Snake lights a cigarette. The smoke curls toward a cracked ceiling. "Because if I go into that microwave tunnel humming that beat, I'm gonna laugh. And if I laugh, I die."
"Octo-camo on my back, blendin' with the sorrow / Drebin says 'buy more,' I tell him, 'borrow, borrow, borrow' / Raiden rollin' with a sword, no jaw, all edge / I'm old, I'm gray, one more cigarette on the ledge."
"Dead-cell in my bloodstream, nanomachines hummin' / CQC with a ghost, feelin' numb from the come-up / Drebin poppin' pills, givin' monkeys the heater / Snake? Snake? SNAKE? Nah, call me the repeater."
The year is 2014. Private military companies blanket the globe, and war is a plugged-in economy. In a cramped, flickering safehouse in Eastern Europe, a weathered data courier named Dez hands a disguised Solid Snake a beat-up MP3 player. mgs4 rap file
Snake pulls the earbud out. He looks at the MP3 player. He looks at the rain-streaked window.
"Delete it."
"...So you liked the hook?"
"What? Why?"
He keys his codec. "Otacon."
Snake freezes. His eye twitches.
Silence.
Then the outro. A sampled voice—Big Boss, maybe, or The Boss—whispers over a fading synth:
