Metal Gear Solid Graphic Novel Novels & Stories

It seemed that Antoninus wasn't much different from Chris; they both had a fascination with electronic games. But by the next morning, I realized I had misunderstood him. He seemed to be preparing a second gift for Chris. After handling his official duties, I saw him still holding a pen and drawing on paper. This time, in addition to the gun, he drew two sets of armor. These were the armors worn by the characters in the game, military green with a futuristic sci-fi design, something called mechanical exoskeleton armor, if I remembered correctly. I had a vivid impression of it because, without this armor, I would have died countless times in the game last night. But why was Antoninus drawing

Joshua walks to his room, removing his two semi-automatic 9mm colts; Tiffany follows him to the room, “Joshua, you are not going out there. Joshua puts the gun in the back of his jeans and covers it with his vest. They hear the fence opening; Tiffany walks over to the window. It is Winter; she is hysterical. She is banging on the door as the HL enters the yard, three mid-thirties guy tattoos on their arms and legs, holdings knives. “Help me.” Tiffany rushes to open the door as the hard-living thugs run over to the door to hold it open; Tiffany manages to close it just in time.

Two of the Infantry-men wore midnight black business suits and the third Infantry-man wore a black leather tank and jeans, which made him look like a sexy male stripper. The men’s suits on the other two Infantry-men matched the matte black finish on their sport bikes, and seeing the two Infantry-men reminded Amy of the agents in The Matrix. The only thing that didn’t match the men’s suits and ties were their metallic silver motorcycle helmets. Amy knew the three men were Death Row Infantry-men. She grew tired of seeing Infantry-men and she was tired of killing them.

The robot’s chest plate began to drip, molten metal falling to the floor with sizzling plops. “Clear visual!” Willz yelled. Mello, finally finished, held up his sketchbook. He had drawn not a bazooka, but a long, wicked-looking katana with a serrated edge. “I hear you, brother!” Bryan, his energy clearly flagging, gasped out, “Make the final move!” Willz’s scythe appeared in his hands in a swirl of shadow. Mello’s drawing glowed, and the katana materialized before him, dropping into his grip.

She stripped the insulation from the copper strands with her fingernails, the copper biting into her skin, and pressed them firmly against the unpainted zinc screw of the ground chassis. A sharp, violent spark hissed in the dark. Deep within the frame of the massive vault door beside them, a heavy, pneumatic piston retracted with a loud, metallic clack-whoosh. The three-inch-thick steel plate slid slowly into the recess of the concrete wall, yawning open to reveal a stark, silent space. This was the sub-grade vault.

The memory of the last few hours crashes into me like molten iron. Me. Gathering my men. “Yes, Boss,” Cameo said when he stepped into my office at the bank. “Get one of the boys to shut down all the security footage leading to the Roshids’ residence. Everything. The neighborhood. The street.” I ordered darkly. I pressed the button beneath my desk. The wall behind me gave way, sliding open to reveal the vault. My arsenal of weapons. Air conditioned. Clean. Sophisticated. “Sir? What are you planning?” Cameo asked from behind me as I stepped into the air-conditioned space.