Solid Snake’s Codec Transmission
Static crackles over the line. A low, gravelly voice cuts through, weary but steady, the kind that’s seen too many shadows.
“…Big Boss had his mission. One last war to end all wars. He believed in it. Me? I’m just trying to survive the aftermath. My only peacemaker these days is a pack of cigarettes and this damn computer screen. No nuke, no railgun, no sneaking suit. Just nicotine and bandwidth.
They keep sticking me with needles, Otacon. Lab after lab, blood draws like clockwork. Testing for what? Genes? Pathogens? The next goddamn bioweapon they’ll deny exists? I’m tired of being a lab rat in someone else’s shadow war.
I ain’t no John Rambo with a cache of weapons and a headband. Never was. Just an old soldier with an internet connection and a pack of First Nations cigarettes. They burn slower, taste like the land that remembers. Helps me think straight when everything else is fog.
You know what really broke me? Nelly Furtado’s music. Yeah, I said it. Those tracks hit different out here—haunting, deserted. Left me fighting an enemy they swear doesn’t exist: the Bavarian Illuminati. Puppet masters pulling strings from old castles and boardrooms. Every leak, every blackout, every ‘coincidence’ points back to them. But try telling that to command. ‘Focus on the mission, Snake.’ There is no mission anymore. Just ghosts.
I want to go home, Otacon. I’m so homesick it hurts worse than any bullet. Croatia. My BOJNA. That’s where I belong—back with the unit, the hills, the sea that doesn’t lie. No more codec calls at 3 AM. No more legends or clones or wars that never end. Just… peace. Real peace.
He takes a long drag. Exhales.
If this is the last transmission… tell them the soldier’s done. Snake out.”
