DISCLAIMER: I neither own Glee nor the characters. They are the property of Ryan Murphy and FOX. This is purely for fun. Enjoy! :)

A/N: Sorry about the delay; my wrist is all kinds of messed up and it hurts to type. I got myself a brace, though, so let's see how it works.

Hero

Chapter Seven: A New Mission

He couldn't pinpoint the second he'd regained consciousness. Who can, really? When you've been unaware of the world around you for so long, how do you recognize the moment you re-enter the conscious world? How do you realize you're no longer in the hazy in-between of sleep and dreams?

His eyelids were too heavy to open as his senses became sharper. He could hear people, voices, talking around him, in a language he couldn't recognize. He suddenly became aware of a sort of numbing pain in his head, a dull throbbing ache that left him feeling disoriented and detached. His eyes were still closed as he tried to focus on the voices he was hearing. They seemed to have stopped.

Once more he tried to open his eyes, and quickly closed them after being met with the brightest light he'd ever seen, blaring right down onto his face. Groaning loudly, he tried again, and successfully opened his eyes against the straining light. It was just simple daylight. Looking up at a tented ceiling, he knew he wasn't in a building, but a camp.

But where was he?

Closing his eyes again, he tried desperately to remember where he was. He tried to remember how he got here. He tried to remember what had happened to him. He scanned through his memories to find the information he so desperately needed.

Panic seeped through his bones when he realized he couldn't remember a thing.

His mind was completely blank. Empty.

Well, it wasn't empty. He knew that grass was green and that two plus two equaled four. He knew that Columbus sailed the ocean blue in 1492. He knew that baseball had nine innings and the words to the Star-Spangled banner.

But he couldn't remember a thing about his life.

He couldn't even remember his name.

He shot up in bed, screaming in agony when he realized he was hooked up to various medical machines and some of his limbs were wrapped up in gauze. It felt like every single one of his muscles was screaming at him to lay back down, but he sat up anyway, breathing heavily and looking around the tiny tent, hoping to find something to remind him of his surroundings. He was alone in the tiny tent, which couldn't be more than nine feet across. He could see the harsh sunlight filtering in through the thin gap in the tent. Across from him was a box filled with medical supplies and the words "Médecins Sans Frontières" written across the front.

Where the hell was he?

Placing his hands on the sides of his head, he tried desperately to remember the events that brought him to this foreign place. He was an American, he knew that much. And he knew he was a soldier, because he could see a torn up uniform on the side of his bed. An odd sensation spread through him, and he could feel it in his bones; he was definitely a soldier. The Army training was still there in his memory. At least he could remember something about his life. He looked down and saw dog tags hanging from his neck. He pulled them up to his face so he could see the tiny writing. As clear as day he could see the name imprinted in the metal.

F. Hudson.

Well, that answered one question. His name was F. Hudson. What the F stood for, he didn't know, but Hudson was just as good a name as any, and it was something he could work with.

He tried to get out of bed, but the various wires stopped him from moving. Removing the thin sheet from his body, he looked down and realized he was covered in scars of various shapes and sizes. Some of them were tiny, others were huge. There was a particularly nasty one going down the side of his left leg, and his arm was wrapped up in gauze up to the shoulder.

What the hell had happened to him that had wiped his memory clean and turned his body into a battlefield of scars? And how did he get here, wherever here was?

His senses went on full alert when he heard the flaps of the tent opening, and watched anxiously as the small tent was filled with doctors and nurses. They were all chatting with each other in a language he couldn't recognize, and staring at him quizzically. He felt uncomfortable under their gazes, and he opened his mouth to speak.

"Can someone tell me what the hell happened to me?" He didn't mean to sound so hysterical, but he was so confused he was starting to get overwhelmed. The doctors all stared at him with various looks of shock and continued chattering on in their language, shooting him various looks of appraisal. He could feel the anxiety start to overwhelm him. If he didn't get any answers soon. . .

A young doctor stepped forward, finally, and stood next to his bed, checking the machines and his vitals. When he opened his mouth to speak, the accent was a strange mix of languages he couldn't place. But the man was speaking English, which was more than he could have hoped for.

"Hello, Sir. My name is Dr. Eddine des Boiis, with Médecins Sans Frontières, or Doctors Without Borders. We are here with the French government. You are lucky I spent that semester abroad in Britain, not many people around here speak English."

"Doc, where am I?"

"You are in a small village on the northern border of Afghanistan and Tajikistan. What can you remember about the events that brought you here?" The doctor shined a small light into his eyes to check his pupils as he desperately tried to scan his memory for anything that would clue him in to how he wound up in Tajikistan.

"I have no idea. I can't remember a thing." Dr. des Boiis nodded to his other colleagues who left the two of them alone in the small tent.

"When you arrived here, you had massive head trauma, that included some swelling in the brain. We think that it caused you to have a case of temporary amnesia. You've lost a good part of the memories of your personal life, yes?"

Looking down to his lap dejectedly, he nodded with the doctor. "I can't even remember my own name."

"Well, the good news is that it's temporary."

Hope started to bubble in his heart at the thought of regaining the memories he'd lost. "Really?"

"Yes, but the process will be slow. Sometimes they'll just come back gradually. Other times, your memories will be triggered by something; an event or even a name can often trigger a flood of memories. But it's unpredictable, really. There are some things you might never remember."

Nodding his head in acceptance, his heart ached at the thought that he might never regain the memories of his old life. What if he was married? What if he had a family that he couldn't remember? He needed more answers.

"Alright, I know where I am now, but how did I get here?" The doctor shook his head.

"That, I'm not sure. But there is someone here who can answer that question." The doctor left the tent and returned a few minutes later holding the hand of a little boy who walked with a slight limp. The boy made eye contact with him, and started to smile and talk animatedly with the doctor. He ran up to the bed he was laying on, and climbed onto his lap, giving him a giant hug. Shocked but oddly comforted by the gesture, he wrapped his arms around the boy, not knowing why the child was being so affectionate. After the boy released him, he sat on the bed next to him and started talking to the doctor a mile a minute.

"What is he saying?"

"This little boy is the reason you're alive. Apparently you saved his life." He could only stare at the little boy as he continued to talk about the events that brought him here. This little boy knew more about his life than he did right now! Doctor des Boiis served as a translator.

"He said that it was a normal day when the members of your team came into the town. Him and his friends wanted to hear you sing a song, so you stopped and sang for them while the other people in your team went on ahead." He was floored as the child explained the details of that day better than anyone else could. "They heard an explosion and you ran off. The boy followed you because you were running towards his house, and he wanted to make sure his father and brothers were safe. Then he got hit in the leg with flying metal. You pulled him out of the sand when the bad men came."

The anxious soldier waited with bated breath for the child to continue. "What bad men?" The child looked scared after the doctor translated the question, and he didn't need a translator to understand the name the child spoke.

"Mouad Mohammed al-Charef."

Like a bolt of lightning flashing before his eyes, he could see images of memories that had been erased from his mind. He could remember being debriefed for the dozens of missions related to al-Charef. He could remember his team, and the bond he'd had with his men. He could remember his friend, Manuel, Dirty, and the ambush that had killed them all. But most of all, he could remember that son-of-a-bitch al-Charef, and the insane look in his eyes as he detonated bombs all over the peaceful village of Marsli. He could remember the single bullet he shot into the shoulder of the enemy, and the melee that had commenced afterwards. But the last thing he remembered shook him to the very core. He could remember the sound of cracking concrete, and shattered glass as a building collapsed on top of him.

He looked up into the boy's eyes and had to know how he'd escaped from that building. "How did I get out of the building?"

The boy continued to chat away as the doctor translated. "He said that for the rest of the day there was nothing but fighting throughout the town, and the terrorists had taken over. At night his family wanted to escape their ruined village, but the boy wouldn't let them leave without telling them the story. After dark, his father and brothers returned to the building and pulled you out of the wreckage, as a thank you for saving the boy. They were afraid to bring you to the base, lest they be blamed for your condition, so they took you with them on their family's caravan to the closest village with a doctor. And that's how you ended up here. That was about two weeks ago."

He let the information soak into his system as he contemplated his surroundings. He'd saved the life of a boy, and the boy had saved his life in return.

He'd also saved his sanity as well. He might not have the most intimate memories of his life back, but he could now remember his job. His duty. He was a soldier, and he was here to fight against the psychopaths like al-Charef, who could potentially destroy whole cities in their wake. The thirst for revenge burned in his blood, and he made an oath to himself in that moment that he wouldn't rest, wouldn't stop, until Mouad Mohammed al-Charef was either captured or killed.

Or both.

He rubbed the boys' head affectionately, and said thank you to him for giving him the information he'd needed to start moving on from this ordeal. His memory of his old life might be gone, but he knew he still had a purpose in life. A goal. A mission.

He had to get back to the Army. He had a terrorist to find.

"Doctor, how will I be able to get in touch with the Army? I have to get back."

"Well, that's not so easy." The doctor looked sheepish as he rubbed the back of his neck. "You see, here on the border of Tajikstan, there isn't much need for the Army, so they only come around once every few months."

"Once every few months!" He couldn't wait that long, he had a mission to start planning. An international terrorist wanted to make his way into the United States. He might not have been able to remember his own name, but he could remember the chilling threats by al-Charef's men that his main goal was to get into the US.

"But it's been a while since the last time they were here, so you won't really have to wait that long. This is a good thing, soldier. You'll have extra time to heal, and maybe this time of rest will help you focus on regaining your memories."

Finn took a deep breath as the little boy and doctor stared at him, waiting for a response. What other choice did he have? But part of him didn't want to remember his old life right away. He wanted to focus on being a soldier. He wanted vengeance over al-Charef for what he did that day in Marsli, and avenge Manuel and his team. He needed vindication for the memories that had been taken from him by the actions of al-Charef. He wanted the guy dead, so he wouldn't be able to hurt innocent people anymore. The world wasn't safe with Mouad Mohammed al-Charef in it.

He made up his mind. He would find the bastard, get his revenge, and then return to his old life and try to pick up the pieces.

It was the only way he would be able to live with himself.

"Okay, doc. I'll stay."

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

It had been about a month since Hudson woke up without his memories or a shred of self-awareness. Because he couldn't remember what the F in his name stood for, he just went by the name Hudson nowadays. It kind of fit him, he thought. Every day, he discovered something new about himself, and tried to piece together the different facets of his personality.

So far, all he knew was that he wasn't the smartest guy to walk the planet. No matter how often the doctor and little boy tried to teach him Pashto, he just couldn't grasp it. He could barely hold a conversation with the little boy's family, even through that's where he'd been staying since Doctor des Boiis had released him from the hospital.

He became the village's unofficial protector, wearing his Army gear at all times and patrolling the perimeter of the small village daily. He was going to keep this place safe no matter what.

The little boy joined him on his patrols, walking alongside him at all times like a shadow. His name was Farshad, and he treated Hudson like a hero. The day the Army finally came to the small village and found Hudson there alive, was the day Farshad shared something else about Hudson's old life.

"So, this is it, buddy." He sat with Farshad on the outskirts of the town center, where they would play soccer with the other village boys. His Pashto was just good enough to say his goodbyes, but he understood the majority of what Farshad was saying.

"I'm gonna miss you, Music Man." Hudson startled at the name. He'd never heard Farshad call him that before.

"Music Man?" Farshad nodded his head enthusiastically. A memory, though hazy, reminded him that it had been a nick name created for him by his deceased friend, Manuel.

"You sing!" Farshad pointed to the lapel of his Army uniform, and Hudson looked quizzically at a tiny silver pin that stood out and shined next to his medals. How had he not noticed that before? Pulling it off of his jacket, he brought the little pin up to his face and analyzed it with a critical eye. It was definitely a music note, that much he could remember. With a burst of pride at his hazy memories, he realized that it was a bass clef. Sometimes his memory wasn't so shot! Had he been a musical person in his old life? Farshad said he sang, and sometimes the little boy knew him better than he knew himself.

"I sing?"

Farshad jumped in front of Hudson and started to dance and sing around him in circles. "Small town girl! Lonely world!"

With those five mispronounced words, Hudson felt his mind racing as the lyrics proved to be an intense trigger on his forgotten memories. The desert village melted away from his vision and was replaced with a dark stage and an empty auditorium. He was singing, no, he was rehearsing, with people, and they all belted their voices out into the empty audience like they were performing for royalty.

"Just a small town girl, living in a lonely world. She took the midnight train going anywhere." He could feel the excitement bubbling under his skin. He loved to perform. It set his blood on fire in his veins.

He watched as a girl stepped forward, a girl whose face he couldn't see. Nothing about her image was distinguishable; due to his memory loss it was completely fuzzy. But she was there, and she was a petite brunette, which was the only detail he could make out in his hazy memory.

Until she opened her mouth.

"Just a city boy, born and raised in south Detroit. He took the midnight train going anywhere." The sound that reverberated in his mind was so unique and special he could barely trust his memory. He actually knew someone who could sing like this? Her voice was so beautiful, so mind-blowingly amazing. He had to know who this girl was!

Her hands reached out for his, and he reached out for her. . .

But as quickly as the memory flashed before his eyes, it was gone. He was once again in the hot, stifling desert with little Farshad, getting ready to rejoin the Army.

It took him a minute to calm his racing heart from the adrenaline he felt in his system from the triggered memories. That had been intense, more intense than when he'd remembered the Battle of Marsli. Who was that girl? And why would he remember her now?

Looking down at the little pin in his hands, he shook his head in despair. His memory was still shot to shit, and he could never lead a normal life without it. He clipped the little pin back on his lapel and said his final goodbye to Farshad before joining the convoy of Army men, and heading back to their base.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Hudson sat in a room, surrounded by distinguished Army officers who were all staring at him like he had an extra nose. He had just been through a whopping fifteen hours of Army-grade medical exams. He'd had a brain scan, a body scan; pretty much any kind of scan available. He ran on treadmills and breathed in tubes. The doctors had said he was completely healthy.

Except for the missing chunk of memories in his brain.

"So let me get this straight, son. You can remember your Army training, and the Battle of Marsli, correct."

"Yes, sir."

"But you cannot remember your first name or any other specifics about your personal life."

"No, sir."

The older man nodded his head. "I see." He looked through a portfolio and ran down the list of information. "Well soldier, your name is Specialist Finn Hudson." Hudson blanched visibly. Finn? The F in his name stood for Finn? What a pansy-ass name! He liked Hudson a lot better. He planned on sticking with it.

"You are the son of PFC Christopher Hudson who died in Operation Desert Storm in 1994." He let that information sink in. He grew up without a father, who had been a war hero himself. "Your mother, Carole Hudson, is remarried and living in Lima, Ohio, where you stated your permanent address to be." Okay, he was from Ohio.

Lame.

"You are listed as single/unmarried, with no dependents." Okay, he wasn't married and he didn't have kids. He looked up at the various officers who still stared at him with various looks of unease. "We are a little wary to let you back into the Army, Specialist Hudson. You've already been awarded the Purple Heart for your bravery in action, and we think it might be better for you to return home to your family."

He stood up from his seat abruptly, shocking both himself and the members of the mini-tribunal he was facing. "With all due respect, sir, I would rather be reinstated with the Army. I am one of the only soldiers to ever face al-Charef and live to talk about it. I know for a fact his goal is to get into the US."

"Son, we have reason to beleive he is already in the US." His blood froze in his veins. Now he really wanted to go back to the army! He would never be able to live with himself if al-Charef terrorized on American soil. "We do not feel like you are stable enough for combat anymore."

"I don't need to be in combat, sir. I can work with Homeland Security and stop him from inside the country." He watched anxiously as the officers debated with each other over the amnesiac Specialist taking a position with Homeland Security. After a few tense minutes and one short phone call to Washington, the head officer gave Hudson a hard nod.

"It's your choice, son. You can either return home to Ohio, or you can take a position with Homeland Security in New York City. That place has been a hotbed of terrorist activity these days, and if al-Charef winds up anywhere, it'll be Manhattan." He didn't even have to think twice about it. He wouldn't be able to move on with his life until al-Charef was no longer an issue. Then he would be able to return to Ohio.

But al-Charef came first. This was his new mission, and he would never stop until it was complete.

"I'll take the position in New York, sir." In New York, he would be able to focus on one thing, and one thing only. Mouad Mohammed al-Charef and his demise. This was perfect. New York was plenty far away from Ohio. He would be able to focus on his new mission without having to be reminded of the old life he'd forgotten. Then he could return home, and try to pick up the pieces of what he'd left behind.

Maybe even find the girl from his memories. The singer.

Whoever she was.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Salut mes amis!

Finn's an AMNESIAC! And he can't remember Rachel! OH NOOOO!

And tomorrow is THE MINSK'S BIRTHDAY! WOO-HOOO!

Until Next Time. . .*sings* Don't Stop. . .Reviewing!

Merci Mille Fois

The Minsk