[What the hell is he even doing here, he wonders. He looks down at the floor besides him, at the small satchel of supplies he'd managed to scavenge before finding himself here. Snake thinks sarcastically to himself about how ridiculous he is even sitting in this chair, and he remembers vague, distant memories of a childhood that hardly seem like his own, of sitting in the small, stuffy classrooms of his youth before he'd eventually join the military and leave that life far behind. The smack on his hand and the reprimand shock him out of his reverie, and he leaps out of his seat, gun drawn and clearing the entry points of the room with his eyes forward. But... there aren't any entry points...]
What the--
[Snake moves towards the wall-- where he remembers the door being-- and brushes it with his hand as though it would reveal itself to him if he had. Instead, when he turns around, the room has shifted again, the position of the desks nothing like it has seemed moments ago. The room even seems longer somehow, though he knows that's not possible. "What the hell is going on..." He lowers his gun, and grumbles beneath his breath like someone is playing a trick on him and he doesn't find it funny. Kneeling down, he pulls the small tablet out of his travel pack and reaches out to network. Maybe someone else will have some idea of what's happening here...]
This is Snake. Someone get me the hell out of here. Does anybody read me?
Three: No Soliciting
[The poly-thermal technology of his sneaking suit provided Snake protection from the below zero temperatures of Norfinbury's unrelenting winter, but too much exposure to the freezing winds would kill even him given enough time. He comes upon the building late that evening, derelict and moaning beneath the beating of the weather back outside. He moves further in, gun drawn and in low ready position as he advances forward, hugging the corners as he moves from room to room looking for warm corners and abandoned supplies. It's when he hears shuffling in the next room over that he realizes that he might not be alone, and clears the threshold with his weapon raised.]
Who are you?
Four: House at the End of the Lane
[The winter wind beats at his face, and his stomach rumbles as he approaches the outside of the house. He imagines at one time that it may have been more idyllic, as he passes through the beaten picket fence on the perimeter and through the charred front door, still with its hints of red, flaking paint. His heartbeat is like a steady metronome, and he considers just how at home he feels in the burned down ghost of someone else's livelihood. The cold reminds him of the loneliness of Alaska, where he was free to drink himself to death, unburdened by anything but his own tormented thoughts. And the house reminds him of his comfort in the middle of a war zone, and how if this house were perfect, with beige suburban walls and warm sunlight bathing the room, it would make his skin crawl. Still, the literal shadows of the past on the wall unnerve him and take him out of his concentration. He approaches them slowly as though they may leap out at him and reaches out to touch them with his fingertips. It's so hard to tell what's real here sometimes...]
Solid Snake | Metal Gear Solid
[What the hell is he even doing here, he wonders. He looks down at the floor besides him, at the small satchel of supplies he'd managed to scavenge before finding himself here. Snake thinks sarcastically to himself about how ridiculous he is even sitting in this chair, and he remembers vague, distant memories of a childhood that hardly seem like his own, of sitting in the small, stuffy classrooms of his youth before he'd eventually join the military and leave that life far behind. The smack on his hand and the reprimand shock him out of his reverie, and he leaps out of his seat, gun drawn and clearing the entry points of the room with his eyes forward. But... there aren't any entry points...]
What the--
[Snake moves towards the wall-- where he remembers the door being-- and brushes it with his hand as though it would reveal itself to him if he had. Instead, when he turns around, the room has shifted again, the position of the desks nothing like it has seemed moments ago. The room even seems longer somehow, though he knows that's not possible. "What the hell is going on..." He lowers his gun, and grumbles beneath his breath like someone is playing a trick on him and he doesn't find it funny. Kneeling down, he pulls the small tablet out of his travel pack and reaches out to network. Maybe someone else will have some idea of what's happening here...]
This is Snake. Someone get me the hell out of here. Does anybody read me?
Three: No Soliciting
[The poly-thermal technology of his sneaking suit provided Snake protection from the below zero temperatures of Norfinbury's unrelenting winter, but too much exposure to the freezing winds would kill even him given enough time. He comes upon the building late that evening, derelict and moaning beneath the beating of the weather back outside. He moves further in, gun drawn and in low ready position as he advances forward, hugging the corners as he moves from room to room looking for warm corners and abandoned supplies. It's when he hears shuffling in the next room over that he realizes that he might not be alone, and clears the threshold with his weapon raised.]
Who are you?
Four: House at the End of the Lane
[The winter wind beats at his face, and his stomach rumbles as he approaches the outside of the house. He imagines at one time that it may have been more idyllic, as he passes through the beaten picket fence on the perimeter and through the charred front door, still with its hints of red, flaking paint. His heartbeat is like a steady metronome, and he considers just how at home he feels in the burned down ghost of someone else's livelihood. The cold reminds him of the loneliness of Alaska, where he was free to drink himself to death, unburdened by anything but his own tormented thoughts. And the house reminds him of his comfort in the middle of a war zone, and how if this house were perfect, with beige suburban walls and warm sunlight bathing the room, it would make his skin crawl. Still, the literal shadows of the past on the wall unnerve him and take him out of his concentration. He approaches them slowly as though they may leap out at him and reaches out to touch them with his fingertips. It's so hard to tell what's real here sometimes...]