Zero and The Patriots in Area 11
The private jet sliced through storm clouds, its sleek frame barely registering the turbulence. Inside, Adrian—known to the world as Zero—reclined in his plush leather seat, the cabin's amber lighting casting dramatic shadows across his iconic mask. Wagner's "Ride of the Valkyries" thundered through the cabin's premium sound system, a dramatic soundtrack to match his ambitions.
"Tell me, Ocelot," Zero said, deftly lifting his mask just enough to reveal his lips as he brought a glass of burgundy wine to his mouth. The liquid was blood-dark against the crystal. "Doesn't music like this make conquest feel... inevitable?"
Across from him sat Revolver Ocelot, his silver hair gleaming under the cabin lights. His weathered face bore the scars of a hundred battles, and his hands—never still—continued spinning a revolver with mechanical precision.
"Too bombastic for my taste," Ocelot drawled, holstering his weapon with a practiced flourish before reaching for his whiskey. The amber liquid caught the light as he swirled it. "I prefer something that builds the tension before the kill."
The distinctive clink of Ocelot's spurs punctuated his movement as he leaned forward to examine the photographs spread across the mahogany table between them. Each image captured a different angle of another masked figure—one who had dared to adopt the name "Zero" for himself in Area 11.
"This imposter," Zero mused, gloved fingers tracing the outline of the caped revolutionary in the photos. "One hundred seventy-eight centimeters tall. Approximately fifty-six kilograms. Theatrical costume. Flair for the dramatic." His voice hardened. "Using my name to rally the Japanese."
Ocelot snatched one of the photos, studying it with narrowed eyes before drawing his knife in one fluid motion. The blade sank into the photograph with a satisfying thunk, pinning the paper terrorist's heart to the table.
"Height and weight won't matter once I put a bullet between his eyes," Ocelot said, his voice a dangerous purr. "Just say the word."
Zero's laugh was cold and brief, like a gunshot in winter. "Patience, old friend. Remember Sun Tzu—'If you know the enemy and know yourself, you need not fear the result of a hundred battles.'" He tapped a different photograph, this one showing the masked revolutionary rescuing a young soldier from execution. "What intrigues me is his connection to Suzaku Kururugi."
He rose in one fluid motion, the cabin lights catching on the polished surfaces of his mask as he moved to the window. Rain lashed against the glass as lightning split the sky, illuminating the churning ocean below.
"This 'Zero' admitted to killing my brother Clovis," he continued, his reflection a ghostly presence in the storm-washed window. "Yet he risked everything to save this boy. Why?"
Ocelot rifled through a classified folder, the pages whispering secrets as he turned them. "Suzaku Kururugi. Born July 10th, 2000. Son of Japan's last Prime Minister, Genbu Kururugi." Ocelot's eyes narrowed as he read further. "Official records claim Genbu committed suicide rather than continue fighting Britannia. The son now serves in the Britannian military as an Honorary Citizen."
Zero's shoulders tensed visibly. "Genbu Kururugi was many things, but suicidal wasn't one of them." He turned sharply, his cape swirling around him like liquid shadow. "I want everything on both Kururugis—the father's death, the son's military records, psychological profiles, known associates. There's a connection to our masked friend that I mean to exploit."
"What makes you so certain?" Ocelot asked, his voice curious rather than challenging.
Zero stalked back to his seat, the leather creaking beneath him as he leaned forward, hands steepled before his mask. "Think strategically. This imposter's goal was to announce himself to the world—to claim responsibility for Clovis's death. He could have done that in countless ways." His voice dropped lower, more intense. "Instead, he orchestrated an elaborate rescue. Why? Not for propaganda—Suzaku's execution would have served that purpose equally well. No, this was personal."
The jet hit a patch of turbulence, causing the lights to flicker. In that moment of darkness, Ocelot's smile gleamed like a knife.
"And if there is a connection?" he asked, his voice barely audible above the storm outside.
"Then Suzaku Kururugi becomes the key," Zero answered, the cabin lights stabilizing to reveal his relaxed posture—a predator confident in the hunt. "The key to finding our imposter, to Area 11, and ultimately, to Operation Outer Heaven."
Lightning flashed again as both men raised their glasses, a silent toast before Ocelot spoke the words:
"To the Patriots."
Capital Area 11
The transport vessel descended through sheets of rain, its engines roaring defiance at the elements. Water cascaded off its armored hull as it touched down on the landing pad with surgical precision.
When the hydraulic ramp descended, Zero emerged first, his mask gleaming wet in the downpour. Ocelot followed a step behind, his red scarf a splash of blood against the gray landscape. The rain seemed to part around them, as if nature itself recognized their authority.
A line of Patriot soldiers stood at attention, their uniforms bearing the distinctive insignia of XOF special forces. Water streamed down their faceplates, but not one moved from position.
"At least discipline hasn't been compromised," Zero remarked, his voice carrying despite the storm.
A Britannian officer rushed toward them, splashing through puddles, his uniform already soaked through. "Your Highness! What an unexpected hon—"
Zero's hand shot up, cutting the man off mid-sentence. "It's Zero," he corrected, each syllable sharp enough to draw blood. "Not Prince, not Your Highness. Remember that, unless you prefer a firing squad."
The officer blanched, rainwater dripping from his chin as he swallowed hard. "Y-yes, Zero, sir."
Lightning illuminated the skyline as Zero surveyed the military installation, noting the absence of certain expected faces. "Where are my sisters?" he demanded, not bothering to look at the officer as he strode forward.
Hurrying to keep pace, the officer reported, "Princess Euphemia is overseeing a special project in the Settlement, and Viceroy Cornelia—"
"Is dealing with insurgents in the Saitama Ghetto," Ocelot finished for him, having intercepted military communications during their approach.
Zero stopped so abruptly that the officer nearly collided with him. The temperature seemed to drop several degrees as Zero slowly turned, his mask revealing nothing of the fury behind it.
"What did you say?"
Thunder crashed, punctuating his question like divine emphasis.
Saitama Ghetto
The ghetto burned despite the rain, smoke and steam creating a hellish fog that reduced visibility to mere meters. Gunfire rattled through collapsed buildings, punctuated by the occasional scream or explosion.
In a rubble-strewn street, a group of civilians huddled behind a collapsed wall, parents shielding children with their bodies. The youngest ones whimpered softly, their cries muffled against their mothers' chests.
Britannian soldiers appeared through the mist like grim reapers, rifles raised as they surrounded the group. Their helmet-mounted flashlights created harsh spotlights on the terrified faces.
"On your feet!" the squadron leader barked, gesturing with his weapon. "All of you—against that wall!"
A mother clutched her son tighter, her eyes wild with terror. "Please," she begged, her voice breaking. "He's just a child—"
"I said MOVE!" The soldier stepped forward, rifle butt raised to strike.
The woman flinched, closing her eyes as she curled her body around her son. The expected blow never came.
Instead, a wet, gurgling sound made her peek through one eye. The Britannian soldier stood frozen, a thin red line appearing across his throat before blood gushed forth. He collapsed, revealing a figure behind him.
In the span of three heartbeats, the remaining soldiers dropped silently, each killed with brutal efficiency.
The mist parted to reveal a squad of Patriot operatives, their advanced combat suits shedding water like the scales of mythological beasts. Unlike the Britannians' uniform appearance, each Patriot soldier bore unique modifications—cybernetic enhancements, specialized weapons, distinctive armor patterns.
A female soldier with distinctive blue tactical armor knelt before the mother. Rain dripped from her helmet as she extended a gloved hand. "It's over now. You're safe."
The mother hesitated, still protectively curled around her child. "W-who are you people?"
The soldier reached up and removed her helmet, revealing a face marked with a distinctive scar and eyes that had seen too much war. Rain plastered her blonde hair to her scalp as she offered a rare, genuine smile.
"We are the Patriots. And we're here to end this."
Across the ghetto, metal screeched against metal as a Britannian Sutherland pilot frantically tried to retreat. His Knightmare's legs sparked against debris as he backed away from the advancing shadow—a bipedal tank that moved with impossible grace for its size.
"This is Knight Three! I need immediate backup! We're facing unknown enemy Knightma—" His voice caught as the Metal Gear REX prototype raised its railgun, the barrel glowing with charged particles. "Wait! We're on the same side! WE'RE ON THE SAME S—"
The railgun discharged with a sound like the world tearing apart, the hypersonic projectile punching through the Sutherland's cockpit and continuing through three buildings beyond. The Knightmare stood motionless for a second before collapsing in a heap of twisted metal and sparking electronics.
In another sector, Britannian infantry had barricaded themselves in a half-collapsed school building. Their commanding officer peered through a shattered window at the rain-slicked street outside.
"Hold position," he ordered, voice steady despite his racing pulse. "Whatever these bastards are, they bleed like any—"
The wall behind him exploded inward, showering the soldiers with concrete and rebar. Through the dust and rain stepped Patriot commandos, their weapons already firing with surgical precision.
The commanding officer raised his sidearm, only to watch in disbelief as a knife materialized in his wrist. Blood spurted between the tendons as his weapon clattered to the floor.
"You people never learn," said the Patriot commando who had thrown the blade, advancing slowly. "You can't win a war by butchering civilians."
The officer's defiant reply died on his lips as a micro-missile streaked through the breach, impacting at his feet. The explosion consumed him and his men in a fireball that briefly turned the rain to steam.
Cornelia's HQ
Viceroy Cornelia li Britannia stood before a wall of monitors, her expression one of calculated satisfaction. Rain drummed on the roof of her mobile command center as she watched Britannian forces sweep through the ghetto.
"Sector 7 is clear," reported a communications officer. "Resistance minimal."
Cornelia nodded, a predatory smile playing at her lips. "Just as expected. These Elevens talk boldly but break easily. Zero will have no choice but to show himself if he wants to maintain his reputation."
A sudden burst of static interrupted her satisfaction. One by one, the monitors flickered, showing scenes of carnage—but not the kind she had ordered.
"Delta Squad is down!" came a panicked voice over the comms. "I repeat, Delta Squad is—" The transmission cut off with a wet, choking sound.
Another voice broke through: "This is Rino's squad! We're surrounded! These aren't terrorists—they're using military-grade weapons and tactics! Request immediate evac—" Gunfire drowned out his words before the signal died.
Cornelia's satisfaction curdled into disbelief as more reports flooded in, each more desperate than the last. She gripped the command console, knuckles white.
"What is happening out there?!" she demanded, her composure cracking. "Who is attacking my forces?!"
A junior officer stared at his console in horror. "My God... casualty reports are still coming in, but we've lost at least half our deployed forces in the last ten minutes."
Before Cornelia could respond, every screen in the command center simultaneously went black, then flickered back to life displaying a single image: a stylized emblem of the Patriots.
A voice—digitally altered but unmistakable in its authority—filled the command center:
"All Britannian forces, this is Zero. You are ordered to cease operations and evacuate the Saitama Ghetto immediately. This is not a request. You have five minutes to comply before I authorize the complete annihilation of all Britannian military assets in the area. The countdown begins now."
The message cut off, leaving a stunned silence broken only by the continuing reports of casualties and the relentless drum of rain on the roof.
Cornelia's face contorted with rage and humiliation. "Him," she spat, the single word loaded with venom. She slammed her fist onto the console. "Damn it all! Sound the retreat. We're pulling out."
Minutes later, she stood in the rain alongside her knights, Guilford and Darlton, watching as a massive command vehicle approached through the downpour. Unlike the utilitarian design of Britannian military vehicles, this one bore the sleek, advanced aesthetics of Patriot technology, water streaming off its aerodynamic hull.
With a pneumatic hiss, the main hatch opened, deploying a ramp. A silhouette appeared in the doorway—a masked figure whose very posture radiated authority. Zero descended the ramp with measured steps, Ocelot a half-step behind him, the revolver specialist's hand resting casually on his weapon.
Rain pelted Zero's mask as he approached Cornelia, who stood her ground despite the fury evident in every line of her body.
"What the hell do you think you're doing?!" she shouted over the storm, rainwater flying from her lips. "We were executing a carefully planned operation to draw out the Zero impersonator! You've ruined months of preparation and gotten hundreds of our soldiers killed!"
Zero's response was as swift as it was unexpected—a backhanded slap that sent water flying from Cornelia's face as her head snapped sideways. The sound cracked like lightning, drawing gasps from nearby officers.
Guilford's sword was halfway from its scabbard when he found himself staring down the barrel of Ocelot's revolver.
"I wouldn't," Ocelot drawled, the rainwater dripping from the gun's hammer doing nothing to diminish the threat. "The Princess isn't the only one who can lose face today."
Zero seized Cornelia by her collar, yanking her close enough that she could see her own shocked reflection in his mask. "You blind, arrogant fool!" he hissed, his voice carrying despite the storm. "I explicitly told you the Area 11 Zero was my target! Now, because of your bloodthirsty theatrics, you've made it nearly impossible to infiltrate the resistance!"
He shoved her backward, causing her to stumble in the mud before regaining her footing. Pride kept her standing, but shame colored her cheeks.
"Our strategy was sound," she countered, rain mingling with the blood from her split lip. "We recreated the Shinjuku incident to force his hand—"
"And you think he wouldn't anticipate that?" Zero's voice cut through her explanation like a scalpel. "Do you think this revolutionary is so simple-minded that he would fall for such an obvious trap? Have you learned nothing from Clovis's death?"
Andreas Darlton stepped forward, his massive frame tense with protective anger. "You will not speak to the Viceroy in this manner—"
Zero turned his masked face toward the general. "Ocelot," he said quietly. "If this man speaks again without my permission, put a bullet through his eye."
The deadly seriousness of the threat hung in the air between them. Darlton fell silent, though hatred smoldered in his eyes.
"That," Zero said, returning his attention to Cornelia, "is a threat. You would do well to recognize the difference."
He circled her slowly, like a predator assessing wounded prey. "You believe that overwhelming force is the answer to every problem. That enough bullets and bombs will solve the mystery of this masked revolutionary." Rain cascaded off his own mask as he leaned in close to her ear. "But this is a game of shadows and whispers, sister. And you're playing it like a common thug."
Zero backed away, gesturing dismissively at her as he turned. "And for God's sake, stop calling yourself the 'Goddess of Victory.' Today has proven how hollow that title truly is."
Hours Later
Within the Patriot command vehicle, Zero sat in contemplative silence, the mask now resting on the console beside him. His exposed face was handsome but cold, eyes reflecting the digital displays that surrounded his command chair. The storm continued outside, but within the advanced vehicle, not even a whisper of it could be heard.
"You pushed her hard," came a voice from the shadows. "Harder than necessary, perhaps."
Zero didn't bother to look up. "Show yourself, Vamp. The theatrics grow tiresome."
The air rippled like water before solidifying into the form of a pale man with long dark hair. His bare torso was crisscrossed with old scars, and knives adorned his belt like deadly decorations. He moved with inhuman grace as he approached Zero's chair.
"The sister has pride," Vamp observed, drawing a knife and testing its edge with his thumb. A bead of blood welled up, which he licked away with relish. "Pride makes people... unpredictable."
"Cornelia is many things, but unpredictable isn't one of them," Zero replied, studying a holographic map of Area 11. "She'll retreat, regroup, and attempt to salvage her reputation through some new offensive—one that doesn't directly challenge my authority."
Vamp chuckled, the sound like stones rolling in a grave. "And if she doesn't?" He twirled the knife with fluid precision. "I could visit her tonight. She would never see me coming."
Zero considered the offer for a moment, then shook his head. "Tempting, but premature. Cornelia still has her uses—particularly when the Emperor finally turns his attention to this... other Zero."
He stood, walking to the center of the command room where multiple holographic screens displayed different areas of the Settlement and surrounding regions. With a gesture, he enlarged one showing Ashford Academy.
"What of our special assets?" he asked. "Are they in position?"
Vamp's smile held no warmth. "The brothers await your command. Even now, they prepare."
Unknown Location
Rain lashed against the windows of an ancient dojo nestled in the mountains beyond the Settlement's reach. Inside, illuminated only by flickering candlelight, a man knelt in meditation, his breathing controlled and even despite the storm's fury outside.
His eyes opened at the whisper of movement—a sound so faint it might have been imagination. Without turning, he spoke softly: "Your stealth has improved, brother."
From the shadows behind him, a blade descended with blinding speed. The meditating man rolled forward, drawing his own sword in a single fluid motion that ended with him facing his attacker.
The two warriors regarded each other silently before exploding into action. Their blades sang through the air, meeting with sprays of sparks that briefly illuminated their faces—one stoic and scarred, the other partially obscured by a breathing apparatus.
They moved like water around the room, each anticipating the other's moves in a deadly dance they had performed countless times. A slash drew blood from the second man's shoulder, but he responded with a lightning thrust that nicked his opponent's forearm.
Rain intensified outside as their battle reached its crescendo, both men launching at each other for a final exchange. Their blades met with such force that the candles flickered, plunging the room into momentary darkness.
When light returned, they stood back-to-back, both breathing heavily. Slowly, they sheathed their swords and turned to face each other.
"Your technique has evolved," said the first man, examining the shallow cut on his arm with clinical detachment. "You've integrated the nanomachine enhancements well."
His brother nodded, the breathing apparatus hissing softly as he inhaled. His eyes—one natural, one a glowing cybernetic replacement—focused on the blood seeping from his shoulder wound.
"The Patriots have provided us with the means," he replied, his voice mechanically filtered. "But the path we walk is still our own."
The first man moved to a low table where equipment lay carefully arranged—a high-frequency blade, stealth camouflage units, tactical armor bearing FOX unit insignias. He began methodically equipping himself.
"Britannia believes Japan died seven years ago," he said, strapping the blade to his back. "But we know better. The spirit of this land endures—in its people, in its resistance..." He paused, securing a tactical gauntlet. "And in us."
His brother joined him at the table, the cybernetic implants in his body gleaming in the candlelight as he prepared his own equipment. "Do you trust him? Zero?"
The first man considered the question as he donned his facial armor, transforming into the legendary soldier known as Gray Fox. "I trust his hatred of Britannia is genuine. For now, that is enough."
The Cyborg Ninja secured his own mask, the single red sensor glowing to life as systems initialized. "Then we fight alongside the Patriots until Japan is free."
Gray Fox nodded, placing a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Until Japan is free," he echoed.
Outside, lightning split the sky, illuminating the dojo through rice paper windows. When the light faded, both warriors had vanished—leaving only shadows and silence as the storm raged on.