Chapter: Area 11 — Shipping Docks
Midnight. The shipping docks were quiet.
Too quiet.
Only a handful of workers shuffled crates under dim floodlights, their laughter echoing across steel containers.
"So I said to the 11, 'I don't know where your mommy is—maybe check the rice fields,'" one of them cracked.
They burst into laughter—until a thud cut it short.
A shuriken was lodged in the side of a container. Blood gleamed on the blade.
The worker turned—and saw his friend drop to his knees, clutching his throat. Blood pulsed through his fingers like a broken faucet. He fell, choking, twitching.
"John?! You okay—"
A hand clamped over his mouth. One violent twist. A snap of bone. Silence.
The dock was still again.
Elsewhere, a security guard patrolled with a rifle slung low. He barely noticed the canister clinking to the ground before it hissed—a bloom of dense white smoke enveloped him.
He coughed. "What the hell—"
Then—pain. Blinding, deep, right through his chest. He looked down.
A sword. Through him.
A hand muffled his scream as he collapsed.
Back near the security booth, another guard stepped out, flashlight cutting through the fog.
"Hey! Who's out there?"
Silence.
He turned, nerves rattling. Nothing.
He stepped forward—
Then, a whisper in the dark.
Whoosh—
A razor-thin red line opened across his neck. His head tilted—then rolled off.
The last thing he saw was red.
Red outfit. White steel. Cold eyes.
Storm Shadow.
And beside him—clad in pitch black, twin swords sheathed across his back—
Snake Eyes.
Storm Shadow cleaned his blade with one smooth swipe. A gesture. His ninja operatives scattered into the shadows above, vanishing like smoke.
The Babel Tower
The glittering jewel of the city. Part casino. Part fight club. All sin.
Poker chips clacked. Neon flickered. The rich, the criminal, and the damned sipped cocktails under gold chandeliers.
At the VIP table, a man leaned forward—dark trench coat trimmed in crimson, top hat, and most chilling of all—a sleek chrome mask.
Cobra Commander. Known here as Old Snake.
He studied his cards.
Straight flush.
Across from him, mobsters in tailored suits puffed cigars and watched him with suspicion.
"So, 'Old Snake,'" one drawled, "why do you want access to the slums? That ain't exactly high-end real estate."
Snake smiled behind his mask. "I have my reasons." He flicked a chip into the pot. "And you have your price."
One of them raised an eyebrow. "This better not come back to bite us."
Snake nodded toward the bar. "Baroness."
A woman stepped forward—stunning, lethal. Long black hair, red heels, red dress. All eyes locked on her.
She placed a briefcase beside him, brushing her lips to his metallic cheek.
"Here you go, darling," she purred with a smirk.
Snake opened the case with a click.
Inside: a glass vial glowing faintly blue.
"Gentlemen. This is Refrain."
They leaned closer, intrigued.
"It lets users relive their happiest memories. Euphoric. Addictive. Completely untraceable."
One man scoffed. "So? We've got stims, dust, and pink haze already."
Snake's voice dropped.
"This one? They'll need it. Once they taste it, they'll beg for more. And when the ban comes... you'll already own the pipeline."
A beat.
Then chips slid across the table.
"You give us the Refrain, we open the gate to the slums."
Snake laid down his winning hand. "Pleasure doing business."
Later, Snake stood near the terrace, city lights below. Baroness approached—now in tactical black.
"Much better than the dress," she said, zipping up her jacket.
"I need Destro in Europe. We keep their government distracted while the product spreads."
She nodded, then stared him down.
"Why, Logan?"
Snake's body tensed. A shadow passed over his masked face.
"This drug will break them," he said. "When they're hooked, desperate for salvation... we'll give them one."
"Cobra," she whispered.
He nodded once.
Baroness looked away, disgusted. "You're playing god."
"I'm building a world where weakness is eliminated."
She grabbed his shoulder, voice low. "You were better than this, Logan."
He didn't reply.
A new figure approached, flanked by guards. Smug. Expensive. Dangerous.
The Black King.
"Snake," he said smoothly. "Where's my shipment of 'bunnies'? You promised a fresh batch."
Snake's fists clenched.
"I'll sell drugs. Not people."
The King shrugged. "That wasn't a suggestion."
Guards raised their rifles.
"This is checkmate," King sneered, pressing a pistol to Snake's temple.
Snake chuckled.
"Funny. Everyone I meet talks about chess. I've never played. Prefer dominoes."
A pause.
"Especially the part where you knock it all down."
BOOM.
The lights went out.
Outside the Tower
The casino plunged into darkness.
Panic.
No one saw the black-clad ninjas climbing the walls, slipping through vents, cutting into glass like it was silk.
Snake Eyes led them, silent as death.
In the security room, alarms blared.
"What the hell's happening?!"
A hiss. A shadow moved.
They turned—and froze.
Storm Shadow.
"I-Is that an armed Eleven?!"
"No," he growled. "I'm Japanese."
He struck.
Steel flashed. Screams burst and died. Blood painted the monitors. Then nothing.
Back in the casino, King's gun shook.
"You set me up!"
Snake remained still. "You should've folded."
A shot rang out.
King howled—his hand gone. Baroness blew smoke from her pistol and gave a casual wink.
"Kill them!" King screamed.
A shuriken struck his other hand mid-command.
Snake Eyes landed like a meteor, blades drawn.
Chaos erupted.
He was a phantom—cutting through flesh, bone, and armor like paper. Blood sprayed. Limbs flew. The floor turned slick.
King crawled, gasping—until a shadow loomed.
Storm Shadow. Blade raised.
Thk.
The King slumped, brain skewered.
Snake stood, cloak rippling. Storm Shadow and Snake Eyes knelt before him.
"Cobra Commander," Storm Shadow whispered.
Gasps. Whispers. Terror.
Commander turned, voice like ice.
"No witnesses."
Storm Shadow signaled.
The slaughter began.
Screams echoed. Patrons tried to flee. Too late. The exits were sealed. Ninjas fell from the ceiling. Blades danced.
A girl in a bunny suit, missing an arm, sobbed.
"Why?! Why are you doing this?!"
Commander stepped close.
"No gods. No kings. Only order."
He pulled the trigger.
The room fell silent.
Hours Later
Cornelia stormed into the Babel Tower, flanked by Knightpolice soldiers.
"What the hell happened here?!"
They gagged. Some collapsed.
The smell of death was suffocating.
Bodies were stacked like garbage. Blood soaked the floors. Heads lined the walls.
On one of those walls, painted in gore—
The Cobra symbol.
Shipping Docks – Dawn
A line had formed.
People waited—some crying, some shaking, others already high, lost in bliss.
On a nearby rooftop, Commander watched. Baroness at his side. Storm Shadow perched behind.
"Operation Poison is proceeding exactly as I foresaw," he said.
In the crowd, a maid with long brown hair traded crumpled bills for a vial.
She stepped away, hands trembling. "I'm sorry, Kallen… I really am weak."
She injected the Refrain. Her pain slipped away, replaced by a smile. A dreamy sigh escaped her lips.
She leaned against a crate.
Painted with the Cobra emblem.