A network, virtually untraceable for the sheer amount of diversions created through each and every steps of a slow, tedious, process, ensuring matters of the highest confidentiality would remain as such, between solely their interested parties, had now fulfilled its purpose. It was loathing that seized him at the mere reminder that it was one of Zero’s numerous arrangements, ones a deceiver would play his own scripted part in, a leading, yet covert, role, for one man’s sake: Big Boss, an eminent soldier dead to the eyes of the world, sunk at the bottom of the ocean floor alongside the ruins of his ambitions. A LEGEND will rise once more, no matter the means he, they, were to resort to, regardless of the excruciating wait they would go through.
Distaste, however, hardly erased his appreciation of skill, masterful being the sole adjective coming to mind as countless of convulsed procedures had lead to a long overdue, encounter in the utmost secrecy with whom had stood next to John himself as the sub-commander of Militaires Sans Frontières. HOW IRONIC, had it been for circumstances he had not once dared envision, (although they had never been an impossibility), to be the start of a collaboration he was certain would to last for months, YEARS, between him and none other than Kazuhira Miller, men of war brought together though loyalty to a comatose “friend”. An abandoned Soviet facility in Cuba had been their rendez-vous point, a handful of officers belonging to the Ocelot unit having followed their Major patrolling the jungle to ensure no mouse attempted snooping around, albeit more as a preventive measure to a near non-existent threat. “So we meet at last, Kazuhira Miller. The name’s Ocelot. I’m your contact.”
