The desert night was eerily quiet, save for the distant rumble of jet engines and the staccato pulse of artillery echoing across the hills. Snake sat cross-legged on a rusted observation post high above the no-man’s land between Iran and Israel, chewing a half-burnt cigar. His bandana fluttered slightly in the dry wind, the glow from the distant explosions painting his face in red and orange hues.
“Fireworks,” he muttered, squinting into the horizon where flashes of light pierced the darkness. “Just like the Fourth of July… except no one’s free.”
He adjusted his infrared scope and watched a formation of drones arc like swarms of angry wasps over the border, their payloads illuminating the sky in a devastating light show. Somewhere down there, children screamed. Somewhere else, generals cheered.
Otacon’s voice crackled in his ear.
“Snake, that’s not a battlefield—it’s a graveyard in progress. What the hell are we even doing out here?”
Snake exhaled.
“Watching history repeat itself. They call it prophecy. I call it theater. And we’re the janitors.”
A massive detonation rocked the valley below. Snake didn’t flinch. He’d seen too many cities burn from rooftops, too many empires fall with the push of a button. This wasn’t war anymore. It was ritual.
“They’re fighting over holy land, Otacon. But the land isn’t holy. The blood is.”
Otacon sighed.
“You think we can stop it?”
“No.” Snake lit another cigar off a burning fragment that had landed nearby. “But we can witness it. Someone has to remember the truth after the smoke clears.”
Behind him, the stars blinked coldly. Below, fire danced on the Earth like judgment day had come early.
“Snake out.”
