Chapter 180
Chapter 180
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: Vine
Chapter: 10
Chapter Title: Lead and Silver Coins (34)
-----------------------------------------------------------------
****
Drip—
“...That Orpheus bastard or whatever he is, what a fucking piece of shit. Nearly blew my head off.”
Ian wiped the blood trickling from one ear and muttered quietly. Charging into the midst of the snipers and unleashing hell had gone fine at first, but the enemies clung to the valley slope, staying put without firing back until their ammo ran dry. For all his grand entrance, he hadn’t inflicted much damage. He’d grabbed their attention and halted their sniper fire on the outpost, sure... but that just meant every gun barrel swung his way.
He’d leaped out with gusto into the dented truck bed, only to get pummeled by ricocheting bullets hammering the bulletproof panels for a good ten minutes. No matter how hard he racked his brain, nothing as bizarre as their tactic came to mind, so right when he figured half-dead was good enough for a charge—
Screeeeeeeeech—!!!!
A bizarre resonance and light erupted from beyond the rocky valley, paralyzing his thoughts.
When he opened his eyes, his vision filled with a vast plain littered with burning, shattered corpses. Atop the mountain of bodies stood a wooden pillar, his wife nailed to it.
A familiar sight. A hallucination he’d seen multiple times a day back when he’d lost his wife and lived like a madman. Back then, he’d carried a small pocketknife and carved up his thigh every time one hit. Old Man Woo would stitch the wounds before scars could form, grumbling that if he kept it up, he’d plate his thigh in steel too.
Unfortunately, he was naked in this corpse pit, without his usual guns and knife. As far as he remembered, there was only one way out of the hallucination like this.
The scar-covered man climbed the stairs of bone and guts toward his dangling wife.
Torture marks scarred her hands and feet, her face swollen beyond recognition from beatings. Ian froze in place, nailed down by the horror, yet he couldn’t stop the longing for her from welling up.
“...Molly.”
“...I...a...”
She lifted her head from the pillar and opened her mouth. The tip of her tongue was gone. Of course, he’d never seen her like this, but the blood caked around her mouth from her final moments was enough to torment the survivor Ian with nightmares every day. That gentle, fragile woman, enduring enough pain from Dome’s thugs to take her own life. Just for being with him. Just for staying true to his heart. Meeting the cruelest end of all.
“...I missed you.”
Splash. Splash.
Ian couldn’t stop himself from approaching her. Even in this gruesome state. Even knowing how it ended, the emotions overpowering his control drove him forward.
“A world without you... it’s still so damn boring. Nothing but black and gray, no real sense I’m alive. If you saw me now, you’d think I was someone else—I’ve done some crazy shit. Jumped into armed enemies with just a shotgun, blew up C4 right in their faces. Drank myself to the brink of death, smoked till I forgot my own name. Sometimes that made the colorless world feel alive. Impulse-control freak Ian Desmond, soaked in booze and smokes. If I confessed that to you now, you’d probably slap me silly.”
What would Molly say if she saw his life in Metal Gear form?
‘She’d throw on that long white nurse skirt she always wore, hands on hips, eyes blazing, yelling [What the hell are you doing?!] Whether he was a handsome stud or a rugged brute with a jaw full of beard.’
“Khkhkh... that’d be a sight...”
Splash.
He finally reached her feet. Tiny soles, small enough for one hand, marked by tools that had shredded them.
“But these days... yeah. I can tell light from shadow now. Found a guy who’s not boring. Manly. Got guts. And crazier than me, most of all.”
Even as he spoke, his body steadily followed the memory scene toward her. Those little feet nailed to the wooden pillar. Cold as a corpse—he just wanted to hold them.
“I... missed you so much. I love you like the day we met, Molly.”
The moment his hand touched her foot.
Boom—
His wife exploded in a thunderous blast, shards raining into the corpse pile. Some splattered onto him.
The iron man’s chest shattered in her bloody embrace, hell descending upon him. He wanted to gouge out his eyes, but the nightmare wasn’t over. He had to keep going.
The wooden pillar where she’d hung. A small fire smoldered beneath. A charred child’s shape.
“Leoni...”
My hell. The prison I forged myself.
My beloved child. I wanted to give you more love than anyone. Our days together were far too short.
Clutching the tiny charcoal heap completed his nightmare. The fallen corpses rose, snarling and charging him.
He could barely handle two deaths, yet he’d killed enough to make a mountain. How could he ever atone?
Amid the pain surging from head to toe, he gazed at his remaining daughter. His child crumbling to ash in his hands. Amid it, a tiny white pistol with two small feet.
His final refuge. His wife’s keepsake, the one that made him think ‘one more time’ whenever suicide tempted him.
In the wave of oncoming ghosts, Ian quietly pressed the barrel to his temple.
If he drowned in memory like this... maybe he could stay with her forever in this horror. Tempting as that was.
“...Take care of Leoni. My love.”
Bang!
With one gunshot, the man collapsed. He would never die. No matter what.
No religion, but he firmly believed in a heaven prepared for his wife and daughter—and a hell for men like him.
At least this world to heaven was closer than heaven to hell.
He’d never be parted from his family again. So he wouldn’t die.
****
Ian snapped out of the nightmare he’d endured hundreds of times, back to reality. His head throbbed like blood was pooling, ready to burst, so he jammed a finger in his ear and gouged the eardrum without hesitation.
Splat!
“Guhhh!”
A ridiculous thought—poking a hole might release the pressure—but the sharp pain cleared his boiling brain bit by bit.
‘Body’s... a total rag. No major wounds, but it’s stiff like I got electro-tortured.’
A weapon that kills over such a wide area in the shittiest way without firing or exploding. How could anything be so fucking awful? If it were here, he’d beat it to scrap, pile on C4, and blow it sky-high.
With trembling hands, he pulled out a mirror to scout outside. No sharp gunshots, no tense breaths. Makes sense. Exposed to that soul-crushing weapon, the snipers sprawled outside took it worse than him in the truck bed. They all had maxed high-level personal shields like him, but he’d nearly died, so anyone without iron will was probably gone. Horrific enough to kill, but it saved his life by wiping the enemy... maybe a net positive.
Bang!
Crack!
“...Not all dead. One guy. Figures who.”
Ian grumbled at his hand studded with mirror shards and drew his pistol from the holster.
Smith & Wesson, .44 Magnum revolver. Professor and Bex had nagged like in-laws right before departure, forcing him to pack it.
‘At least it takes Magnum rounds—that was my best compromise. Should’ve picked something gayer, smaller and precise.’
His shotgun felt like a ton on his back; arms too weak to lift it. Only this lighter pistol was aimable now. Sure, something even lighter was in his pocket... but that was too precious for now. That one’s for me.
After a deep breath, Ian kicked open the half-shredded door and hurled himself out. Target: rock cover by the bed door. Legs failed; he rolled pitifully. Luck: opponent wasn’t steady either—shots went wide.
“Air’s... fucking nauseating.”
Chest tight like it’d burst; no need to guess why. That eerie noise dragging him into old nightmares came from the weird stone altar, flashing unholy light.
Whiz! Crack!
Bullets that’d flown dumbly before now zeroed precisely on his rock cover.
“Mikhail Pletnev... still a goddamn wizard with a gun. Thought you were just a sniper—when’d you pick up a pistol!”
“Pistols were my longest-used weapon. Worked as a cop before the war.”
“Ha, you, whose specialty is popping heads, a cop! Victims’d roll in their graves!”
“Not really. They deserved to die, so my job’s the same now as then.”
Mikhail Pletnev. The cop who’d ‘strayed from promotion.’
‘Mikhail. Why’d you kill him?’
‘Wanted for two armed murders, five assaults, seven special robberies, reaching for his gun.’
‘That’s what I’m saying! I told you not to antagonize him—deal instead! Plan was to release him for his gang’s routes and base. But you slapped cuffs on him first, so he panicked!’
‘If released... who pays for his crimes?’
‘You fucking lunatic... Acting all righteous on the small fry. Who catches the big fish? Doesn’t add up? Nabbing one dealer saves way more than some punk. That’s the smart play! Eh!’
‘Yes.’
Mikhail answered without hesitation. The world was too complex for his mind, especially police work tangled in crime and victims’ grudges.
Simple man. Sin, pay. Context and ties meant no one got caught. He just grabbed sinners in order.
Even throttling inmates from the chief’s bad side.
Even shooting a commander selling out allies to defect mid-war.
Even torching a meeting room plotting civilian massacres.
Sinners paid fittingly.
When friend Alexander Young formed Dome, he joined enforcement to watch them.
Alexander Young. If the world were full of such leaders, my simple justice would be easier. Unlike Mikhail, who averted eyes from complexity, Alexander faced it all, seeking justice. Mikhail respected him as much as he felt friendship.
That’s why betrayal was inevitable. Alexander was far greater, more needed than a dog chasing bones or sinners. Weighing lives, he’d choose his friend’s over his own.
Boom—!
Crunch!
Mikhail saw the rock chip under the pistol-like roar; Ian wanted close quarters.
“Ashfield. First I saw you, I knew you couldn’t be left alive. No matter what.”
Lost men? Civilians burned alive at his whim?
No. Deeper reason.
That cold gaze. Businesslike demeanor through atrocities, no guilt, no mad glee. Mikhail realized: pure evil. At least judging him, his simple justice matched the world’s complex one.
Dashing between Dome and Raptor battlefields, helpless against his massacres several times. Then the devil vanished; Mikhail raged like a madman.
He judged whining or vengeful criminals within law, but one exception: merciless kill.
Criminals truly repenting, begging forgiveness.
Forgiving themselves by flimsy standards before paying? Escape. He killed them before they lightened their load.
Click, whiz—!
‘Eleven o’clock, second rock. No, nine straight ahead. No movement, no trace.’
Drew grenade, fought shaky vision, but busted head kept it blurring.
Swish—
Kablooey!
Amid blast and shards, quick footsteps approached.
‘Damn. Nine?’
Clank—
Crunch!
Too bad: boot stomped his wrist faster than he swung the gun.
Not the sleek killer from memory—a half-metal face, muscled body.
“Ashfield. You’ve... changed too much.”
“Ptoo! They say ten years change mountains. For flesh-and-blood, five’s plenty. You haven’t changed a bit. Brothel brute. Thought working with Dome’d put you shoulder-to-shoulder with me someday. Guess we still only prep lead for each other.”
Mikhail eyed Ian’s state: mirror-shard hand, bloodied ear, grenade-scraped leg dangling.
On the verge of collapse, yet his tone was relaxed, smirk playing.
Devil reborn, past buried, new man.
Mikhail couldn’t stand it.
When BDSM news first hit communities, he didn’t recognize. Just that Ian name stuck, collecting intel unconsciously.
Even as they were hailed Dome heroes, prefs for combat, looks posted—he ignored the ominous vibe. No way. Alexander Young wouldn’t praise this era’s worst killer as city guardian.
Months convincing himself Ashfield was delusion, then news of 38th District arrival. Late-night visit, face-to-face. Changed looks, but those deep blue ruthless eyes—Mikhail couldn’t betray his creed.
No resentment for Young. He’d found better justice than Mikhail’s. Just a wayward cop botching again.
“Sin more, fine. Hide from past, understandable. But you... you can’t turn good. Not you.”
Click.
Revolver cocked, lead bullet facing him. Mikhail spoke.
“No matter how many you save, how much happiness you spread, your sins won’t vanish unpaid. If sinners forgive themselves and go good—who bears the dead and kin’s grudge? Who gave you, the world, right to deny victims’ pain!”
Cough, hack!
Ian steadied his wobbling body, pistol aimed down at blood-vomiting Mikhail. Crudely smashed broken leg, powder-marked temple grazed by bullet.
Leg: obvious, fist-sized bloody rock nearby. Temple: near-suicide, barely turned barrel.
‘Wondered why a peerless sniper couldn’t distance. Would’ve died anyway.’
Blood streamed down the hill like a brook. Body like that. Facing death, unwavering rage.
“You... hah. Yeah. That’s you.”
What kind? Frustratingly good. Not hate—pleading, if I go good, who resents me? Like kin seeing father’s killer as repentant village pastor. Too upright for answers. Not belief—feels it. That’s Mikhail Pletnev.
Enemy now, so blow head off, check friends’ bodies soon. But words choked him; trigger too heavy.
“...Last clear-up before you go: by your insane standards, maybe I’m good now. Nah, still bad. Killed daily, no regrets—just glee over easy cash, psychopath.”
“...”
“Few days back, slaughtered 38th patrol guys living decent. Tons public, personal. So don’t worry ’bout my heaven—”
“...Can’t pull.”
“Hm?”
“Trigger heavy? Feel it now? After all that killing? Not redemption, what?”
“...Fuck.”
“...Hah. Khkhkh... hahahahaha!”
Instantly, Mikhail read conflict and torment on Ian’s face—unbearable glee.
“Oh... not self-forgiveness for satisfaction. Real... truly good now. Disgustingly changed, Ashfield.”
Sometimes his simple justice aligned with the world. Ian Desmond’s debt wasn’t just dying resented. Unwittingly good, chased by past sins amid future kills—feeling that weight endlessly. Mikhail laughed imagining his pained days ahead. Even his death would haunt memory, judging him.
“Shoot.”
“...Fuck. Never said this lifetime, once only: think again. Killing you’ll haunt my dreams.”
“Huhuhu... cough! ...If you don’t, I will.”
Click!
Drip.... Drip....
Powerless hand couldn’t lift barrel from blood pool, raised Beretta instead.
“Damn it! Don’t wanna kill guys like you! If hell judge nags why I killed rare saint [Mikhail Pletnev], what do I say! Debts piling sky-high already!”
“...For 137 murders, 569 abets, 2895 illegal detains, 391 assaults, and... one manslaughter, I executed in your lazy stead...”
He’d reached limit. Contradiction. Betraying creed to uphold it—sparing killer Mikhail Pletnev. Complex world releasing him at last.
“...Lower gun.”
“You’ll live... forever chased by past...”
“Lower it.”
“Thankful... to be part of your life’s punishment...”
“Lower it! Bastard! Just die pretty alone!”
Tremble.... Click.
“May your remaining days hold not one happy. Ashfield.”
“You... crazy fuckiiiiing!!!!”
Bang—
One shot rang.
Past-bound man died; past-laden man lived.
“...God... fucking damn God... If you got conscience, drop one smoke... please...”
Ian slumped beside the corpse, fumbling lost cig case amid battle, deep sigh.
Far off, hill beyond: convoy armed with weird gear approaching field.
38th District gov mark. Rad-proof, anti-weapon geared up heavy.
Just as that damn light faded, like sunset.
“Worse timing than western cavalry or Hollywood cop ending...”
Ian snapped his pocket signal stick alight last, then blacked out.
Exhausted now. All done—wanted to go home, snack like Ezel said.
****
****