Disclaimer: Red vs. Blue belongs to Rooster Teeth, not me. I make no profit from this, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Chapter 21
Grif woke to a white room, the incessant beeping of a heart monitor, and that sterile hospital smell that always made him queasy - just the same as it had been every day for the past two months. And as he had for the past two months, Grif took careful account of his memories, checking which were present and which were missing. The battle was still mostly a blank, but he could clearly remember waking up in the hospital afterward….
Grif blinked the sleep from his eyes and looked around. There was a window looking into the hall, and he could see nurses bustling around, looking busy but not stressfully so.
One of them looked up and saw him. The nurse walked over and came into Grif's room with a friendly smile. He opened his mouth to speak, but Grif beat him to it.
"Where's Sarge?" Grif demanded. The nurse sighed, exasperation showing clearly on his face.
"He's down the hall," the man said as he pulled a small light out of his pocket and clicked it on. He watched Grif's pupils closely as he shone the light into Grif's eyes. "Can you tell me your name?" He asked.
"Dexter Grif. Is Sarge okay?"
"He was injured pretty badly. Can you move your arms and legs for me?" Grif gingerly moved them and didn't find anything wrong.
"How badly?" Grif demanded.
"Good. And now your fingers and toes? Don't worry; he should make a full recovery."
"Okay," Grif sighed in relief as he wiggled his appendages. "How long was I out?" The nurse nodded in satisfaction, his inspection done for the moment.
"Two days. We had to do a craniotomy – surgery to reduce the swelling on your brain. The concussion was quite bad. How do you feel?"
"A little queasy. And everything hurts. Everything."
"That's not surprising. You also fractured three ribs and your sternum. If all goes well, you'll be able to be moved in a couple of days, but the recovery process will take a couple of months. Then if you're cleared for active duty it will probably be light duty."
"What about Sarge? What kind of injuries?"
"Similar to yours plus some: broken bones, head trauma, some hearing damage, plasma weapon wounds."
"Can I see him?" Grif asked.
"I – don't think that's the best idea right now," the nurse said.
"What? Why? You said he's okay."
"Because of the concussion, he's - confused."
Grif ignored the nurse and began trying to get out of the hospital bed.
"Private Grif, please, I'm going to have to ask you to lie down. You'll only re-injure yourself," the nurse said, and he pushed Grif gently back. "I'll keep you updated."
Grif sighed and resigned himself to waiting. It was two days before he was moved from the neurosurgery ICU to a regular recovery room.
At that point, an officer came in to debrief Grif on the mission. However, when Grif began to describe what happened, it was as if there was a blank space in his mind. Each time Grif tried to speak of the event, or even write it down, he couldn't remember anything beyond the fact that he had rescued Sarge, and at one point he had awoken, from sleep or unconsciousness he could not recall, and everyone around him was dead. When questioned further, he found that he could not even remember his squad's names.
When Grif realized he had amnesia, he panicked. Nurses rushed in to attempt to calm him from the panic attack, and the officer interviewing him assured him that he would send in a psychiatrist with clearance to speak to him. In the meantime, the doctors took Grif for an MRI and an EEG in an attempt to determine the cause of his memory loss.
The psychiatrist arrived the next afternoon. She was a nice enough woman - plain, with a soothing voice. She worked with Grif for several days before coming to her conclusions.
"Private Grif," she said as she put away her notes, "I'm referring you to a specialist. He works specifically with memory disorders, post-traumatic stress, and the like. I don't know how long it will take him to get here, but I promise you he's the best at what he does. Don't worry; you're going to be just fine."
Grif did not find this reassuring.
By this time, Grif couldn't stand the vague updates he'd been given on Sarge any more. He waited for the nurse's evening shift change, and then he eased himself out of bed. He had to lean against the wall the whole way to Sarge's room, ribs twinging angrily the whole way, but he made it. The old man looked far worse off than Grif felt, but he was frowning and grumbling to himself something about getting back to the fight.
"Hey. Sarge," Grif called. The man looked up and locked eyes with Grif. For a long moment, no one moved. Then, Sarge let out an angry bellow and started throwing anything he could reach.
"YOU! I'll teach you to disobey direct orders you no good – You'll be doing push-ups until your arms fall off! I'll use you for target practice you ornery, ungrateful – "
"What the hell Sarge?! You're upset that I saved your life?" Grif cried, blocking the hurled items and trying to protect his fragile ribs and head.
"Better to die gloriously in battle than dilly-dallyin' in a hospital bed!"
"It's better to not die at all, you crazy old man!"
"Enough back-talk from you, soldier. Shame on you! It's an honor to die for your planet and your species!"
"I am not a soldier! I am a mechanic! I am a drag racer! I am a lazy underachiever that only manages not to descend into the worst vices by virtue of taking care of my little sister, but she's not here! She's in foster care with strangers because I had to come out here! The only way I can take care of her now is by taking care of you! A real soldier who would actually be able to protect her from fucking aliens!"
"Well, then, fine! You leave the soldiering to me!" Sarge growled.
"Yeah and you can leave all the survival instinct with me!" Grif snapped.
At this point, Sarge's heart monitor was beeping dangerously and his breath was coming in gasps. A nurse rushed in and sedated him, then turned and frowned at Grif.
"Just what in the hell do you think you're doing?!" She demanded. "It's been hard enough keeping him calm without you agitating him! He is in a fragile mental state, just lost his entire team, and you are not helping!" She hissed.
Grif opened his mouth to answer that no, he hadn't lost his team, Grif was right here, but all that came out was a whimper as he clutched his ribs. The nurse's face softened and she hurried out and came back a moment later with a wheelchair.
"Come on," she said, and Grif sank down with a sigh and she rolled him back to his room. After helping him back into bed and giving him some more painkillers, she patted his arm as he drifted off.
"I know you're worried, but you gotta stop stressing each other out like that."
"Pssh, 'm not worried; 'm pissed," Grif mumbled petulantly. She chuckled.
"Yeah, I know. My old man and I fight the same way. Get some rest private."
Recovery was slow.
Grif had been laid up once before with a broken foot after a motorcycle accident, but that was nothing compared to this. The doctors assured him again that there were no complications with his head injury and surgery, and that the medications they had him on to prevent swelling, seizures, and nausea were all standard. Grif generally thought he should be given more pain medication. His nurses generally ignored that thought. They cited addiction as a concern. Grif was at the point he didn't think he'd mind.
Sarge's recovery was slower. Grif visited him every day, despite being verbally attacked every time. Sarge needed to vent his frustration somehow, and Grif figured he could take it. The hospital staff tried to keep them apart, fearing that they would impede one another's recovery, but soon found that Grif would get antsy if he didn't lay eyes on Sarge every few hours, which ended with him having panic attacks. Meanwhile, Sarge would just vent all his anger on the innocent staff unless Grif was there to distract him and take the brunt of it. In the end, it was decided that it was better for everyone if the two men were kept together. They were assigned to a recovery room at the far end of the hall where their bickering would be less bothersome to others. Needless to say, the chain of command had completely broken down between the two at this point.
"I've never dealt with such insubordination in my life!" Sarge shouted. "I don't need to be coddled like some delicate flower!"
"Hey, you're the one that decided yesterday the nurses were spies out to get us. If you don't want their help getting to the bathroom, you either get mine or you bust your head open again. You can't fight aliens or spies if you're on the ground like a turtle on its back, Sarge," Grif stated smugly.
"Quit yer bellyaching private!"
"Make me! Oh, right, you can't. Because you're an invalid! I saved your life, motherfucker. You owe me! I'm helping you out of the goodness of my heart!"
"When we get out of here Grif, I'm gonna make sure you pay for every god damned day of this torture!"
"Didn't you hear? I'm a war hero now. When we get out of here I'll probably outrank you!"
"As soon as I get my shotgun back Grif. Just you wait."
"You sure you're gonna be able to shoot straight anymore, old man?"
Sarge made it to the bathroom, pretending not to notice Grif pretending not to spot him the entire way. Grif sighed and wondered if his memories would return, or if he even wanted them to.
Grif groaned and slowly got out of bed to make his way to the bathroom. Today, finally, the memory specialist was arriving. He had sent a message ahead, asking to speak with Grif privately instead of coming into the recovery room with him and Sarge. Grif sniffed his hospital pajamas and wondered for a moment if he should shower, before shrugging and making his way to the cafeteria. He scarfed down a quick breakfast, said hello to a few of the more friendly nurses that he had gotten to know over the past weeks, and then made his way slowly down to the office where he was to meet the doctor.
"Good afternoon, Private Grif," a soothing voice said when Grif opened the office door. "Please, have a seat."
Grif's entire body went rigid for a long moment, and he had to remember how to breathe. He knew that voice. His ribs were still bothering him though, so he managed to slump into the chair the man had indicated.
"I'm Dr. Price. Let's get right to business shall we?"
Grif was even more certain hearing the man speak again. It was the voice from the postcard. The draft. But why would he be here?
Price wasted no time in asking his questions, most of which were repeated from the officer who debriefed him and the psychiatrist before. Grif stumbled through the interview, trying to keep his panic in check.
"So, you cannot recall almost any details of the battle that caused your injury."
"That's right."
"And you've recalled nothing new since you spoke to the last psychiatrist."
"Nothing important."
"The nurses tell me you've also been having nightmares - flashbacks of the battle that you can't recall during the day. You've been unable to write down what happens or give much detail before the dream is forgotten."
"Yeah."
"And your other memories of your teammates and your time in the military?"
"It's all still pretty spotty, just moments, vague impressions."
"Is there anything else?"
"Like what?"
"Tell me, do you have any family besides your parents?"
Grif stiffened, suspicious, and wracked his brain for any reasoning behind the question.
"Shouldn't that be in my file?" he evaded the question.
"Indeed."
"Well, I guess that answers your question."
"I suppose it does. Well Grif, I agree with your previous doctor's assessment." Price said finally.
"What's that?" Grif asked.
"Dissociative Amnesia."
"Huh?"
"It is the inability to recall important personal information that would not typically be lost with ordinary forgetting. There is no brain damage, no seizures, or drugs that seem to be causing the memory loss, therefore it is most likely a dissociative disorder. It is usually caused by trauma or stress."
"Well, you can fix it right?" Grif asked.
"There are treatments - hypnosis, psychotherapy, etcetera. Since it is mostly localized to a single battle, it most likely won't affect you long term, if you deal with the stress in healthy ways. You've been counseled already in dealing with posttraumatic stress?"
"Yes…," Grif drawled slowly, still feeling suspicious.
"Good. Healthy coping mechanisms are important, and you are of course entitled to see a counselor whenever you wish. Your recovery is almost finished; you should be able to be reassigned soon - light duty at first, don't worry. Now tell me, have you enjoyed working under - Sarge - as far as you remember?"
"Um, I guess so?"
"Very good. He's having some issues of his own and, well, we think it may help to have a familiar face nearby, as a stabilizing influence. So we can reassign you together."
"Okay?"
"I wish you a swift recovery, Private Grif. If you remember anything, or there's anything else you'd like to discuss, please don't hesitate to contact me."
With that, Aiden Price placed his business card on the table between them and swept out of the room.
"What the fuck?" Grif whispered. "That wasn't remotely helpful."
Back in his private transport, Price pulled up a video call.
"Director, I have news."
"Go ahead Counselor," came the deep Southern drawl.
"I've been able to recover the asset that was reassigned out from under us - Dexter Grif. I'm reassigning him to one of our bases. He has proven to be as prodigious a pilot as we calculated, but his recent trauma may have ruined him for our purposes. Only time will tell for certain. I'd like to keep him on deck as a Sim Trooper just in case he recovers," Price explained.
"Also, his Sergeant's brain is addled to the point that he should be discharged. I thought we could add him to the Simulation Troopers as well. I believe it will help Private Grif adjust to the new environment. We don't need Grif regaining the suspicions he held upon first being recruited. His present memory troubles have given us another chance in that regard."
"Very well," The Director said.
"There is one other thing - Grif's younger sister - it is unclear from his comments whether Grif remembers her or not in his current condition. Either way, she will be of age next year, and I believe she may also be a viable candidate for recruitment. I could go to the Moon, where she is in foster care, and recruit her personally. To avoid the mistakes of our last - experimental recruitment strategy."
The Director rolled his eyes. The draft idea had been a one-off, and one he had hated, but the Counselor was curious, so it became one of his "social experiments."
"If you think it worth it, Counselor," the Director said tiredly.
"I do," Price said, his voice serene as ever.
"Go ahead then. I'll see you back at base."
"Understood sir." Feeling triumphant, the Counselor reread the message he had received the day before from Agents West Virginia and Virginia. Agent Texas had been reacquired. The Counselor opened a new message to the head of security at the base where Agent Texas was being taken and attached Grif and Sarge's files and transfer orders, marking them Top Secret as he did so. They were going to need to beef up security significantly.