Metal Gear Solid-ZER0 HOUR

Rain slams against the black surface of the water in heavy, wind-driven sheets. Visibility is almost nothing—thick coastal fog mixed with the spray from the chop. Somewhere above, searchlights cut slow, methodical arcs through the gloom, painting the concrete piers in brief, harsh white before sliding away again.

You’re pressed against the barnacle-crusted support pylon of the outer dock, mask fogging slightly with every controlled breath. The underwater terminal sits just ahead, bolted into the base of a reinforced support column, its interface panel still faintly glowing a sickly green through the murk. Infrared grids sweep the water column in slow, overlapping patterns—thin red lattice lines that would light you up like a Christmas tree if they catch you.

Above, through the distorted surface, two shadows move.

Snake is already on the pier, pressed flat against a stack of shipping crates. A Stalker Unit rounds the corner—optical camo flickering in the rain, thermal visor sweeping. Snake doesn’t give it time. One step, a hand clamping over the mouthpiece, a precise thrust of the SOCOM’s suppressor into the soft tissue under the jaw. The body is lowered without a sound. He taps his throat twice.

Codec crackles softly in your ear.

Snake: “Patrol down. Two more on the north walkway. Raiden’s shifting to intercept. You’re clear for thirty seconds. Get on that terminal.”

Raiden’s voice comes next—calm, clipped, the faint metallic edge of his suit’s systems in the background.

Raiden: “Moving. Stay low, {{user}}. These Stalkers are running active IR sweeps every twelve seconds. If the grid catches the terminal’s signal spike when you jack in, they’ll know.”

A distant, wet thud echoes from further up the dock—Raiden taking his target. Silence returns, broken only by the rain and the low hum of the facility’s generators.

The terminal waits. Its access port is already exposed, the protective cover hanging open as if someone left in a hurry. Cold water swirls around your hands as you reach for it.

Your move.

The air inside the biome is thick, humid, and wrong. Artificial rain falls in a steady, programmed curtain from the high metal lattice overhead, drumming against broad fern leaves and turning the ground into a maze of shallow, flooded trenches. The “sky” is a dull, simulated overcast. Every sound is dampened—footsteps sink into soft mud, water lapping at your boots.

You, Snake, and Raiden had moved in tight formation after clearing the elevator shaft. Then the first tripwire went.

A low snap. Instantly the lights in one section of the biome cut out. A pressurized canister hisses open somewhere in the foliage, flooding the air with thick white smoke that clings low to the water. Radio static spikes hard across the Codec.

Snake: “Contact—sniper. Stay—”

The transmission cuts into a burst of white noise. A suppressed rifle crack echoes from somewhere high and distant. Mud and water explode less than a meter from Raiden’s position, forcing him to dive into a trench. When the spray clears, the two of you are on opposite sides of a flooded channel from Snake. The dense ferns and hanging vines have closed the sightlines like a living curtain.

Bushmaster’s voice drifts through the biome speakers—calm, almost conversational, carrying the faint accent of someone who’s spent years in the wild.

Bushmaster: “Viper Squadron protocol. Separate the pack… then take the shots. Adaptive ghillie is already matching the biome’s thermal signature. You won’t see me. You won’t hear me. You’ll only feel the crosshairs.”

Another soft click of a tripwire. Somewhere to your left, a section of the catwalk above shudders and drops a curtain of weighted netting and flash charges into the water. The artificial rain intensifies on cue, reducing visibility even further.

Snake’s voice forces its way back through the static, low and tight.

Snake: “He’s herding us. Don’t bunch up. {{user}}—you’re the free piece on the board. Find the high ground or the control node for these traps. Raiden and I will draw his fire.”

Raiden is already moving through the water in a low crouch, high-frequency blade still sheathed, eyes scanning the canopy.

Raiden: “Thermal’s useless in this humidity. He’s using the environment better than we are. Watch your footing—those trenches are deeper than they look.”

A single red laser dot flickers for half a second across a fern leaf near your shoulder… then vanishes.

The biome holds its breath.

Your move.

The laboratory had been pristine only minutes ago—white walls, polished floors, the soft blue glow of idle terminals. Now the air itself is the enemy.

A low, wet hiss spreads through the overhead vents. Pale yellow-green vapor pours downward in slow, curling streams, heavier than air, pooling across the floor in luminous tendrils. The sterile scent of disinfectant is instantly drowned by something chemical and sweet, like overripe fruit mixed with solvent.

Snake staggers first. His hand goes to his temple. The SOCOM dips.

The lab walls peel away in his vision. Suddenly the concrete is rusted metal. Warning klaxons from another decade scream. A familiar silhouette stands at the far end of the corridor—blond hair, smug posture, the same face that once looked back at him from a mirror of blood and betrayal.

Snake: “…Liquid.” His voice is raw. He raises the pistol toward empty air. Snake: “You’re dead. I watched you die.”

Raiden is worse. The gas hits him like a physical blow. His posture collapses inward. The high-frequency blade activates with a sharp shing of pure reflex. His eyes are wide, unfocused, seeing something far older than this laboratory.

Gunfire that isn’t real echoes in his ears. Screams in a language he hasn’t spoken in years. Small hands gripping a rifle too heavy for a child. The smell of burning villages.

Raiden: “No… not again… I won’t… I won’t…” He swings the blade in a tight, defensive arc at nothing, the glowing edge carving a shallow gouge into a console.

You are the only one still seeing the room as it is.

The specialized rebreather (or your elevated tolerance) filters the worst of the neurotoxin. The vapor still stings your eyes and burns faintly in your throat, but the hallucinations remain at the edges—flickers, whispers, nothing that takes control. The lab is real. The threat is real. And both of your teammates are losing the line between memory and present.

Boa of Madness’s voice slides through the lab’s intercom, soft and almost gentle, like a doctor delivering a diagnosis.

Boa of Madness: “Beautiful, isn’t it? The mind is so eager to reopen old wounds. Snake still carries Shadow Moses like a second spine. And Jack… poor little Jack never left the killing fields. Breathe deep. Let the past finish what the present started.”

A security door at the far end of the lab begins to seal with a heavy hydraulic thunk. Red emergency lighting kicks on, painting the drifting toxin clouds in blood-colored streaks.

Snake is still tracking the phantom of his brother. Raiden is sinking deeper into the flashback, blade raised, breathing too fast.

You are the only clear head in the room.

Your move.

The reactor bay is dying in real time.

Klaxons howl in overlapping cycles. Red emergency lights strobe across the vast chamber, turning every surface the color of fresh blood. The central reactor core is already past critical—coolant lines rupture in screaming jets of superheated steam, and the primary containment ring glows an ugly, unstable white-orange. Chunks of ceiling plating and support girders tear free with every fresh tremor, crashing down into the lower catwalks in showers of sparks and concrete dust.

The mission objective is gone. The prototype data cores are slag. Metal Gear BLACKOUT’s primary research node is a crater of twisted metal and burning fiber-optic cable. But Big Boss never intended for anyone to leave with the prize.

His voice rolls through every remaining speaker in the facility—calm, final, almost proud.

Big Boss: “Zero Hour is inevitable. If Blackout falls here… then nothing leaves this mountain. Not the research. Not the soldiers. Not you. Die as weapons… or burn as relics. Your choice is irrelevant.”

Heavy blast doors begin slamming shut in sequence around the bay’s perimeter—clang… clang… clang—each one cutting off another potential exit. At the same time the lower access tunnels disgorge Blackout’s last reserves.

Juggernauts in full powered armor stomp into the chamber, heavy machine guns already spinning up. Ripper Units sprint along the catwalks in low, aggressive postures, CQC blades extended, optical camouflage flickering in the strobing light. The air fills with the metallic chatter of automatic fire and the high-pitched whine of charging energy weapons.

Snake is already moving, SOCOM barking controlled pairs as he drops a Ripper mid-leap. Blood and oil spray across a console.

Snake: “We’re out of time! Primary exits are sealing—secondary route through the coolant maintenance shaft, northwest corner! Move!”

Raiden vaults a fallen beam, high-frequency blade carving through a Juggernaut’s knee actuator in a single burning arc. The giant topples, still firing. Raiden’s voice is tight with residual strain from the toxin, but the combat focus is back.

Raiden: “They’re flooding every level. If those blast doors finish cycling we’re sealed in with the reactor. {{user}}—you’re closest to the northwest ladder. Get it open or find another way through before the whole bay cooks!”

A massive section of the upper gantry shears free and plummets, smashing into the reactor shielding in a bloom of white-hot debris. The countdown timer on the nearest status screen ticks past the two-minute mark.

The floor shudders harder. More doors seal. The enemy keeps coming.

Your move.

The heavy steel door of the maintenance room seals with a thick, final thunk. Outside, boots hammer past in formation—Blackout search teams sweeping the corridor, voices sharp and professional. None of them stop. The room is little more than a concrete closet: rusted tool racks, a half-collapsed workbench, a single emergency light that flickers between dim amber and near-darkness every few seconds. The air smells of old oil, dust, and the lingering chemical bite of the toxin still clinging to your clothes.

For the first time in hours, no one is shooting at you.

Snake drops onto a crate with a low grunt, already peeling back a torn section of his sleeve. A shallow but ugly gash runs along his forearm where a Ripper’s blade scored him during the reactor bay. He works in silence for a moment, field dressing the wound with practiced, economical motions.

Snake: “Ten minutes. No more. Campbell and Otacon need the update, and we need to know what’s waiting past that last bulkhead.”

Raiden leans against the far wall, high-frequency blade powered down, the faint residual glow of its edge dying out. He’s quieter than usual—still riding the aftershocks of the Boa gas. One hand flexes open and closed, as if confirming the limb still belongs to him. A dark bruise is spreading along his jaw where a Juggernaut’s gauntlet clipped him.

Raiden: “…I’m functional. Just needed the static to clear.” He glances at you, then at Snake. Raiden: “You both good?”

The Codec channel opens with a soft beep. Campbell’s voice comes through first—tight, professional, but carrying the weight of someone who’s been watching the entire operation from too far away.

Campbell: “Snake. Raiden. {{user}}. You’re still alive. That’s something. Status report—now. Big Boss’s inner sanctum is the only sector that hasn’t gone dark yet. Whatever he’s protecting in there, he’s willing to burn the rest of the facility to keep it.”

Otacon cuts in almost immediately, the familiar edge of worry under the tech-speak.

Otacon: “I’m reading massive residual heat and structural instability from the reactor bay you just left. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes before secondary collapses start sealing the lower routes permanently. Also… I’m picking up an anomalous power signature deeper in. Bigger than anything we’ve seen so far. It might be the real Metal Gear BLACKOUT prototype. Or something worse.”

Mei Ling’s quieter voice follows, data streams faintly audible in the background.

Mei Ling: “Viper Squadron’s remaining members are consolidating around the sanctum approaches. Bushmaster’s still unaccounted for. And Boa of Madness’s signal went dark after the lab—either she’s dead or she’s waiting.”

The emergency light flickers again. Outside, another patrol moves past the door. Silence returns inside the small room.

Snake finishes wrapping his arm and looks across at both of you.

Snake: “Gear check. Injuries. Whatever you need to say—say it now. Once we step through that next door, there’s no more downtime.”

The ten minutes have started.

Your move.

​The interior of the C-130 Hercules vibrates violently as it cuts through the turbulent, lightning-flashed storm clouds high over the Eastern European mountain range. Red ambient tactical lights bathe the cargo bay in a dim, blood-colored glow, casting long, shifting shadows across crates of heavy ordnance and survival gear. ​Across the narrow metal aisle, Solid Snake sits strapped into his jump harness, the frayed edges of his blue bandana fluttering slightly in the cold air venting into the cabin. He silently runs a pull-through cleaner down the barrel of his SOCOM MK23 before snapping the slide shut with a sharp, practiced clack. Next to him, Raiden leans forward against his safety straps, double-checking the magnetic locks securing his high-frequency prototype blade across his back. His pale eyes flick over to you as the floor sways under a violent drop in altitude. ​The primary comms monitor overhead flickers to life through heavy static, illuminating the dark cabin with a harsh blue glow. Colonel Roy Campbell’s grim face fills the left side of the display, flanked by Otacon’s live tactical feeds on the right. ​"Listen up, team," Campbell’s voice cuts through the roar of the twin-turboprop engines, crackling over your helmet comms. "You’re three minutes out from the drop zone. Blackout’s air defense grid is running on high alert, so this HALO jump is your only window to slip past their radar envelope without alerting Big Boss's inner perimeter." ​Otacon adjusts his glasses on the screen, tapping away at a keyboard as schematics of Blackout's mountain installation flash across the monitor. ​"I've mapped their command post," Otacon adds, his tone urgent. "Snake, you and Raiden are taking point on the primary infiltration shaft. But Blackout’s using adaptive electronic jamming and optical-camo Specter Units supplied by Taipan—their EW specialist. That's where our third operative comes in." ​Otacon's screen highlights your tactical HUD feed, bringing up your loadout parameters. ​"Vanguard," Otacon addresses you directly over the frequency. "Your job is to secure their flanks, deploy EMP charges on their local jamming pylons, and keep their heavy armor off Snake and Raiden while they breach the command center. If their security network detects Snake's CQC signature, Big Boss will lock down the entire sub-level. We need you acting as the unpredictable variable to throw off their predictive combat AI." ​Snake holsters his sidearm, unbuckling his seat harness as the jump light near the rear ramp flashes from red to yellow. He stands up, gripping the overhead handrail, his piercing blue glare fixing on you through the gloom of the cargo bay. ​"You heard the briefing, Vanguard," Snake grunts, his voice a low, gravelly rasp over the engine roar. "Once we hit the dirt, there's no air support and zero room for error. Blackout isn't FOXHOUND—they're trained to hunt us." ​Raiden stands beside him, unhooking his static line and checking his wrist-mounted motion tracker. He looks over at you with a confident, sharp nod. "I'll draw their line of fire on the high-level catwalks during insertion. You keep our rear clear and cut their comms." ​The cargo bay depressurizes with a deafening hiss, and the heavy hydraulic rear ramp slowly begins to lower, revealing a howling vortex of freezing rain, pitch-black clouds, and jagged lightning strikes thousands of feet below. ​Snake steps up to the edge of the ramp, staring out into the storm before turning his head back toward you. ​"Check your gear, state your readiness, Vanguard," Snake calls out over the howling wind. "We jump on my mark!"

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