by: Shell Presto
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This fic takes place before the first episode of Gungrave and/or the start of the game. It's my impression of the first time Grave wakes up, which, for the purpose of this fic, I feel was unseen by the audience. I feel this way because I think anyone would be more disoriented than Grave was on the first day of reanimation. It also gives him time to prioritize himself and readjust to what he was brought back for, which sets him up for the first episode. Just fan interpretation, though.
Whirring. Really dull, like a muted dental drill. It was all he could hear, and it was the only sense available to him. Within a minute, or perhaps eternity, he could feel again. Vibrations, connected to those whirring noises, drove into his body. They weren't violent, but they ran deep in his stiff frame. Most especially his arms and back.
His head simply wanted to fall forward. When a metal plate around his neck stopped this action, he became scared. His eye snapped open as he gasped for air. A sudden urgency gripped him as his pulse drowned the sound of the machines. There was metal, dim lights, consoles, a someone in a lab coat.
The man instantly began to struggle free of his bonds. Although he made no vocal sound, it wasn't long before the metal restraints around his wrists began to shriek as they tore from the armrest of the cold chair.
"No!" Dr. Tokioka yelled as he rushed to the hysterical man's side. Blood sprayed from the broken restraint. The red liquid was also spraying from the man's wrists, but he paid no attention as he grasped the bar around his neck.
The middle-aged Dr. Tokioka, with his grey beard and balding head, was getting too old for this. The placed one hand on his subject's shoulder, the other over his bleeding wrist. "Stop, Grave! You're hurting yourself and the equipment!"
Their eyes met. The restrained man wondered who the hell Grave was. But he saw no malice in Dr. Tokioka's eyes. He calmed down. Was he really hurting himself?
Tokioka let out a sigh of relief as he walked across the chipped tile floor to a cabinet. The situation could have been much worse, he realized as he brought back bandages and a tool kit.
"Hold still," he instructed as he took up Grave's wrist.
Tokioka began to explain what was happening as he pressed gauze over Grave's wounds, "This machine is keeping you alive right now. You may be confused for a while, but you'll have to take my word that you are safe."
One brown eye focused on the doctor. It certainly was confused. Grave swallowed hard, an action impeded by the restraint around his neck. He could feel the needles in his back.
Tokioka noted the man's discomfort. "I apologize for how you must feel right now," he said, taping up the wrist. The bandages were already thoroughly soaked with blood. "However, you don't have any blood of your own. This machine must inject it into your veins."
He hit a switch that Grave couldn't see to stop the flow of blood to the broken wrist restraint and began to fiddle with it. He started pulling the bent needles out with pliers as he spoke. "You'll soon remember what blood is, if you don't already. It's best for you to just relax and try to take in your surroundings." The doctor turned his back on Grave and walked over to a console, the broken part in his hand. "You'll be sitting there for quite a while."
Grave tried to relax. Everything seemed okay, aside from his being strapped to a chair and treated like a pincushion. It took a couple minutes to realize that everything was not okay. He didn't know who he was. His only guess was, of course, that he was Grave, which the doctor apparently called him. There was a quick filtering of facts through his mind.
I'm thinking in words.
I know words.
I understood that guy.
He let his thoughts guide him, although they seemed very few and far between. His eye focused on the man in the labcoat.
White.
That's what white is.
The coat is white.
It took a little longer, but eventually he remembered that white coat equaled doctor.
Doctors help people.
He wanted to stretch. How long did he have to stay in the chair? He was stiff all over. It distracted him. But then the real question popped into his mind:
Why do I need help? This thought was perplexing. The doctor had said something about blood. People need blood to survive but...
Why don't I have my own blood?
This question was too hard. He didn't know the answer. It was like his brain was trying to climb over a wall. It got close to the top, but it had no more footholds. The answer was not in Grave's reach, no matter how he stretched for it. But his mind couldn't come back down. In his temporary despair, a new word came to mind.
Maria.
There was a sweep of comfort with the word followed by a flash of blonde hair and teal eyes.
What was that? This flash was scary. It brought feeling with it, and Grave couldn't tell why. But there was a new sense of urgency.
What happened to Maria? He tried to stand up, this time not bothering to rip out of his arm restraints. He choked as he strangled himself against the metal, trying to find Maria.
Then another flash. Screaming. Tears. Wind. A man's face.
Grave froze. The metal dug into his skin but for a moment it didn't matter. There was no pain, no feeling.
What was that?
He relaxed and settled back into his chair. He was missing something here. Something important. He looked around for a clue. Then something new struck him as odd. It seemed as if he was only getting half the picture. There was no real sense of a full picture, but something, something on the left felt unbalanced. And the right seemed... heavy.
He brought his free hand up to his face. His fingers began exploring for the imbalance. When he could only see his thumb, and the rest of his hand was covered in darkness even though it was right in front of his face, he knew. He felt the scar that ran over his left eye, pressed on his eyelid and felt nothing beneath it.
Did he ever have his left eye, he wondered.
What was the last thing I saw with my left eye.
Grave jumped in his chair, instantly strangling himself and dislodging a needle from his back. The blood hissed as it flew into the air from the thrashing tube.
"Blast it! Not again!" Dr. Tokioka cursed as he rushed to the man's side. "Calm down!" he yelled as he caught the tube.
A gun! The last thing Grave had seen with his left eye was a gun! And the one holding it was... his dry mouth formed the word, though no sound came out. "Harry..."
Tokioka watched the lips of the man frozen with fear. He took the opportunity to jab the thick needle into Grave's back again. The action was violent, jarring Grave, but also bringing him back to reality.
"Well now," Tokioka couldn't hold back an impressed smile. It was amused, but not comforting in the least to Grave. "It seems you've remembered."
Grave's mind was raging. Harry, yes! Harry I remember! His wide brown eye pleaded for answers.
"You were killed by Bloody Harry of the Millenion Syndicate. You were his right-hand man, and the best sweeper they had."
But Maria! Get to Maria!
Before the doctor could continue, and automatic door hissed open. Steam emerged, and a young girl, blonde with teal eyes, followed it. Her hair was wet and she was wearing a red and black outfit.
She looks like...
Dr. Tokioka interrupted the thought. "This is Mika. She escaped when Harry ordered her father, Big Daddy, killed. She's the reason you are here."
"He's awake..." the girl, no older than seventeen, gasped. Suddenly self conscious, she bowed slightly to the naked man in front of her.
"Thank you!" she said, then thought a moment. "For waking up, I mean. My mother told me to find you before she died. She said that you would protect me..."
Mika looked up at the man. He seemed tense all over, like he wasn't thinking at all. Tokioka noticed this, too. He placed a hand on her shoulder. "He doesn't seem all that coherent anymore. I think you should let him alone."
Mika nodded and gave Grave one last glance before she settled on a vinyl couch against the wall.
Grave closed his eye tightly as he felt all his emotions slipping away. Then all the words followed, and then, suddenly, the metal didn't seem all that cold or imposing. It was inviting.
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