Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

This Snippet was originally its own work in AO3 but I decided to have it on this collection anyway.

Snake tossed a couple of firewood into the metal chimney or what's the word, sighing in the meanwhile. This was great, all of a sudden, he was making it the hell away from the Outer Heaven fortress and now he was lost in a blizzard. To his luck, he had found and squatted in an old and spacious cottage. Now, judging by his environment; he would guess that he was in the late nineteenth century America. The newspaper on a desk and a far-away town that he'd observed on his binoculars had led him to that observation. Also the outlaw who also squatted here and who he knocked out and interrogated had verified as much.

And having looted the hut, he hadn't get the luck to get a cigarette. Great. Still, he only had a Beretta Pistol, fitted with a suppressor, with a grand total of twelve full round of magazines which wasn't good and a Outer Heaven SMG with six full rounds of magazines. Now, these guns caliber was the nine mil and so fifteen times twelve and thirty times six all equaled to around thirty hundred and sixty bullets of nine mil.

But came the worrying part, he was only wearing OD Green's. That would be fine in the jungle environment and somewhat in the desert if one didn't care about camouflage. But in this blizzard, that would only spell disaster for him. The human body can be conditioned to do a great many things, even extreme weather and environment but his body wasn't much too conditioned for that though he could manage to handle the cold without shivering. At least, he thought so. Master Miller had trained him extensively on the art of survival and stealth—key among them being to resist your bodies natural reaction to the environment though that likely didn't account for situations like this.

At least the Beretta was known for being good in lower temperatures but he wasn't particularly well-versed on the Outer Heaven SMG, called as the Macht 37 on its label, so he wasn't particularly confident on its performance on lower temperatures.

"Oi! Lemme atta here, ya yellow bastard." Snake didn't let the words get to his head, got to keep cool. As his old CO back in the Army said to him, cooler heads will prevail.

The outlaw, who named himself as Dexter Byrne, was an unsavory individual who aligned himself into no particular gang; with more offenses on his beck than thoughts to put it in. But then again, so was Snake. Where as Dexter might have killed a person or three out of anger or for money; Snake destroyed a nation, slaughtered its denizens just to follow orders. Right now, Dexter outlived his usefulness and Snake wasn't looking for a second mouth to feed, his rations stolen from Outer Heaven would run out. He racked his pistol and aimed it square at Dexter's head, he squeezed the trigger and a man died.

He stood outside, not shaken at all. After all, Murder was an action that was easier to commit every time that you do it. He supposed that he should take Dexter's clothes, while they were awful in quality, they were at least better than the clothings that Snake currently wore. But, the distant sight of three men had disturbed his contemplation. Great, hopefully they weren't friends with the man.

"Hello, fellow stranger. I- We are a trio of lost individuals seeking warm shelter. Would you be inclined to help poor souls such as ourselves." The man said and he was around six feet in height though Snake wasn't sure since the man was seated on a horse. The blizzard made it hard to tell his features and his friends' features for that matter.

Snake paused, and thought about it. The man's companions quietly bickered in hushed tones amongst themselves as they waited for a response. He wasn't much a liar and he couldn't tell a convincing lie to save himself, so better to tell the truth for now. "Sorry to disappoint, but this isn't place isn't mine. I killed a man inside, outlaw."

The three men were startled at that, their horses backing up a couple of steps. One of them, about ready to grab out his sidearm. Still, the man, presumably their leader, spoke still. "I- I see, then would you mind if we would use this fine shelter that you have found?"

Snake shrugged, "Go ahead."

One of the horse riders dismounted from his saddle, burly and bearded. "Mind if I check in?" He had said with quite a rough inflection. Snake nodded. He entered in with a small bit of apprehension.

The man then exited, "He's right, Dutch. There's a dead man, in there."

"I see." The man—Dutch said in response. "We have women and- and children. Can we ask that you share this with them?"

"Fine. Free country, isn't it?" Snake sarcastically said, though Dutch hadn't taken it as such.

"Yes. It is. It is. Micah, can you get the women and little Jack to rest here. Get Charles to stay and protect them."

"Fine, Dutch." Micah said, reeling back his horse and heading north. Dutch dismounted himself, as well. Heading in the cottage with Snake's permission. Arthur, too, headed in. The cottage was probably fine for a dozen people to rest at. Snake didn't much mind for others to stay, it wasn't his so he didn't really care if others would sleep so long as they minded their own business.

Dutch asked him, after taking off his winter coat. "What's your name, son? And where do yo come from, if you don't mind my ask."

Snake grunted, "Name's classified." That was the truth, he didn't care if they wanted to know it, "Background's also classified."

"Classified?" Dutch hummed in a dangerous but questioning tune, "What do you mean by that, son?"

"It means that the government has covered up my name and history because it's of top national security." That was the truth, whether it be in the modern era or right now, that would be his answer. Now, he was in the past and the Dutch and his men might be of unsavory character but Snake didn't care, right now, all he needed was to go back to his timeline and report back to Fox Hound about Big Boss' betrayal.

"Government? Now why would they do that?" Dutch snickered in disgust at the mention of the government, great. With his whole appearance, Snake believed that he might go on a tirade on the failings on the American government.

"That's classified." Snake smirked. The big and burly man, Arthur, if he believed, had stepped forward to try and intimidate him but Dutch had calmed him friend down.

"Now, Arthur." Dutch laughed to melt the tension, "We should mind our business as this gentleman has kindly offered us this place."

Snake took a wooden chair and sat on it, "If you want a name," He thought, Snake wasn't really a good name to use in conversations. Then again, with his name, he could get inspiration from one of John Carpenter's films. "Call me Plisskin."

Snake sat as did Dutch as they looked at each other in an uncomfortable silence. Neither making small talk, only waiting for the women and kid that Dutch had talked about. Then Snake remembered the corpse and went to dump it in the forest then returned back.

A knock at the door told them that the intended guests had arrived, Arthur went to the door and opened it. Letting in six women and a child. As well as a big and imposing man.

"Now, friends, introduce yourselves to this fine gentleman who has offered us a stay at this cottage." Dutch said, gesturing to them to come forth.

A middle-aged—and oldest among them—woman introduced herself first, "The name's Susan Grimshaw."

Then, a fair-skinned and youthful woman introduced herself as well. "My name's Mary-Beth Gaskill."

A black-haired woman clutching an oblivious child had also introduced herself, "Name's Abigail."

She then tapped her child on the shoulder, "And my name's Jack."

An Irish woman, as well, introduced herself. She put up an air of superiority amongst the rest of them to a lack of success, "The name is Molly O'Shea."

"Name is Karen Jones," Boisterous than the rest of them and more bolls, with blonde hair and busty figure to boot.

"The name is Tilly Jackson, Sir." An African-American woman said with meekness.

"Name is Charles Smith." The man, possibly of Native American descent, said.

That was all of them introduced, now for him to introduce himself. "Call me Plisskin." He lamely had to say.

Dutch turned to leave, with Arthur leaving as well. Susan, the oldest amongst them, had immediately went to ordering commands at them, the rest had followed shortly with the exception of Molly. Snake, on the other hand, leaned himself against the oak wood.

Great, he should've turned them away. But then he knew that a group as desperate as they are would not take kindly to a refusal, by that, it would obviously end in a shoot-out. Now, Snake was confident that he might be victorious but battle's were always uncertain and the element of surprise would always bite somebody in the ass.

He spoke to one of the guest's, Abigail. He mumbled for a while to try and congregate his words, "Excuse, do you have a set of extra winter clothes. Mine isn't suited for this environment." He pointed to his thin OD Green uniform.

Abigail chuckled, "How did you get so lost that you got yourself here with just that?"

He stammered, "I was looking for the-" Extraction Point. But they wouldn't be aware of the word, "carriage I rode on but then it got lost and wolves chased me." That was, an awful backstory, but it was one that Abigail seemed to believe as she took a coat from her bag.

"This belonged to an old friend, but he won't be needing it anymore." He took it awkwardly and put it on. His pants were still a bother but he could work through that.

The blizzard wasn't particularly letting up and he needed some way to pass the time. With that, he went to a desk and immediately went to field-stripping his beretta sidearm and reassembling it again. It was more for recreation than for the purpose of maintenance.

The boy, Jack, looked at him with curious eyes. "What are you doing, mister?"

"Taking care of my pistol, kid. Why?"

Jack snorted, "That doesn't look like a pistol that I've ever seen."

Right, nineteenth century. "It's from Italy."

He chuckled, "That's not a place."

"It is. Mediterranean."

Jack snorted and rolled his eyes, "Meda- Medi- That's not a word!" He stuck his tongue out.

Snake breathed in deeply, resisting the urge to chuckle. Having finished with field-stripping it.

Snake then went to the next thing he had to do, sleep.

However, Jack had issues with that. "Mister. Can I ask-" The door barged open, revealing a woman, distressed and being huddled with blankets by Dutch.

Chapter Text

The HP-48 'Krokodil' Helicopter descended down the outer yard of the Red Keep. Its spinning rotor blades both putting the crowd into a state of shock and scaring them from the noise. It was, after all, a mode of transport unknown to them. Helicopters, Planes, even any motorized cars were concepts completely foreign for them. The only thing that could have come close was the dragons of old, and they were dead.

For the first time in all its history, Westeros just met a truly foreign nation. The day had started out like any other, the king was being lazy, the thieves were having their tongue's cut, and piss was poured over the stinking canal's when from the shore, a large metallic platform of tall structure's had appeared. Then, a lone helicopter was sent from it after it had appeared—a convoy of sorts to negotiate with the government of the region.

Bowmen and Archers stood on guard in elevated positions, drawing both bow and crossbows in preparation on if the guests turned out to be threats. Knights as well, had tensed up and looked just about ready to unsheath their swords.

The Krokodil opened its latch, to the suprise and startling shock of the knights. A man emerged, one who had lost an eye and looking like he was
baptized through blood and fire under the covenant of war. Wearing garments with the plain coloring's of the forest. He appeared, for the Westerosi observers, to have neither sword nor any known weapons by his side, instead, having only a metallic rod on a sling—to be exact, it was a prototype M16 carbine. As well as a smaller rod by his back, his shock stick.

Another had also emerged, a man wearing the same garments as the one before him. Though having a blue patch on him as well as a mask to hide his face.

A poor manservant quickly hurried, having been shoved out of his stupor by a Targaryen Knight to offer them the bread that he had held. The manservant knelt on his knees, and held aloft a tray of salted bread.

The one-eyed man raised his eyebrow in besument and as well as small measure of ignorance. "I don't know how these things usually play out, explain it to me." The one-eyed man said, his gravelly voice startling the manservant.

"Ser. This bread is meant to serve as the-" He gulped, "The provision to which guest right's are invoked."

"Invoked?"

The manservant blinked in surprise but kept it to himself, "Guest right's are the laws imposed by both the Old Gods and New, that neither the guest nor the host shall harm each other."

The man hummed, "I've heard of something like that . . ." He took a piece of bread, sniffing it. "If this is poisoned, You're dead." Then he ate it, chewed it slowly and gulped it down.

At that, the guards who all surrounded him had, by some small and miniscule amount, been relieved of their tension. Still, that did not mean that they were not still wary of the mystery's that their guest had possessed.

"Now. Where am I supposed to go?" He asked, smirking.

The manservant explained, "Inside that hall, My Lord." The foreign man smirked, "That is that Iron Throne, to where King Aerys sits on."

He tilted his head to the side, "Medic. Stay close."

The medic nodded and despite his designation, he too held the same weaponry that his leader had as well.

They then followed the manservant, who seemed to be regretting his position every millisecond, to the Iron Throne. The guards around had spread out to allow them room to enter.

Then, inside the hall of the Iron Throne. A retinue of men, each cloaked in white and pointing their sword's at his direction. Sitting on the tallest elevation upon a large and grotesque amalgamation of sword's melted down to serve as a throne was the king. Wretched, ugly, and looking like he hadn't trimmed his nails for God knows how long. His clothings, it might've been fine and ornate once—but no longer, it looked to be breaking apart by the day.

"Halt!" A white-cloaked man yelled out, his helmet having been discarded to show his blonde hair. "State your name!"

"In the battlefield, names don't matter. After some time, you can forget both your name and your birth." The man took out a cigar from his breast pocket, "Call me Big Boss." He then tilted his head to the side, "This is Ahab."

"Big Boss, is it? Such an arrogant name." bellowed the loud and shrieking voice of the King. "Tell me, before I have my men douse your land and you in wildfire, why in all that is divine did your island of metal appear out of nowhere?"

Great, now Big Boss had to be cautious. That wasn't particularly a trait that he had in the social sense. "We don't know ourselves." That was God's honest truth. In one moment, they were on earth and then they were here. It wasn't even R&D's fault, this time, they had plans to build a wormhole to replace the fulton device but they hadn't even started building it yet. "We're trying to return home ourselves, but right now, it'll be a long time before that happens. So what now?"

"Now?" The King hummed to himself, "We would have you and your lot swear fealty to me.""

"No thanks." He smirked, let them come if they may. It won't be a heaven that awaits them in the afterlife. "Me and my lot, as it were, don't swear our loyalty's to any single nation. We're mercenaries, and we're only loyal to whoever is the highest bidder."

"Mercenaries?" King Aerys snorted, "Bah! Good enough, Tywin, negotiate with them the price for their services."

A man, balding out his blonde hair and middle-aged, stepped forward. "Come with me."

They each nodded and followed the man to a maze of hallways, they turned and zig-zagged so many times that it had nearly caused him some confusion.
After a set of worrisome stairs, they finally arrived to their destination—The Tower of the Hand. Inside, stacks upon stacks of scrolls and parchment and etcetera were laid across with neatness.

Tywin sat down and began to write on a piece of parchment, tending to his duties. Ishmael rolled his eyes, "Our negotiation."

"Yes. Might I ask how much men do you have?"

"Can't say." Tywin frowned. "Might I say," He took out another cigar and lit it. "It's rude to write while speaking to someone."

"It is common courtesy when handling the service of a mercenary band to ask how much men they have.

"You're getting things confused. How many men I command doesn't matter. Your philosophy of how army's fight is different from how I conduct thing's. Let's simplify things, In under an hour, I can kill the king and every other royal in every kingdom that borders this one if things don't go my way. You've seen how I arrived here, imagine that but twenty more attacking every lord and king."

"You're threatening me." Tywin stopped writing, as did Ishmael stop smoking. They stared at each other, daring the other to buckle.

What a fool that Tywin was. While he could command and rule a kingdom. Big Boss could bleed the world dry. "No. Just making things clearer."

Chapter Text

"Doctor." Koschei tasted the name on his mouth, then shook his head. "It doesn't suit you."

"And I suppose that the Monk suits you, hmm?" The Doctor retorted in response. "Don't forget to say it with the 'the'. It should be The Doctor not just any doctor. The definitive article, if you may."

"The Monk is still a work in progress, I haven't decided on an ultimate name yet, unlike you." Koschei rolled his eyes. "It doesn't matter. Finish your business in this planet, whatever it is you want to do before old Borusa scolds us again. Rani is at the Tardis, preparing us to travel again."

"It is fascinating, don't you think?" The Doctor pondered and ignored Koschei entirely, "This planet is home to such fluctuating seasonal patterns. I am almost tempted to travel to both the origin of this phenomenon and the zenith of it."

The Doctor knelt down and grabbed a patch of dirt, "Yes. Besides, these people are such a unique subspecies of the humans that they originally derive from." He then rubbed his chin in pensive thought, "How did these humans arrive here in yet have such primitive technology. They must have surely been transported here. It's surely not because they've ruined what technology that they used to get here unless one is of the belief that the people on this planet has somehow managed to develop the exact same evolutionary traits as humans on earth."

"Yes, yes. It's all interesting, now shall we go?" Koschei huffed and put his hand on his hips in his eternal impatience, "I swear, you are such a bore."

"Come off it." The Doctor looked on as the crowds passed through them without even observing them or having felt their presence because they had used a stolen 35th century Cloaking Device. A handy little tool which Koschei had hoarded for himself. As retaliation, the Doctor had taken for himself a Psychic Paper whose papers were made from the Psychic Trees of Boda—which if the sellers was to believed was a paper that could change its contents to each individual who had seen it to the benefit of its owner.

"We need all hands on deck to pilot the Tardis, if you forgot. Also, must I remind you of your disastrous attempts in piloting anything?" Koschei tried to convince his friend, they—Rani, Koschei, and the Doctor were hardly authorized to travel in this planet—and so they only had themselves to pilot the Tardis.

"Don't remind me of that test!" The Doctor said in embarrassment, "The control panels were rewired and I was sabotaged! Just as well, I do sternly believe that the Tardis Matrix had it out for me because I accidentally sneezed on its mainframe."

Koschei was unconvinced, somehow managing to fly a Tardis into the sea and travel into the end of the universe was a task that only the most inept in flying a Tardis could manage. Though he didn't need to remind himself that the most inept person stood in front of him.

"You tell yourself that. I'll give you an extra hour on this planet before me and Rani leave without you." Koschei threatened playfully. The Doctor, as he now preferred to be called, was always engrossed into every new culture that he had encountered and it was such a pain to drag him. Koschei turned around and went around a corner to go back to their Tardis. The Doctor felt the Cloaking Device affect him no longer and he had felt excited at that.

He rushed into the center of the city that he had visited into—the Red Keep, passing by as he let his Psychic Paper do most of the work. These ruffians, dressed in steel, had absent-mindedly let him enter the premises without so much as a question.
He saw the many countless dead of the Targaryen clan come to life through the majesty of whoever had painted them. He then saw the king on that simply fantastic throne of melted swords—each taken from whoever named themselves as the enemy of the monarch and had fallen for it. Such rich history and he was at the peak of their power! Well, before the majority of theirs powers were lost following the Dance of the Dragons and were overthrown by that Baratheon fellow but that didn't matter for now.

He wrote down his observations on everything transpiring within the Red Keep. Right down from the art style used which had found some equivalents in the Medieval Europe of Earth to the very molecules within the air that had caused the infamous stink in the King's landing. He had to investigate it, once of these days. It was likely a mixture of rotting meat, manure, and ammonia that had caused the stink. He swiped his fingers off one of the walls to investigate its taste. Swirling his finger on his tongue, he could pinpoint the taste of concrete, dye, binder and solvents. Though he also tasted an old burn on this wall, probably a mishap from one of the dragons.

He had also done some inquiring and making small talk with the various nobility within the Red Keep, they were interesting really. There wasn't much to do on this time of day and as such the King had retired early or so a lady had told him—they had obviously inquired him on his style of clothing, a 20th century long coat over a tuxedo and a plain white dress shirt.

Also the necktie, he had answered that it was the fashion these days over on the Westerlands and they had accepted his answer. In fact, they looked partial to copying his fashion style. That wasn't going to cause a fashion renaissance soon, he faintly hoped. He had introduced himself as John of House Doe and his eloquent mannerism had ingratiated himself with the nobility.

The throne room opened and, according to a Lord beside him, there was the Prince known as Daemon. Walking smugly and with great confidence and that face, he wouldn't forget it. Yes, in that man, he could in a metaphorical sense feel a fixed point in time with every step the Prince had made. The Doctor couldn't feel nothing but excitement at being able to see such a central character in the history of this planet.

Chapter Text

Bruce stepped quietly through the night, his heavy footsteps being muffled by the rain. It was rainy season, as Alfred told him before he wandered into the city.

It was an inconvenience for nocturnal creatures such as he but it didn't matter that much. He could deal with it, he could bear with the uncomfortability that the rain brings him. He walked near the ledge of a brick building and touched a zip line going across from it to another of equal height. He had developed a system of zip line throughout the city, mostly through the poorer districts, during his first year in his project. Its goal was to maintain a safe and discrete if unorthodox roadway system for him, the streets was far too crowded for him to operate within them. As thrilling as jumping across rooftops were, one misstep could ensure a broken rib for him.

He put one foot on the zip line, checking it stability. Then preparing himself, he balanced himself as he walked across the two buildings, a vague silhouette of his figure then becoming a being that shadowed the city and haunted its denizens. The night was the perfect time for the worst parts of Gotham to come into being, almost like a demon that would engulf the city into another plane of existence. He wondered every time he put on his mask whether he could gain enough strength or make enough of a difference to defeat that demon. Every day was a reminder that any difference he could make would be swept away like a sand castle being swept away from the tide.

For every criminal he put away, another troubled child would turn to thievery. For every gang he put down, another gang would move in on their turf. For every time he pushed against the wall that is Gotham, the wall would then push back and thus for every action there would an equal and opposite reaction. He remembered the Maroni crime family, he and Gordon had spent weeks and months in investigating the drops being dispersed by the Maroni's. Gordon had spent the little amount of time that he had with his own family in trying to find where the drops were being shipped from. When the two of them finally had enough evidence to move against the Maroni's, the mayor had taken all the credit and Falcone had conveniently took all of Maroni's territory.

He ignored the aches of his body as he grapelled down to the streets, his grappling gun doing just enough to stop him from falling at dangerous speeds. A man down an alleyway was near ready to murder a queer couple—whether motivated by hate or desire for their wallet, it didn't matter to Bruce. All that mattered was to render the threat posed to the couple unable to dispense any more future crimes.

He let the city's smoke and the fog surround his body, his entire being looking every bit a mythical creature. He let the fear exude from his person so that the thug could feel every bit of it. The thug gripped his knife and pointed the tip at one of the two people he was holding up, he hadn't yet noticed the creature. Good.

The vigilante slowly walked, taking care to heavily stomp his boots on the ground to make his presence known. Those steps were all that was needed for the thug to look at him and utter an explicit word. "Fuck."

The thug, looking to be a former Jokers gang member, backed away a couple of steps before he dared to grab one of his victims and held them at knife point. He used them as a body shield as if it was his own lifeline, "Take another step, you freak! I dare ya so that this fucker gets it!"

It seems the man knew him possibly due to his affiliations with the Joker. Might have even seen him before. Most other thugs would have laughed or jested by now, but the reputation of the bat had grown. The thug stepped back only to find himself backed into a corner, the alley he wanted to ran away to was a dead end in the literal sense. The Bat retracted his grappling gun and aimed it square at the thug's face. Both the hostage and the criminal froze up and held bated breaths. The vigilante squeezed the trigger intending to snatch away the knife away only to find his aim had missed into the brick behind the thug's back and had narrowly missed hitting the man's face.

The vigilante cursed under his breath, his chance was gone. He'd have to do things the hard way and do it quickly. Lest he screw up any further, throw a smoke grenade at the man and be fast enough to tackle his target before the hostage's throat was slashed.

Although, he noticed a chance opportunity. The bat glared and flexed his muscles as he pulled the grappling rope and loosened a brick quick and hard enough to smash into the back of the thug and stunned him. The vigilante quickly moved in to drive his fist into the man's skull, then he punched him again and again to ensure that he was incapicated.

The couple looked at him, eyes widened and horror filling their bodies as if they saw a vampire bite into a hapless maiden's neck. They ran away leaving him and the thug. The vigilante left but not before hog-tying the criminal and leaving only a voice mail for Gordon to pick the man up. Another night was another opportunity to grow his legend, however small it was.

The vigilante would later go and stand on a gargoyle from an old gothic and dilapidated building. Reciting the same vows he had taken when he had returned home when his parents had died. At least he should have, until he saw a noise from behind him, and everything went black for him.

The bat awoke to a bright day and it had hurt his eyes. He awoke to find himself in Crime Alley and he cursed, wondering how he'd gotten himself up here. He stood up and surveyed his surroundings, it looked to be the same alley but cleaner. It was dirty yes, but less grimier than when he last saw it. He quickly used the fire escape stairway to find himself to the rooftop and there, he held his breath.

It was the same city he envisioned whenever he wanted to carry on. The Wayne tower stood, yes. Far more brighter than it was. A greater beacon than the dull tower that penetrated the Gotham sky that he remembered. What happened?

This only did nothing but make the vigilante worry. He instantly went and called Alfred only to hear static across the other end. He paced back and forth, he had to replay his retina's video footage to find out what happened. He cursed when even his work phone had stopped working.

He stopped his worry when he saw a robbery at a convenience store, he quickly sprinted, trying to find some semblance of true familiarity in this almost haven he'd found himself in. He quickly fell to the ground by securely wrapping his grappling hook on a pipe and letting himself practically free fall to the ground. He descended with a hard thud. The glass panels of the convenience store entrance opened for him. The robber, a man wearing a ski mask, widened his eyes in surprise but not fear.

The bat stood still. Daring and tempting the man to shoot his .38 Taurus revolver into him. The thug with some amount of cocky behavior tried to shoot at the Bat's exposed face. Mistake, the Bat covered his mouth with his gauntlets before the robber shot his revolver and the bullet deflected into a soda can. The robber shot at him again five more times to no avail.

The bat glared and slowly walked. He threw an uppercut at the man's jaw and instantly had him on the ground. The man crawled back as he fell on the ground but the vigilante didn't let him gain any hope of escaping pain. The vigilante knew pain, both psychical and mental pain. He knew every facet of it and knew how to use it to break a man. He knew
pain and sometimes, he'll share his pain to some poor soul.

He pulled back his right arm and readied to deliver pain unto the man in front of him. Only for something to stop him, he tried to move his right hand forward only for it to stop. He looked to his right to find a rope stick in his gauntlets. He turned to his back and let out a shallow breath. A boy with a domino mask grinning mask and an R on his chest was grinning, "Hey bud! Just to let you know, the real Batman doesn't wear hockey pads!"

Hockey pads? He wasn't wearing hockey pads so he had no idea what he was talking about. Real Batman? A figure from the back of the kid emerged with a figure nearly exact to that of the Bat.

What was it that Alfred always quoted? It was from the Wizard of Oz. Something about not being in Kansas anymore. This felt like an apt saying.

"Three hours ago, a boom tube was detected to have emerged around Park Alley in Gotham. The league was informed of this beforehand while Robin and I investigated the area." Batman debriefed Superman and Martian Manhunter. "There, we found an exact clone of me."

Images emerged of a Batman with the same jaw as their Batman if only more younger and paler. "We initially thought he was a copycat, while there were Batman copycats a few years prior, there have been less and less copycats throughout the years but this was our first assumption. We then apprehended him, difficult as it was, and upon investigation, we found out that he shares my face and his DNA matches with mine."

"We then thought he was a clone of Cadmus but residue trails of the boom tube led us to believe on one theory: he is from another world."

Superman rubbed his chin as he thought on Batman's theory, "How can you be sure?"

"I'm not." Batman confessed, "Which is why I brought Martian Manhunter along with you to check if he's telling the truth. If this is a ploy from Apokolips then you should also be the first to know."

"Let's say that he is you," Inquired Superman, "or another world you, for the time being how will we keep him?"

Batman didn't answer but that was all the confirmation the Superman needed, "The team. What if he doesn't operate on the same rules as you, different world and different morality's and all that."

"Then we keep him imprisoned within the watchtower until we can find his world."

Chapter Text

When Militaires Sans Frontieres burned down, every member of the Patriots distinctively remembered where they were, and what they were doing. For Sigint, or Anderson as he would like to be professionally referred to as, he had been contacting a certain Strangelove to get her assistance in constructing the GW A.I.; for Ocelot, he had been tailing a rogue KGB agent to get information on some discrete project or the other; for Eva, she had been seducing a prominent member of the CCP to ascertain funds stolen from the Philosopher's Legacy as not all of the monetary cache's had been entirely secure; for Doctor Clark, she had been overseeing the developmental stages of the Les Enfantes Terribles Project, she was still deciding on the proper candidate to serve as the donor mother and the surrogate mother; for Zero, he had been in a secure hospital for his recent poisoning.

All of them had instantly dropped what they had been doing as soon as they had heard the news. Zero had, as her reports said, jumped out of his hospital bed and quickly went to go grab a telephone to cover up the incident and to make sure that the world believed that Big Boss had died. In less than half an hour, Zero had contacted Eva and secured her a form of transport to go to the Carribean and retrieve Snake from the local hospital and move him somewhere secure. Where? Clark didn't know. There was radio silent after that, Zero was always good in covering up his tracks, but then again it was Zero's fault for this incident and not a single Patriot will ever forget that.

Then came the month after the incident, Zero had called them, not for pleasantries, but so as to enact the later stages of his plan to fully divert Snake's attention away from the world's eyes. That phone call had also given her the news that Snake had underwent a coma, and it wasn't looking to be a short one either. Zero had directed her to carry on with the Les Enfantes Terribles project, so as to assure the West that even with Snake's 'death' that there will be a suitable replacement for him, in truth it was just a smoke screen. She didn't know what he'd told Sigint nor what he had told Clark. However, Eva came forth, she practically barged into Clark's lab and demanded that she be the surrogate mother. After some hesitation and persuasion, Clark had agreed.

The project had been revolutionary and it was a success, all things considered. The only flaw was in the superior product, as he had inherited from his surrogate mother a blond hair. Doctor Clark wasn't really sure how that had happened, really. Though at least the inferior product had retained Snake's hair color. After a year after their birth, and after testing them, she had designated the superior product as 'Liquid Snake' and the inferior product as 'Solid Snake'. Eva had stayed with her children and raised them until the third year, where the products had to be raised 'Free-range', with the inferior child staying in the states and the superior child moving to Zero's homeland. After that, there was to be as little contact as possible with the terrible children, except for when there were threats to their persons, and even that had extended so far. After departing from the Les Enfantes Terribles project, Eva had told her one thing. Snake was in a Cyprus Hospital.

Doctor Clark immediately departed for the region, she had packed only the essentials, and she only wore a single set for her apparel. She had officially entered the hospital as a gesture of charity, offering modernized medical equipment for the staff as well as vaccines and curatives, she shouldn't have been surprised when she had met a certain russian feline at the lobby.

"Doctor Clark. It's been a while." Ocelot calmly
said. He pulled back the sleeves of his scrubs, less questions that way from ongoing and outgoing patients. "Why are you here?"

"He's been in a coma for nearly four years, Ocelot." Doctor Clark evenly said, "And I feel that I can lend my hands to his early awakening."

"You can check in on him, but, no funny business." Ocelot glared, "Zero's rogue unit, XOF is still looking for him and your presence might disturb his anonymity in the hospital. If your presence concerns his life then you'll be in the garbage disposal in an hour, got it?"

"I'll not take threats from a man who ate every food from Snake's pockets when he was captured in Grozny Grad." Doctor Clark narrowed her eyes, "Nor from a man who took out his eye-"

"Don't say his name. The walls have ears." Ocelot warned, "Don't say my codename either, just call me Clint. Doctor Clint."

He grinned, "Well, allegedly Doctor Clint anyway."

"That's your disguise then?" She straightened her posture. "Very well, where is he?"

"Right this way." They passed by the lounge, then after a certain flight of stairs and some way down the halls, they had entered Snake's room. It was a semi-private room, she noticed as there was another bed with another patient parallel to that of Snake, though it was covered by a curtain.

Snake. She muttered out a theistic curse as she saw the damage on his body, a shrapnel was lodged deep on his skull and surgical scars laid across his face in a disturbing manner. Bandages covered his injured eye and she supposed that would've been for the best. And look at his atrophied body.

"Back in '74, Venom Snake suffered from an RPG blast which resulted in sharpnel lodged in his head and also for the helicopter that he was in to fall. He took in not a lot of the impact when the helicopter impacted the ground. When the Doctors got to him, they quickly went to work." Ocelot explained.

"John." Clark reached out her hand to brushed it into the cheek of John. "What do you mean Venom Snake?"

Ocelot explained, not even blinking once. "Back in '74, Big Boss was saved from an RPG blast from an MSF medic. Though he came out, relatively unscathed as the medic had absorbed most of the burn damage. When the helicopter that he was on impacted the ground, his body took in the full force of the fall and cause him to under go a coma. The Doctors quickly went to work, but they came too late, and so he underwent a coma. The medic saved Big Boss from the RPG blast, and Big Boss indirectly saved the Medic from taking in the full
kinetic impact of the helicopter fall so you could say that both the Medic and Big Boss saved each other."

"Explain Ocelot." She looked at him and commanded him. "I don't have time for your games."

Ocelot didn't say a word, he instead pulled the curtain from the side to reveal that the other patient in the room was also John. "Though the world isn't big enough for two Big Boss', there is room for a Big Boss and his shadow."

"You-" She didn't have the words.

"This was all Zero's idea, by the time I got here. The plastic surgery was already done. My role then was to protect the both of them and to ensure that Venom Snake could fill in Big Boss' shoes. Venom Snake is going to be in the spotlight for the world to see so that John can walk through the shadows unmolested."

She laughed, though it was an expression bereft of joy or happiness and only made her feel three decades older. "So while I was creating his genetic clone-"

Ocelot finished for her, "I was also creating the memetic clone."

Through their conversation, they never noticed that Venom Snake had opened his eyes not a moment later.

Chapter Text

House Stark has always remained ever steadfast in its loyalty to the crown.

Ever since the times of Aegon's Conquest, ever during the turmoil of the Blackfyre Rebellions and the Dragon's dance, House Stark has remained loyal.

All that their loyalty had ever given them was scorn by King's Landing, labeling the North as nothing more than savage dogs with the Starks being known as nothing more than the kennel masters. All that House Stark asked for, was sympathy. That too, was never given.

Lord Stark was killed, not even given the right to have a proper trial by combat. Worse than that, he was burnt.

Brandon. All that the rumors had said was that he died on a noose trying to save his father.

Lyanna. Only the gods, old or the new, knew where she had gone to or had absconded to. Whether she had been abducted by the 'honorable' Prince Rhaegar or had went willingly, it did not matter—the lord and the heir of Winterfell were given an unjust trial. Elbert Arryn, too, had been executed without any true trial. To rub in the salt in the figurative wound, King Aerys had then ordered the head of both Robert and Ned.

So, the North, the Vale, and the Stormlands had revolted under a just cause. To pay back what had been done to them, eye for an eye, skull for skull, pain for pain. What comes next, they didn't care.

It had been a grueling campaign, and though they had arranged an alliance with House Tully, that was not a guarantee for their victory. Especially with Robert having been lost after the defeat in Ashford. Jon Arryn had told them that Robert was seeking shelter and care in the Stoney Sept after his injuries from the previous battle, it had been two weeks since, and Ned didn't know whether his foster brother had either succumbed to his wounds, been taken and executed by Connington, or breathed freely.

Ned cupped his hands to find a place to breathe out the air within the lungs, it was his damned nerves, though the rebellion had raged for some time, the North was far too slow in mobilizing its bannermen for combat so he had to settle for only the men garrisoned within Winterfell and the Crannogmen, and this would be his first true battle. Not some skirmish or a duel, but a pitched battle.

The Riverlanders as well as the Stormlanders as well, would take a fortnight to march to Stoney Sept as rainfall had slowed their men. Though a boon as the Crannogmen were in slowing down Connington's approach, they were not suited for a pitched battle and so were relegated into being the defensive infantry. Ned had brought only four hundred men and Jon Arryn in his haste had similarly brought only three hundred men. They had less than a fraction of their respective Kingdom's military strength but so long as they could hold Connington's men for long enough that Baratheon could run away then his and his men's sacrifice would be enough. At least, that was the plan. But the Crown's army had arrived first, and had likely already took Robert. Retreating would be of no use.

Lord Arryn rode on horseback beside him, already knowing the worries within his foster son's mind. "Be at peace, Ned."

Ned said nothing and reinforced the moniker given to him as the 'Quiet Wolf.' Instead he saw from the distance the overwhelming might of Connington's army and resigned himself to his fate.

Today, nine hundred man shall lay down their lives.

Tomorrow, Benjen will be the last Stark.

For now, Ned readied his horse. He secured the scabbard that he had of his ancestral sword, Ice. It was too cumbersome to be used for combat, and so Ned had used his preferred dueling sword.

Lord Arryn came to the front of the cavalry, included among them was Stark himself. He didn't give any speeches to rile the men, only a beckon before stirring his horse to gallop. The rest of the cavalry had followed behind Lord Arryn and each carrying lances.

Lord Arryn struck a spearwall with his lance, but his horse had reared back in fear. The rest of the cavalry had followed in delivering the attack themselves. But an onslaught of arrows killed Arryn's horse in its head, as well as Ned's own horse. The pain of falling to the ground as his horse reared in pain didn't register to him.

It was pure pandemonium, and everything became muted and blurry for three seconds. Then a pair of hands raised him up and yelled at him, "Get up, Ned!"

That was Ser Cassel, or so he thinks. He got up to his feet and unsheathed his dueling sword then went under the spearwall to try to cut down as many men-at-arms as he can. As soon as he cut down his third or maybe the fourth man, a mace struck the back of his helmet and he went limp.