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Brothers in Arms	By : ktatters Category: +M through R > Metal Gear Views: 3912 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Metal Gear, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1
- 2
Disclaimers do not stop corporations or authors from suing. Fanfiction is technically against copyright and a small statement saying you don't own it and aren't making money off of it doesn't fix the underlying problem. Disclaimers have a proven inefficacy in dealing with irate authors who feel their work has been stolen. I put those disclaimers up anyways, because this site asked me to. But no more. This work differs substantially from the original source material. As one of my reviewers wrote, any resemblance to Metal Gear characters is pretty much limited to code names.
What difference does it make to the dead, the orphans and the homeless, whether the mad destruction is wrought under the name of totalitarianism or in the holy name of liberty and democracy? - Mohandas Ghandi
In 1975, the cold war was arguably still stumbling headlong to a destination no one wanted to reach.
A year earlier, President Nixon had resigned from office. The anti-ballistic missile treaty he'd signed with Brezhnev would remain in effect for thirty years, outlasting even the great United States of Soviet Russia. The friendship with the Middle East that he talked of during his resignation speech was not destined to last so long.
Russia was well on its way to becoming an even greater power on the world stage. America's failure to emerge victorious from Vietnam allowed Russia to gain a stronger foothold in the country, leading to the fall of South Vietnam later in the next year.
Russia and America were, of course, not isolated in the world. China was gaining power and denouncing them both. OPEC nations started increasing the price of oil. Iran and Iraq, at war for many years, were involved in negotiations to end the fighting. Russia had designs on Afghanistan: stabilization of the region was not in their best interests.
In the early months of 1975, in the name of Russian sovereignty, Brezhnev acted: on a small base in Saudi Arabia, the machines of war began to turn anew.
The day was dawning as it always does in the desert: the sun rose to warm the yellow sand and brown stones outside, but not quickly enough to quell the frigid air creeping in through cracks in the buildings. The guards were as alert as ever while they walked throughout the compound, guns pointed both towards and away from the inner courtyard.
Arthur Emmerich was, to any casual observer, watching the sunrise, his hands clenched tightly around the flask of rationed water. His teeth were chattering and his hands shaking slightly from the cold, but his bloodshot eyes were steady upon the silent forms of the guards. He was sitting in the shadows of the engineers' quarters, watching as the on-duty soldiers paced back and forth. It had become something of a ritual for him to be there: watching and waiting for a chance to escape from what had become a rather nasty prison. Every now and then, one of the guards nodded at him and he pulled himself deeper into the shadows. It had only been last week (or had it been last month?) that one of the guards had hit him so badly he'd had to spend three days in bed when he'd tried to leave the place between watches.
He wouldn't have survived to tell any secrets anyway. It was for the best that he stayed in the compound. He knew that. They were only trying to protect him and all the others from the harsh outside environment: desert, desert and more desert, and hostile natives on top of it. Of course, knowing that didn't stop the forced confinement from chafing. It didn't stop him from wanting to escape. It didn't even stop him from trying, no matter how many times his attempts earned him nothing but a day of bed rest and a few more lingering aches and pains through the short Arabian nights.
Right now he was not planning another escape attempt. There was going to be a call from one of the heads of the operation this morning, and Arthur was going to be there listening. He might not have the power to do anything to stop the operations he was helping, but if he ever got free, he was going to have secrets to sell.
Considering his luck, they were secrets to
give

away
, really, but everyone had to have their illusions, especially in dark times.
He watched the guards for a little while longer, waiting until the sun began to shine into his eyes, then walked over to the command area. He made reports often enough; no one would question him just as long as he moved confidently enough, as though he had nothing to hide. He wasn't supposed to be anywhere near this meeting, of course, but all Arthur had to do was fool guards who didn't necessarily know what the commanding officers were doing.
He pushed the door open as though he didn't have to answer to anyone, as though he'd just been sitting around watching the sunrise before starting on his work for the day. The bravado worked in keeping the guards from being suspicious, or, and perhaps more importantly, no one bothered to question him. Arthur pulled the door closed behind him before leaning against a wall that seemed terribly dark compared to the bright morning sunlight. He let out a shaky breath and looked around. There was always a risk.
He crept toward the main room where the phones were located. Being caught around there was quite likely to get him into trouble, but... Arthur was only going to skulk around the door. He wouldn't go in, and he had a file with him that needed to be handed off...
The conversation had already started by the time he reached the main communications room.
"... There will be enough explosives when they are needed, sir." Kayin, the more scientific of the two, was doing the talking right now. His tenor voice didn't ring the way his brother Habil's did, but the whiney way it tended to give unquestionable orders usually affected Arthur more. "Gunpowder and oil are such old fashioned explosives though. Our people are capable of creating
nuclear bombs
. It's a waste to use them for gunpowder plots."
"I'll decide what is a waste and what is a good use of resources, lieutenant. The intent here is not to provoke a nuclear holocaust that will envelop the world. I like technology as much as the next soldier, but we aren't going to use it at random." Arthur had listened to these conversations before, and vaguely recognized the voice. He only ever identified himself as Ocelot. He had a cruel streak to him, had recommended that guards who did not do their duty be sent off unprotected into the desert. He'd recommended that fate for Arthur, though he had been convinced out of it by Kayin. Apparently, Arthur Emmerich was too important to send out to die, had too many bright ideas that needed 'polishing.'
The whole captivity thing might not have chafed so much if he'd at least been granted proper credit.
"We've gone through a few simulations with the men, and they've gone quite well," said Habil. He was the real power on the base. "We're still working out the logistics on sending them to Algeirs."
"How many men have you had those successful runs with?"
There was a pause. Arthur could hear someone sit down heavily, and decided it must have been Habil. Kayin was much lighter than his brother. "The last run through was done with 50 men."
"50?" The disappointment rang through the phone line.
"Well... we're going to try another run with fewer, sir. Soon." Habil sounded anxious. If only it were Kayin... Arthur would give quite a bit to hear
that
voice nervously trying to come up with excuses to give to his commanding officers. He'd even take the punishment that would inevitably fall on him for a missed deadline.
"25 is already too many men, major," came the tight voice through the phone. "I would prefer a force of no more than 10. Must I send someone else to do the job?"
"Of course not, sir. We're both working very hard to-"
"I know that you're both working hard. If your effort was substandard, I'd-"
There was a long pause. "Sir?" Kayin's voice. There was no answer. "Phone's gone dead again. I don't know why we have to put up with this. All of Russia, and we are forced to be here? With substandard equipment and men of the same quality? It's an insult."
"Don't complain. Ocelot's been known to push people out of the commissioned ranks for complaints."
"Yes, well, don't be surprised if- What are
you
doing here?" Kayin walked out of the communications room and stared at Arthur, his black eyes flashing.
"I- um..." Arthur pulled the manilla folder in front of himself as a shield and felt his back pressing against the wall involuntarily. Kayin snatched it from Arthur's hand.
"Right. This is
late
. We're under tight schedules here, Emmerich, and if you can't handle them, you're free to go kill yourself off in the desert." Kayin's lies forced Arthur's eyes away. Kayin knew he'd tried to escape before. He'd ordered most of the punishments personally.
"Y-yes, s-sir." Oh, how he
hated
that stutter that showed itself around Kayin. He'd managed to hide it for the guards, but every time he heard that hateful whine, Arthur's brain disconnected from whatever it was that gave a man the bravery to stand up to others.
"You're becoming a liability, Emmerich." Habil's deeper voice filled the hallway.
"I didn't ask to be here," said Arthur, his voice shaking.
"You might have been a richer man if you
had
done." Arthur looked up to see Habil shaking his head slowly. "At any rate, we're going to need something more powerful, something lighter. Ten men..."
"You heard the major," said Kayin, backing up his brother without pause. "Get yourself to the labs and start everyone working on something lighter than gunpowder. We only have until the beginning of March. A few days," said Kayin with a snarl.
A few days to research something? What was the point? He couldn't ask those questions. "W-what happens t-then?" asked Arthur instead.
"Get to work, Emmerich. That water isn't given out so you can badger us with questions."
"Y-yes, s-sir."
"I'm sending someone to check on the communications lines," said Habil, motioning for his brother to follow him through another hall. "What I want you to do is..." The voice drifted away. Strange, for such a powerful voice. When Habil wanted the world to hear him, the world listened, and when he wanted to talk to his brother... well, the world couldn't hear a damned thing.
Arthur walked out of the building slowly. He didn't
want
to design a better explosive for Kayin, even if it were possible in a few days time to do it... The winds were starting to blow outside. Arthur looked around with some interest. The guards seemed to be closing up the area. If there had ever been a chance to leave, now was
it
. The guards were preoccupied, and the weather... well, even if it got worse, he just had to follow the road. They couldn't be
that
isolated: they had water and food delivered every week. He'd come upon something or someone, probably sooner rather than later.
All the soldiers were going inside... His heart started to pound in his throat and Arthur closed his eyes... it was now or never! "Let's book," whispered Arthur, then, taking a deep breath and curling his hand around his water flask, he ran through the gates. He kept running, his eyes on the road in front of him, until he found himself running out of breath. When he turned around, he couldn't see the compound. The sand was blowing too much.
It was starting to get uncomfortable. He closed his mouth against the sand, but it was
everywhere
: blowing into his eyes, his nose, his ears. He hadn't really expected freedom to taste quite so much like dirt. Arthur crouched down as the sand blew around him. He covered his head with his arms, which were also bare. It was miserable, but Arthur was a survivor. The wind blustered about with no little force, and the sand stung everywhere it hit.
After a few moments of it, he stood and covered his eyes with his hands. He knew he had to keep moving if he didn't want to be back in the compound. Or more likely dead, shot on sight when the guards caught up with him.
Oh, god. He had to go back.
But how could he go back? They'd shoot him the moment he tried to get back in!
Arthur sat down again. The sandstorm was dying down already. This was probably the stupidest idea he'd ever had. He was going to die, and all because he'd made some idiotic impulsive move based more on his adrenal glands than his brain. He'd
never
been the sort who could pull off this kind of thing... how the hell was he going to survive?
He sat down again, while the sand blew. He wasn't sure how long he sat there, but eventually the wind began to die down. When the wind had finally petered out, he stood up with a frown. He had to start going
somewhere
. The road seemed to go on as far as he could see, in both directions, so he chose one and started walking. Within a few minutes, his feet were hurting, the heat from the sand burning through the soles of the thin shoes the Russians had given him. He walked a while longer until the white skin on his arms started to prickle. He looked at them in horror: they were already turning red. He needed shelter. He took a sip from the water flask, then eyeballed the remaining amount. It was half-empty. He cursed himself again.
"There's only one option, really. I have to keep going. If I try to go back, they'll shoot me for getting out. If I just stop here, I'll die of... sun stoke or something. So if I just keep going, someone's bound to... to... be around here somewhere. An American oil company or something." Arthur smiled thinly to himself. Smiling always helped, didn't it? Or was that whistling? He'd try that too, when his lips felt anything other than parched. "All
not
lost... no need to pray. Just keep going."
He continued walking, one foot in front of the other. His face was burning. His arms were burning. His legs were burning. The sun was staring down at him from the sky like some hellfire bent on destruction. It wasn't even noon, but the lack of air conditioning and shade was making his head ache and his mouth water. He took another drink and was horrified to find he'd somehow managed to drink all of the water. He was squinting against the light, but still he continued stumbling forwards.
He didn't know how long he'd been walking when he finally spotted a shining spot on the horizon. He turned his steps toward it, and felt his heart begin to pound as it resolved itself into some sort of vehicle.
"Over there! Hello!" Arthur waved his arms above his head. "Hello!" A jeep was coming towards him, dusty from traveling. "Hello! Mayday, or... S.O.S.!" It altered it's path slightly. Arthur sat down on the sand and waited for it to come, a more genuine smile appearing on his face.
It certainly didn't take long; in fact, as the vehicle got closer, it seemed to be speeding up. Arthur stood back up, trying to figure out if he ought to get out of the way. Just as he'd decided to jump to the side, the jeep stopped and the door opened.
The eyepatch immediately caught Arthur's attention, but he quickly looked away from it. No need to antagonize his rescuer, after all! "What the hell are
you
doing out
here
?" muttered the driver under his breath. If Arthur hadn't practiced listening for those kinds of things, he'd probably never have heard it. "Who are you?"
Arthur's eyebrows drew together. Hadn't the man just recognized him? Well, it didn't matter, did it? Long ago memories of his mother's insistence on the rules of etiquette did their job, as he decided that politeness meant he had to introduce himself. "Arthur Emmerich. I... I work over that way," he said, motioning vaguely towards the path back to the base. "I was supposed to be going to the airport in Riyadh, but my car broke down. I've been trying to find civilization ever since."
The single light eye narrowed, but otherwise, the face gave no indication of disbelief. Arthur smiled, then winced. The sunburn wasn't good. "Get in," said the driver finally. "You should know better than to get out of your car. Wasn't your radio working?"
"No, I... I guess I should have checked it before I went out." Arthur opened the door and sat down carefully. "So... do you think you might bring me to Riyadh? Well... or anywhere I can rent a car and get to an airport myself. I don't want to take you out of your way, Mr...?" Arthur closed the door.
The other man got into the car, his heavier weight causing the jeep to bounce. "How long have you been out there, Emmerich?"
"Well, I... oh, well, that sandstorm hit... that's about when the car broke down... must have gotten sand in the engine or something, and..."
"And that's all you've had to drink?" The icy eyes flickered to the flask of water.
"Yes." The eye was staring at him. Arthur licked his lips. "There was more in the car, but-"
"Here." A bottle of water was thrust at Arthur.
Arthur stared at the water for a moment, then reached out and took it. "Thanks." The other man turned the air conditioner on full. "I didn't catch your name...?" Arthur tried again.
The jeep started moving. "You can call me Big Boss."
"What kind of a name is
that
?" Arthur would have looked at Big Boss a bit more carefully, but that would have involved turning his head. He had the feeling that the sunburn on his neck was not likely to allow it. Big Boss didn't seem to have an answer anyhow. "Okay. Well, then, if you could just drop me off at the nearest town, I-"
"You are Arthur Emmerich. No family contact for the past six years. You have a doctorate in mechanical engineering and a masters in chemistry. You know Russian, German and English, but you don't know any of the Middle Eastern languages. Your expertise in weapons is limited to how they are made, and you have no survival skills to speak of."
Arthur's head snapped around, and as expected, the sunburn protested painfully. He tried to ignore it. "If you knew all that, then why-"
"Something that isn't in my report on
you
was whether or not you are a good liar. Now I know. Why were you out in the desert, Mr. Emmerich?" Arthur looked out the window. His reflection was staring at him from the side mirror as he tried to compose a response. "Drink the water."
Drink the...? Arthur looked stupidly at the bottle. It wasn't poisoned, was it? Some of the guards liked playing games. He'd seen it happen. "I just want out."
"Right." Big Boss stopped the car. "You want out, then get out. Take the water with you. The nearest town is... 10 miles that way. If you walk quickly, you might get there before nightfall."
"10 miles?" whispered Arthur. "I won't make it that far." He turned back to Big Boss.
Big Boss nodded and looked into Arthur's face. "Right. It's unlikely." Arthur swallowed. "I don't know how you got out of the compound by yourself. Believe me when I say that I
do
care but it isn't
you
who will be punished for it." Arthur nodded. He wasn't entirely sure he believed that, but... well, this Big Boss guy looked like he had what it took to kill a man and leave him for whatever carrion eaters there were around here. There really wasn't a reason to lie. "Now, tell me that you won't try to leave by yourself again."
There was only one possible answer to that. Arthur didn't want to get pushed out of the car. "I won't. It... it was an impulse. I regretted it as soon as I did it."
Big Boss stared harder, if that was possible, then nodded. "Fine." He turned back to the road and started driving. "And you're dehydrated. So drink."
Arthur looked suspiciously at the water again. He really
was
thirsty. And, after all, Big Boss could have killed him already. He took a sip from the bottle, then a deeper gulp, then finally drained the water. Big Boss reached into the back and pulled out another, pushing it into Arthur's hands. "How much have you had to drink this week?"
Arthur shrugged. "Well, Kayin... I mean, Lieutenant Shet... once a day, he has us refill these. And we take our meals with the regular army. I don't know, it's not like anyone's counting, right?" Big Boss made a non-committal noise. Arthur took another sip of the water. "They're going to kill me when we get back. Even if you're one of them, I don't think you can promise me-"
"I'm not promising anything. It's a statement of fact. I outrank them." Arthur peered at the man. He didn't see anything at all that looked like insignia... In fact, he'd mistaken the man for a civilian, though, he supposed with muscles like
that
he really should have known better. "You're looking for my credentials?" asked Big Boss with an air of disbelief. "I'm special services. We don't all go around in uniforms, especially when we're not on a base."
"Oh, right." Special services? He'd been picked up by
special services
? But they were sadistic! Everything he'd heard about them said that if they didn't kill deserters on sight, they shipped them off to... to Siberia or something! And Arthur wasn't even a deserter. "W-why aren't I d-dead?"
"Emmerich, stop asking stupid questions. You're not army, you don't need to be an idiot."
"R-right." Damned stutter. "A-are they going to r-recognize you?"
Big Boss gave him a sidelong glance. "Someone called this morning. He'll have told them."
"The connection got cut off. Ocelot might not have had time to..." Arthur faltered. "I was just passing by the doorway when..."
Big Boss smiled ever so slightly. "I won't call you on it. But I ought to change, if they haven't got the message. Soldiers won't even look at my orders if they don't think I'm one of them. I really don't like regular army." He gave Arthur a one-sided smile. "Don't tell them I said that." Arthur laughed back nervously as Big Boss pulled the jeep over. "You stay inside. Drink some more water." Arthur nodded and obediently took another sip.
As soon as Big Boss was out of the jeep, Arthur opened the glove compartment. Several medals... He paused to puzzle out the words on one of them: 'Proletariats of the world, unite!' Arthur smirked. A star with American colors for a ribbon puzzled him. A silvery disc with a red ribbon and Russian writing... It wasn't particularly informative.
Some books in various languages... all of them seemed to be about war; he couldn't really understand them, except for the Russian one on skirmishing tactics and the English translation of the Art of War. He opened them to check for a name or orders, but no secret bits of paper were inside any of them. Arthur put them back carefully and closed the panel.
He looked into the rear-view mirror to see the other man still changing. Unlike Arthur, Big Boss' skin was tanned. His muscles were large, and his scars were not confined to his face. "It must have been wishful thinking that he wasn't a military man," said Arthur glumly. "The guns should have tipped me off." Big Boss had strapped ammunition all over his body and had guns at his ankles as well as his waist. The knife on his arm enhanced the image of a battle hardened soldier.
The uniform made him look deceptively weaker. It seemed odd the way the material flowed around the muscles to de-emphasize them. Arthur reached down to the floor, wincing as he checked under his seat for anything of consequence, but there was nothing. He pulled his arm back up just in time to feel the vehicle rock again as Big Boss got in. "Pass me my medals, would you?" Arthur automatically reached for the glove compartment before pausing and pulling his hand back. Had Big Boss been watching him while he'd checked the man's medals? Should he just not touch the damned things? "In the compartment in front of you," he prompted. Arthur pulled them out nervously and opened the box again.
"Order of the Red Banner. Impressive," said Arthur.
"It's a medal. Everyone likes to see medals." Big Boss started driving again while pinning the medal to his uniform. "Give me the one for combat service." Arthur looked between the two left and handed Big Boss the silver medallion with faded Russian engravings on it. Big Boss took it and pinned it on. "Now put the box away."
"But what about the-"
In less than a second, a gun was out and pointing at Arthur's chest. Without taking his eyes from the terrain in front of him, Big Boss spoke. "Put the box away, Emmerich."
Arthur was nothing if not practical when a gun was pointed at him. He nodded, put the box back, and closed the panel with a
snap
.
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Brothers in Arms