Chapter II: Ghosts in the Wire
Inside the private jet—sleek, silent, a steel bird slicing through storm-bruised skies—Bartholomew sat enthroned in leather luxury, a glass of Bordeaux breathing between his fingers. The cabin hummed with Vivaldi's Winter, strings weeping through hidden speakers like ghosts mourning wars yet to come.
Better known as Zero.
He lifted the edge of his white porcelain mask—custom-fitted, expressionless as death itself—and beneath it, burn scars told stories his calculated words never would. He sipped. Slowly. Deliberately. "Information," he murmured, rolling the wine against his tongue, "is the only currency that matters in this world. Control the narrative, control everything. Wouldn't you agree, old friend?"
Across from him, slouched in tactical fatigues and a mask that swallowed his face, sat Gray Fox—one of the Patriots' most loyal operatives, a man who treated espionage the way surgeons treated scalpels.
"Yeah, Zero, but I'm not sold on the soundtrack." Gray Fox tilted his mask just enough to take a swig of whiskey, amber liquid catching the cabin light. "Would it kill you to play some Floyd? Some Hendrix? Something with a soul?"
Zero chuckled—a low, calculated sound like gears turning in a clock counting down to doomsday. "You should learn to appreciate the classics, my friend. Vivaldi understood systems better than any musician ever could. Listen—" He gestured to the crescendo. "That's not music. That's architecture. Structure. Control. The illusion of chaos masking perfect order."
He set the wine down and turned his attention to the table before him—a mosaic of surveillance photos, each one a fragment of a larger algorithm. Big Boss. Always Big Boss. The legendary soldier, the charismatic revolutionary, the one man who could unravel everything Zero had built.
"From what these images suggest," Zero continued, fingers tracing the photos like a chess master studying the board, "Big Boss stands approximately 180 centimeters tall. Weighs around 89 kilograms. Combat-hardened muscle. CQC specialist. Guerrilla warfare expert. The perfect soldier—and that's precisely what makes him dangerous."
Gray Fox snorted, grabbing one of the photos—Big Boss mid-combat, eyepatch gleaming, rifle raised like an extension of his will—and tapped it with his knife. "So what? He's just one man. We control governments, armies, and information itself. What's he going to do?"
Zero smiled beneath his mask—slow, predatory, a spider feeling vibrations on its web. "One man, Fox. One man who understands that soldiers don't fight for nations or ideologies—they fight for each other. That loyalty, that brotherhood, that human element—it's the one variable I can't fully control." He stood, movements precise despite his age, despite the years spent building invisible empires.
He moved to the window, pressing one gloved hand against the glass. Below, the ocean churned—dark, endless, indifferent. "Kazuhira Miller," he said, the name tasting like a tactical miscalculation. "Former MSF operative. Big Boss's right hand. His brother. Intel suggests Miller survived the attack on Mother Base, but now he's gone dark." His reflection stared back—masked, unknowable, terrifying in its opacity. "Why?"
Gray Fox shrugged. "Went underground? Found religion? Maybe Big Boss cut him loose?"
"No." Zero turned, and when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of a thousand calculations. "Big Boss doesn't abandon soldiers. It's his greatest strength—and his most exploitable weakness. Miller's disappearance isn't random. It's strategic." He returned to his seat, settling into it like a throne built from shadows and secrets. "That tells me something, Fox. Tells me they're planning something. Building something. Perhaps an army. Perhaps something worse."
"What if they are?" Gray Fox leaned forward, interest piqued like a hunter catching scent.
"Then we infiltrate it." Zero's smile widened—sharp, surgical, a data breach cutting through firewalls. "We turn their strength into weakness. We make loyalty itself the weapon that destroys them."
He gestured to the folder. "What do we have on Miller?"
Gray Fox flipped it open, scanning. "Kazuhira Miller. Born circa 1952. Half-American, half-Japanese. Father was a U.S. serviceman stationed in Japan post-war. Mother was Japanese. Both deceased. Military history—mercenary work, private sector, eventually joined Big Boss's Mercenaries Sans Frontières. Last confirmed sighting: nine years ago, during the Mother Base incident." He looked up. "After that? Ghost. It's like he vanished into thin air."
Zero nodded slowly, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "Nine years. Enough time to build an organization. Train soldiers. Establish infrastructure." His voice dropped to something cold, clinical. "I want everything, Fox. Every contact, every safe house, every phantom he's ever been. And I want Big Boss's psychological profile updated—focus on attachment patterns, emotional vulnerabilities, ideological blind spots."
"You think Miller's building something for him?"
"I think," Zero said quietly, dangerously, "that Big Boss is the hero, and heroes need something to fight for. We need to ensure that when he finds his cause, it serves our purpose."
Gray Fox grinned beneath his mask. "And if he doesn't cooperate?"
"Then we create a war he can't refuse. We give him an enemy so perfect, so necessary, that fighting it becomes his only option. And while he's bleeding for his principles, we'll be reshaping the world in the image of The Boss's will—properly interpreted."
Both men raised their glasses—whiskey and wine, operative and orchestrator, pieces in a game that transcended nations.
"The Patriots endure."
The words hung in the air like a prophecy, like a directive, like the invisible hand that would guide humanity whether it wanted guidance or not.
Area 11 — Landing Zone Cipher
The stealth transport touched down without fanfare—no hydraulic hiss, no dramatic ramp, just a door opening like a secret whispered in the dark. Zero stepped out first—dress shoes striking concrete with the softness of a ghost's footfall—followed by Gray Fox, who moved like cutting-edge technology given human form.
Patriot operatives—disguised as Britannian special forces—stood at attention, but their salute was subtle: a brief touch to their earpieces, a coded gesture invisible to outside observers. They wore the empire's uniform, but served a different master entirely.
Zero acknowledged them with a slight nod. "Excellent. Invisibility. That's what separates intelligence from spectacle."
A Britannian officer—carefully selected, thoroughly vetted, completely unaware he was speaking to his true commander—approached with rehearsed deference. "Sir, I have the reports you requested on the recent ghetto incident and Princess Cornelia's—"
"Campaign of counterproductive brutality?" Zero finished, voice smooth as poisoned honey. "Yes, I'm aware. Where is she now?"
"Currently in the command center, sir. She's... displeased with the interference from—" He paused, uncertain how to phrase it.
"From Outer Heaven?" Zero's masked face betrayed nothing, but satisfaction dripped from every word. "Perfect. Exactly as projected. When ideologies clash, opportunities emerge."
Gray Fox chuckled darkly. "You set this up. The ghetto attack, Cornelia's response, Outer Heaven's intervention—all of it."
"Not set up, Fox. Facilitated. I merely provided the conditions. They chose their actions themselves—free will operating within calculated parameters." Zero began walking, the officer and Gray Fox following like satellites orbiting a dark sun. "When Big Boss inevitably arrives, I want complete surveillance. Every word, every gesture, every emotional fluctuation. Especially his interactions with Cornelia."
"You think they'll clash?"
"I know they will. Cornelia represents everything Big Boss despises: authority without accountability, nationalism without nuance, violence as a first resort rather than a last option. Their confrontation will reveal his current psychological state—anger levels, impulse control, and strategic thinking under stress. All valuable data."
They approached a nondescript vehicle—black, unmarked, forgettable. "And our other assets?"
Gray Fox smiled. "In position. Psycho Mantis has established psychic surveillance on key resistance members. Sniper Wolf is embedded in the Britannian military. Vulcan Raven is running the Arms Division supply network. And Liquid..." He paused. "Liquid is becoming a problem."
Zero stopped. "Define 'problem.'"
"He's questioning the mission parameters. Wants more direct action. Keeps asking about Big Boss."
For a moment—just a moment—something almost like regret flickered behind Zero's mask. Then it was gone, replaced by cold calculation. "Liquid is... a complication I anticipated. His obsession with Big Boss is both his strength and his weakness. For now, let him question. Doubt is useful—it keeps operatives sharp. But if he becomes unstable..."
"Neutralize?"
"Redirect. Everyone has a use, Fox. Even broken pieces can be placed strategically on the board."
Saitama Ghetto — The Chessboard Bleeds
Smoke. Ash. Blood.
The aftermath of Cornelia's "pacification campaign" painted the streets in shades of atrocity. But now, Outer Heaven forces moved through the ruins like combat medics in a war zone—extracting civilians, treating wounded, distributing supplies bearing their phoenix insignia.
From a rooftop three blocks away, Sniper Wolf watched through her scope. Her finger rested beside the trigger—never on it, always beside—as she tracked Big Boss's movements through the crowd.
Her comm crackled: Zero's voice, calm and omnipresent. "Report."
"Big Boss is on-site," she whispered, breath steady, heartbeat controlled. "He's... helping civilians. Personally. Carrying wounded children. Organizing supply distribution." A pause. "He's not what the files suggested."
"Explain."
"The files paint him as a mercenary. A soldier. But this..." She watched Big Boss kneel beside an elderly woman, speaking softly, offering water with his own hands. "This is something else. They look at him like he's a savior."
"He is," Zero replied, voice tight with something between admiration and envy. "That's what makes him dangerous. Big Boss doesn't conquer people—he liberates them. Doesn't demand loyalty—inspires it. It's the antithesis of everything The Boss taught us about control through systems rather than individuals."
"Orders?"
"Observe. Document. Do not engage. Big Boss is a long-term asset, not a short-term target."
Sniper Wolf adjusted her scope, tracking as Big Boss moved deeper into the ghetto, Outer Heaven soldiers following him like disciples following a prophet.
She'd killed dictators, warlords, terrorists. But watching Big Boss now—surrounded by people who genuinely loved him—she understood why Zero feared him.
He was proof that loyalty couldn't be engineered.
Only earned.
Cornelia's Command Center — The Goddess Falls
Princess Cornelia li Britannia stood before her tactical displays, watching Outer Heaven's humanitarian operation with mounting fury. Every civilian saved was an implicit condemnation of her methods. Every grateful face was a vote against her ideology.
Gilbert stood beside her, ever loyal. "Princess, perhaps we should—"
"Launch a counter-operation? Discredit them? Paint them as terrorists using aid as propaganda?" She laughed bitterly. "No, Gilbert. That ship has sailed, sunk, and been forgotten by history."
Andreas approached. "Then what do we do?"
Before she could answer, the command center doors opened.
Bartholomew—her brother, though she barely recognized the man he'd become—entered with Gray Fox trailing like a shadow with access to classified information.
But this wasn't the emotional, impulsive sibling she remembered.
This was Zero.
And Zero didn't yell. Didn't rage. Didn't strike.
He simply stood before her, masked face tilted slightly, and spoke with the calm certainty of someone reading from a script they'd written years ago.
"Cornelia. Your recent operation resulted in 847 civilian casualties, 234 resistance fighter deaths, and 412 Britannian military losses. In exchange, you captured zero high-value targets, gained zero actionable intelligence, and solidified Area 11's hatred of the empire by approximately 34%, based on intercepted communications and predictive modeling."
Each word landed like a scalpel.
"From a strategic standpoint, your campaign was the equivalent of amputation to treat a headache—technically effective at stopping the immediate symptom, but catastrophically damaging to the overall organism."
Cornelia's hands clenched. "We were following established protocol—"
"Protocol designed by people who mistake slaughter for strategy." Zero stepped closer—not threatening, just present, like gravity itself had opinions about her decisions. "Big Boss humiliated you today. Not because he's stronger—though his forces are tactically superior—but because he understands something you don't: wars aren't won by killing enemies. They're won by making allies."
He turned to leave, then paused. "Oh, and Cornelia? That title—'Goddess of Victory'? It's statistically correlated with a 23% decrease in subordinate morale and a 31% increase in reckless behavior among your officers. Might want to workshop something more... grounded."
The doors closed behind him with a whisper.
Cornelia stood frozen, Gilbert and Andreas equally stunned.
She'd been dismantled. Not with emotion. Not with violence.
With data.
Hours Later — The AI Core
Deep beneath the city, in a facility that officially didn't exist, Zero stood before a wall of servers—the physical manifestation of the Patriots' AI network. Screens flickered with information streams: communications intercepts, financial transactions, DNA databases, predictive algorithms modeling human behavior with terrifying accuracy.
Gray Fox's voice came from behind him. "You were gentler with her than I expected."
Zero didn't turn. "Cornelia is useful. Her methodology is flawed, but her loyalty to Britannia is absolute—which means her loyalty to order is absolute. With proper guidance, she can be shaped into an effective tool."
"And Big Boss?"
Now Zero turned, and even through the mask, something like genuine respect colored his words. "Big Boss is... different. He can't be shaped. It can't be controlled. He operates on principles so deeply embedded that even psychological conditioning would fail." He approached a particular screen—one displaying Big Boss's file, updated in real-time. "He's The Boss's legacy, Fox. Her will made flesh. And that means he's either the key to completing her vision... or the greatest threat to it."
"Which do you think he is?"
Zero was silent for a long moment, watching data cascade across screens—thousands of lives, millions of decisions, all feeding into algorithms designed to create the perfect world.
"I think," he said finally, "that the answer to that question will determine whether the Patriots save humanity... or destroy it."
Unknown Location — Mountains of Forgotten Wars
High in the Japanese mountains, where digital signals couldn't reach and satellites couldn't penetrate, Big Boss stood in a training facility built from shipping containers and conviction.
Before him, two men sparred—one in white tactical gear, one in gray, both moving with lethal precision.
Solid Snake and Liquid Snake.
His sons. His legacy. His greatest success and most terrible failure.
They fought not for sport, but for dominance—Liquid's strikes aggressive, passionate, burning with need to prove himself; Solid's counters efficient, controlled, seeking victory without wasted motion.
Kazuhira Miller approached, arm prosthetic gleaming in the mountain light. "They're ready, Boss. Better than ready. They could deploy tomorrow."
Big Boss watched Solid disarm Liquid with a CQC technique so flawless it could've been performed by The Boss herself. Pride and pain warred in his chest. "They're weapons, Kaz. Perfect weapons. And that's the problem."
"You wanted soldiers—"
"I wanted people." Big Boss finally turned away from the sparring match, eye distant. "Zero wanted to reduce warfare to mathematics. Remove the human element, optimize for efficiency, create systems that function regardless of individual will. I wanted the opposite—to prove that human connection, not technological superiority, is what makes soldiers unbeatable."
Miller nodded slowly. "And now?"
"Now, Zero has his Patriots—an intelligence network so vast it's practically omniscient. And I have Outer Heaven—an army bound by loyalty rather than programming." Big Boss watched the sun set over mountains that had witnessed a thousand wars and would witness a thousand more. "The question isn't which philosophy is right, Kaz. The question is which one will survive when they inevitably collide."
In the training yard, Solid and Liquid had stopped fighting, both breathing hard, both undefeated.
Both were waiting for orders that would send them toward destinies neither could imagine.
And somewhere, in server farms and satellite networks and the invisible infrastructure of modern control, the Patriots watched.
Calculated.
And prepared for the war that would decide humanity's future.
End Chapter II