Hitori Nojima: Death Stranding: The Official Novelization, Volume One

Deadman’s body passed right through Sam.

There was a hint of pride in his voice, like a magician who had managed to trick an entire audience, when Deadman began to speak again from behind Sam.

“Apologies. This is just a hologram. I’m actually over in the Isolation Ward. In the big triangle building.” Deadman signaled toward the other side of the room and approached the trolley.

“Here is the morphine.”

Deadman reached out as if to pick up the case, but was unable to grab anything.

“Bridges hereby enters into a contract with Sam Porter.”

It was all an act. Sam shook his head and glared at Deadman.

“Come on, you’ve got morphine there. What’s this about? Tell me the truth.”

Where did this act begin? Sam was asking himself . Who wrote it? How far has it come to fruition?

“The truth, Sam, is that America’s last president wants to see you in person.”

Sam wasn’t surprised.

“Are you really about to say no?” Deadman asked.

Someone extremely close to the president was pulling the strings. Sam was sure that if he went along with it, not only could he meet the president, but the mastermind behind all this.

Sam decided to follow Deadman’s instructions. That way, he would be able to see if Deadman really was some kind of magician. Sam picked up the container.

“Very good. I’ll see you in the Isolation Ward.”

Deadman nodded. His large body seemed to defy gravity as it floated upward. The outline of his long red jacket lost its form and expanded. Then the body burst into a thousand pieces and scattered through the air. Only his smile remained in the void as he disappeared. Sam Porter Bridges left the room to deliver the case. To accomplish his duty as a courier.

CAPITAL KNOT CITY // ISOLATION WARD

Deadman stared silently at the room on the monitor. Now that Sam had left, there was no one else there.

He sensed someone stood beside him. There was no need to check who it was. The man who was waiting for Sam was stood beside Deadman, watching the monitor.

Sam would be here soon, following the rail laid down by Bridges to deliver his cargo.

Unfortunately, Deadman had no idea what Sam would be thinking as he walked to the Isolation Ward. But it didn’t matter. He’d have plenty of time to find that out later. He could get to know Sam then.

It was three years ago when Deadman was first brought into Bridges, and he first heard the name Sam Porter Bridges spoken about in hushed tones between the upper management of the company. He was the one and only Man Who Delivers.

He was a repatriate who could survive voidouts, the worst calamity to plague mankind. Deadman had also heard that if Sam lost the ha that would be repatriated back into this world, then he would be doomed to wander the Seam between worlds forever. In other words, his soul would never pass onward to the world of the dead. That made him immortal in a cruel sense.

Deadman had heard the rumors about Sam. But he had only ever heard of him in terms of a mythical vaccine in the face of the extremely mysterious Death Stranding phenomenon. Deadman understood that. He was just a figment of the imagination of a person who was desperate for someone like Sam to be real. But the Bridges members insisted that he existed. If he was indeed real, Deadman wanted to meet him. He wanted to study him, to understand him. If he could understand him, then he could shine a light on the connection between the living and the dead. It could help the man given the working name of Deadman make peace with himself.

He was very much looking forward to their first real meeting. His brief appearance as a hologram didn’t count.

“Sam is here,” Deadman told the man next to him, as he left the monitor and exited the room. He needed to make the preparations to greet the porter.

Doctors and nurses clad in red uniforms crisscrossed the elevator hall. Deadman could hear them talking about the condition of the president as he walked past. As he headed toward the hall, Deadman found himself straightening his jacket. Sam would be here soon. Eventually, the display told him that the elevator had arrived.

“Sam, it’s me. Deadman.” He held out his hand as Sam exited the elevator, but quickly caught himself. “Sorry! My mistake.”

Sam ignored Deadman’s apology and presented the suitcase.

“I’m afraid the president’s condition has deteriorated.” Deadman took the case and inspected the contents. The ampoules of morphine were arranged neatly. “Thank you. This will help to ease the pain… and allow her to speak with you in these final moments.”

Sam’s expression clouded over.

“Her?” Sam exclaimed.

“The first and last female President of the United States. Surely you remember her? She raised you.”

Sam remained silent. Deadman thought this might happen, but an uneasiness that he couldn’t explain hung in the air.

This man was Sam Bridges, right?

Sam should have known that the current President of the United States was a woman, and he definitely should have known that she was his mother. So, what was with that dumbfounded response? Maybe he wasn’t Sam, but someone else? Or did he want to deny that he was Sam?

Deadman led the way to the president’s office.

His handcuff reacted to something in front of the door and permitted them to enter. Deadman ushered Sam into the room.

Welcome .

Someone had gone to great lengths to recreate the Oval Office in the basement below the Isolation Ward.

It was an elliptical holy ground that had witnessed generations of people dedicate their lives to the office of the President of the United States. It was a place where successive leaders, led by their ideals and the world around them, had worked themselves into the ground. It was an altar for the highest-ranking sacrifice that this godless country had to accept. In the middle of the room was a bed covered with a dome.

Deadman moved to the side so that Sam could see. Sam gasped behind him. Deadman nodded toward the bed.

The room was dazzlingly bright, with large windows stretching almost to the ceiling behind the bed, flooding the room with light. Another man stood beside the bed, his back to Sam.

“That’s the president’s right-hand man, the director of Bridges,” Deadman whispered into Sam’s ear.

As if he had sensed their presence, the man turned around. Even though he had long withdrawn from active duty, he still had the body of a soldier. His face was covered with an iron mask, dark and skeletal.

“Die-Hardman?”

Sam and Die-Hardman had known each other far longer than Deadman had been on the scene. Deadman approached the bed and checked all the medical equipment organized around it, from the ventilator to the EKG and AED, before turning his gaze toward the patient. Dozens of tubes extended out from the frail body on the bed—a breathing mask, a drip, cords monitoring vitals like pulse and blood pressure. She looked like a butterfly caught in a spider’s web. Or perhaps she was more like a golden orb-weaving spider, right at the center of its own magnificent web. She may have been fragile, but she was a leader reconnecting the rest of a country on the verge of extinction with strong and delicate threads.

“Sam… I never thought we would be meeting again like this. Ironic, isn’t it?”