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Ten minutes was far too long for Hal to be on his knees in this field of frozen white. His hands had gone numb long ago and sticking them back into his pockets did no good. He understood that the blood ruining his lab coat wasn’t his, that his own heart still beat in its awkward jackrabbiting way like it didn’t know how to move without stepping on some other bodily function. His knees would go and his chest would tense, his lungs freeze. For one researcher-turned-hostage this day had proved to be too exciting to be fun. In fact, kidnapped or no there was no reason for him to be out here—one slight Alaskan blizzard later and he’d be up to his ears in five feet of newly fallen snow facing the dogs he’d so lovingly fed.
It was strange, though. Hal felt as though he’d been here before—blood on his hands, Snake’s body crumpled by his side. Both arms were askew, his PSG1 sitting in an open palm still hot to the touch with its last shots. Spent bullets dotted melted frost. He didn’t need to look or take a pulse. The back of his head registered the perfect hole in the man’s Adam’s apple just fine. Truth be told he knew how he was supposed to feel. There went his best chance of leaving this hellhole of an archipelago, his most reliable link to the outside world.
Again that pulse gnawing his stomach. Was he mourning this death, or his own? Now knowing what he did about his pet project, was there anything left to do with himself? All the big head honchos at Armstech didn’t care what his motivations were. Like any commissioned artist worth their salt the final product just needed to look good. Give us a tool capable of ultimate defense and you’ll make rent. Maybe afford that new steelbook box set you were jonesing for, right, kiddo? They’d laugh, Hal knew they would. The extra imagining came when they high-fived, bumped elbows and shouldered the gangly nerd aside.
He rubbed at his sore throat and considered following Wolf back to the comms tower behind them. Yelling himself hoarse at her back had done him no good—she hadn’t even looked his way when she’d stooped over the body. He’d heard the call go out over her radio with confirmation of her kill, the braying wolves at her back as they sidled up to their alpha and took comfort in her good health. Were it any other day Hal would’ve asked about them: she was at least cordial when her four-legged friends were the topic of the day.
Come to think, my last conversation with anyone, really, was so… dramatic. Asking about love and all. What am I doing, some naïve guy fresh out of MIT kneeling with blood on his hands and pants he hasn’t bothered to change out of?
This was it, wasn’t it? Liquid had the nuke, their demands hadn’t been met, and there was no one with the derring-do or sheer balls-to-the-wall stupidity left to try and interfere. Maybe his time was up, too, since he and all the other scientists were definitely disposable. And that wasn’t even counting the ninja he’d seen earlier looking like the abandoned stepchild of Cyclops and a disgruntled convention cosplayer. Was that rude? He didn’t care. He was past the point of manners, now. He’d watched his hope die once already. Building it back up again might be a waste.
Weren’t they all just little toys, marching around to the tune of a piper no one could find? Either way, things had to change.
Game Over — Continue?
Terciopelo (Bothrops asper)
This pit viper species inhabits the wet and humid valleys of Central and South America. Most commonly seen in areas that exhibit strong dry periods, this solitary snake prefers to be active during the wet and warmer months of the year. Though nocturnal they are commonly seen basking in the afternoon sun near rivers and streams. (Even reptiles condemned by the Bible need a break!)
It was extremely difficult not to define himself by his scars, his losses. From what he could remember they were tallying up pretty quick—he just had to glance at a pool and he couldn’t run. Unfortunately whatever first-aid training Hal had received after the incident had never covered two clean rifle shots, right in the ten-ring, and it wasn’t the greatest idea to start learning now. The questions of possibility were impossible to ignore—all the “how”s and “why”s of a child who had yet to understand just how brutal things were yet to become, to remain.
This time Snake had managed a few words. He’d been a little hard to hear over squealing winds whistling across pack ice by this time of year was dense enough to ride out over. Maybe if he could somehow make a break for it with the stealth camo, find a guard who was too lazy to close the doors behind him, he could avoid going out the way all the others had. Jury-rig a boat and paddle away. Somehow someone would have a flare and he’d borrow it. Good, good, make a plan. The way Snake would, and it wasn’t like Hal trusted himself to do anything productive without one.
Hal liked to think he was good at reading lips. Something that began with a “D”?
Obviously, he would have to try again.
Game Over — Continue?
Pictured above: B. asper, El Oro Province, Ecuador. Note the S-shaped defense display and flattened body. While a fierce predator of terrestrial mammals, they often flee when danger presents itself, though some are known to turn around suddenly and defend themselves when necessary. (The terciopelo is also known as “cuatro narices”—“four noses”—in Spanish. Lots of names, as befitting a bloodthirsty, duplicitous animal. How many friends did you kill yesterday? What were you doing years ago, when you wanted so badly for it all to make sense?)
God, if this didn’t beat all. This time none of the shots fired had hit their mark yet Snake was already down several liters of blood and short all his medical supplies. It looked like he hadn’t taken advantage of the lull in combat to restock or even look after himself. From the looks of it, he wasn’t rocking any heavy-duty gear aside from the missile launcher he’d set aside for the duration. Just himself, his rifle, and whatever slugs the nearest guard had shot into him on the way out into the snow.
Shame he won’t ever use it again, thought Hal, now morose. He was parked at the base of the tower peeking around a palleted crate while Wolf and Snake exchanged shots. From this vantage point it wasn’t clear who was closest to winning, but with two snipers you wouldn’t realize who came out on top until someone’s apricot—the medulla oblongata—burst overripe. He shuddered at the image. How comical he must’ve looked.
Was he right to be this upset? The more it happened, the more it felt like something was screwing with them. None of those lives had been his own. He’d never asked to see this man beaten so heavily time and time again. Was this all a play, some great tragedy? Was he on drugs? Was he coming off of an injection? How many of the same guy had to kick the bucket before things made sense again? This was fucked up. Closed his eyes, looked again and there he’d be. Standing, shooting, calling radio support.
The body toppled over. For a fraction of a moment Hal thought it was the woman across the snowfield but he saw her rifle’s laser sight, the muzzle focus and kick back once, then again. A two-tap, just to be sure. Professionals were always sure, and despite what her penchant for cleavage in subzero weather might suggest Wolf was nothing if not professional.
Well. Maybe next time.
Game Over — Continue?
Did you know that many species of snake, similar to various types of octopuses and the way their limbs can be made to move with strong enough ionic membrane interactions, can still reflexively inject venom through their fangs post-mortem? How fun! How funny. And since their limp pitiless bodies are unable to regulate venom load, such bites are often more life-threatening to trespassers than a regular self-defense bite from a live animal.
How funny you leave the worst wound when you’re dead.
“Wait, hold on.” He’d caught up to the soldier faster this time running on legs that had nearly refused to support his weight. After his little jaunt to the prison cells this was almost too much. He was having a lot of those lately, those near-breakages. “You have to—I need to ask you something.”
“What?”
“Do you know how it feels to die?”
The man grunted. His eyes narrowed. Hal felt himself shrink back at the pressure. “What is this, all of a sudden?”
“N-No, it’s not—Look, I need an answer. You, you walk into a situation like this with your head up high and I start to wonder what you’ve prepared for.” Somehow Hal didn’t feel comfortable bringing up the truth. He might just throw up again. “I’m no soldier, but you seem more than ready to kill the love of my life.” Or at least try. Over and over. Or let yourself just keel over. Some of those tactics you’ve tried multiple times, no dice!
Why was he saying this? He barely knew her but from the first look he couldn’t help but be spellbound. Stockholm’s an ugly, ugly thing. Maybe in the back of his mind he knew why Snake gave the answer he did because he didn’t feel all that subtle about his admiration of her. Some of his colleagues knew, he knew. Snake probably picked up on it just fine.
The hardness softened to a degree, but Snake stood his ground. “This isn’t anything personal, if that’s what you were asking.”
“Then what would it take to be so?”
Snake reared back and appraised Hal. His eyes seemed different, as though he’d received different contacts. Hal didn’t know if this man needed help with his sight but maybe glasses were too much of a liability for someone in his profession. “Few more rounds of Ocelot’s shock therapy might do it.”
“Then, then I hope that doesn’t happen. For your sake.” The stakes were higher than one man, Hal knew, but the sinking in his diaphragm was only getting deeper. Maybe this time he might turn away and wait to check on the survivor after; he could only tolerate so many blood splatters in a day. And last time Wolf hadn’t bothered to dispose of the body. Maybe she hoped her pack would take care of the clean-up.
“Hey,” Snake muttered. He must’ve seen Hal’s shudder. “You okay?”
“I—Yeah, I’m fine. Feeling great. No heart pain, no anything. All green.” He didn’t even know what kind of injury Snake wanted to see before treatment was necessary, but he still seemed pretty spooked. Skittish, maybe. The corpse of the DARPA chief hadn’t done him any favors and no one was forgetting the sight of those maggots, a pale off-brand yellow digging deep into cold flesh. “I wish it didn’t have to be like this.” Real “kid in a candy store” of you, Hal. You want any other cute little things while he’s gone?
Snake patted his upper arm, half-conciliatory. Hal saw his face shift as though he had caught a whiff of spoiled meat, and his mouth moved. “Sorry, kid.”
He was asking for too much. He couldn’t change Snake’s mission if he tried and he’d tried a lot already. Did the man remember? Hal had never bothered to look very close at each fight. It seemed a little late to be worrying about time loops and metaphysic nonsense when he was already smack dab in the center of it all. Would deviance help? He stared at his hands. What could these limbs do that he hadn’t already done short of learning how to kill? Maybe that could work, if sufficiently different from their initial timeline. He had the perfect teacher.
“Hey, Snake?” Hal looked up.
The mercenary had one foot out the door. A blast of winter chill carried on metal. He glanced back, and his headband tails whipped about him. The cliff that was his jaw set in a thin line.
“Don’t die.”
Game Over — Continue(?)
The fer-de-lance’s venom is potent enough to override the natural resistance found in opossums, which are often unaffected by the venom of other pit vipers and rattlesnakes. It’s theorized that this resistance and subsequent lethality hints at an evolutionary arms race as either prey or predator seeks to ensure a reliable source of food in one another.
You can only win—or lose—for so long. Either way, something has to give. Maybe it should be you, just this once.
How about it?