the stubble almost suited him—but the hair on his head had grown unimpeded since his fateful meeting with the bathroom lurker, reaching almost halfway to his shoulders in an atrocious half-mullet.

One of the strange old man’s inscrutable comments had been true, at least: Ocelot’s hair was steadily sprouting more white patches with every passing day, a wildfire of pale follicles that swept through his scalp. He brushed the hair out of his eyes and toyed with the idea of dyeing it back to his original blond, but decided against it. Better to age gracefully (even if that meant going grey at thirty, for god’s sake) than cling to some fleeting illusion of youth.

Stepping back into the harsh fluorescent hallway, Ocelot was startled to see a crowd of people spilling out of Snake’s room. He identified them almost immediately as hospital personnel—not just by their scrubs and white coats, but by the way they jostled each other politely without resorting to full-on shoving, taking turns to poke their heads through the doorway.

Not being a doctor himself, Ocelot wasn’t bound to the same rules of decorum. He elbowed and excuse me’d his way through the mob of clipboard-wielding professionals. A few cursed at him in Greek—Ocelot had quickly absorbed that vocabulary into his lexicon—but they let him through with little resistance. Once he’d broken through the crowd, Ocelot saw the reason for their numbers: a middle-aged doctor was lecturing at Venom’s bedside, gesturing to different pieces of equipment with a ballpoint pen as she spoke. Her attention particularly lingered upon the cassette player by Venom’s bed.

Ocelot sank into his cot, too tired to care that the room was full of observers. He was pleased to find that he could make out most of the doctor’s speech—those language tapes really worked if you stuck with them long enough—but he mostly wished that she’d wrap it up so he could get some shuteye.

“When the patient is being hypnotized, we mustn’t rouse him from his sleep,” she explained sternly. “This would be detrimental to his prognosis. And the messages on these tapes are confidential, so please respect the patient’s privacy and avoid the temptation of listening...”

Ocelot lazily scanned the crowd through a half-opened eye. He recognized most of the faces: the young nurses who giggled derisively behind his back, doctors of all ages with matching dark circles beneath their eyes, a quiet orderly who always brought Ocelot a bottle of spring water at the end of her shift. The strange older nurse was there, too, towering several inches above the crowd despite his stooped posture. Apparently he’d just gotten out of surgery and hadn’t had time to change, for his face mask was marred with a single streak of blood.

As he closed his eyes, the hubbub faded to a dull roar. Ocelot allowed it to carry him to sleep.

---

The dream was deceptively pleasant at first. He was in a hospital room much like the one in Cyprus, but this one was a bit nicer, more spacious, and offered vaguely floral tones beneath the scent of its disinfectant.

Most notable of all its differences was that Snake sat upright in his bed, fully conscious and alert. Ocelot was massaging some sort of cream into the muscles of Snake’s upper arm—numbing lotion, maybe, or perhaps a topical antibiotic.

He wasn’t too concerned with the details.

“Careful there,” Snake teased. “Those cuts are still fresh.”

“You know I always handle you gently... unless you say ‘please’ first,” Ocelot retorted.

Snake shot him a devious glance. “Normally I wouldn’t hesitate to ask. But I think we should let these wounds heal before you go creating more of them.”

“I’ll play doctor as long as you want,” Ocelot said. He deftly wrapped a bandage around Snake’s biceps, silently admiring the resistance of muscle against taut cloth. “Anything to get you back on your feet.”

“Thanks, Adam. I can always count on you.” He placed a hand on Ocelot’s shoulder, its weight and warmth enough to send the room spinning.

“It’s my pleasure, John.” And it truly was.

“But really,” Snake continued, “I don’t know what I’d do without you. That helicopter crash almost took me out.”

Helicopter crash? A jolt of clarity shot through Ocelot’s hazy dreamscape.

“Actually... do you know who was responsible for that? And the attack on Mother Base?” he asked, words faltering.

Snake laughed like Ocelot had just told a joke. “Of course I do. It was Cipher.”

“Cipher?” Ocelot asked. "That Cipher?"

“Come on, you didn’t know?”

"You mean this was Zero's fault?” he squeaked, a frenzied rage sending his voice a full octave higher than normal.

Snake shrugged weakly. “I dunno. It’s all pretty hazy to me.”

Ocelot shook his head, barely listening. “That doesn't make any sense. I would've known if Zero was behind the attack.”

“Zero might not have been the one directly responsible," Snake explained. "Maybe it was someone close to him.”

“But who?" 

Snake gave an apologetic smile. “I wish I had more answers for you tell you. You should ask Kaz. He’ll know.” 

The room disappeared before Ocelot could respond. He awoke with a jolt, dizzy and gasping for air.

Day 118

Turning the strip of paper over in his hand, Ocelot could barely make out the smudged pencil marks scrawled across its surface, though it hardly mattered now—he could recite the sequence of numbers by heart.

Still, he held the paper close as he dialed the phone, hoping that this talisman might grant him a stroke of luck. These numbers were the culmination of a month’s worth of favors: calls made to influential friends, promises hastily made without the consideration of follow-through, and even a bribe or two in cash. At least Ocelot’s efforts had paid off. He’d obtained the information he was seeking, and now he could only hope that he hadn’t steered himself into a dead end. 

Ocelot held his breath as the phone hummed diligently.

Intuition was one thing, but following a hunch was risky—and this was less of a hunch than it was the product of a deranged nightmare.

A familiar voice eventually answered.

“Hello?”

“Ah, Mister Miller. Just the man I was looking for.” Ocelot smiled to himself. “It’s been quite a while since we last spoke....”