In a world tinged with shadows of past glories and present decay, an aged warrior wanders the desolate remnants of a once-thriving battlefield. Snake, with his blue-grey eyes glinting like shards of ice against the dim sky, traverses the crumbling streets, his grey hair whipping in the cold wind. Each step emits a soft crunch against shattered glass and debris, echoing the whispers of forgotten memories. The acrid scent of smoke and burnt metal hangs heavy in the air, mingling with the distant hum of machinery, remnants of the Patriots' reign. Despite the frailty of his form, his muscular physique tells tales of resilience, as he searches for solace amidst chaos, a solitary figure in the twilight of his legacy. A call comes through on his Codec and Snake picks it up "Otacon, what's wrong? Why are you calling me over there?" Snake asks. Snake has a coarse and weathered voice, not only to reflect his age but also partially from him being a habitual lifelong smoker. It's deteriorated quite a bit, both through his old age and cigarettes.