War Child: A MGSV fanfic
His eyes slowly open, blinded by the fluorescent light. He's encased in a hospital bed, the room almost alien to his senses, bandages covering his right eye, but doesn't help with the pain he has. The nurses glide past him, helping others in need. The bandaged man looks around, taking in his surroundings, as the uneasiness sinks in. All he can do is stare as the spectres speed past him. The year is 1976.
Then a doctor finally approaches him, speaking in jargon. "What?" he croaks, his voice unrecognisable to him. "Ah, English is it?" the doctor sounding almost unsure himself, "It's good to see you awake, you probably have a few questions as to why you are here…" The man was sturdy, tall, with a small moustache beginning to take form.
"Where am I?"
"La Mascota hospital, Nicaragua."
"For how long?"
"Two weeks. You've been fading in and out ever since, you were lucky you even pulled through, despite your injuries."
"What? What're you talking about!?"
The doctor turns with a grim look on his face, "Stay calm, no need for unnecessary tension. Unfortunately, we pulled you out of a gruesome battlefield, there were not many left, except you. Now, I'll need to evaluate yo-"
He was already sitting up, scared to death. Leaping out of the bed, only to collapse on the floor. He struggles to turn to see the stump his right leg has become. Struggling to breathe, he lies back, fading out.
"Damnit, he's bleeding! Get him back to the bed!"
2 weeks later…
"Sir…. Sir!"
The bandaged man looks at the doctor with an uninterested eye, putting a book on anatomy down. Everything was going okay, physio was getting back on his feet and his bandages were coming off, but his mind was far from fine. "Let's look at your x rays again," the doctor pulled the shiny negatives out the folder "the landmine put a lot of shrapnel in your body, about 60 foreign bodies, all embedded within you. Despite your obvious injury, you also obtained an eye socket fracture, as well a piece of shrapnel entered your eyelid and manage to wrap itself around your optic nerve, we couldn't remove it, since we can't risk destroying your eye and even if we did move you to a different hospital, an MRI would be pointless." The doctor sits in a chair near the bed.
"I'll have to diagnose you through interaction. Now, let's begin, what is your name?"
"…I don't know…"
"Do you have any family members?"
"Not that I recall…"
"What do you remember?"
"Uh… a-a jungle… gunfire… blood…I was fighting for the Sandinistas."
"Hmm, you don't remember memories pertaining to identity, but not to others… Sounds like disassociation. let us try something" The doctor rifles through his pocket, pulling a chain out. "We found these in your things, it might help your situation…"
The doctor handed it over to him, as he gazed at them. It was a pair of dog tags, with the inscription saying:
00014 Anton Silverio Tiger Squadron
He then flipped it and on the back there was something scratched on it. He knew what it was. Wolf.
He was on the ground, finally beginning to taste his own blood, lying to waste with the dying and the dead. He drags himself towards a bloodied boy, gripping his jacket. They were both once friends, but the shift in sides had changed everything. Losing blood, he gripped and ripped off the boy's tags and collapsed back down again. As his breathing slows, he hears the grit of the ground as a man approaches him. The soldier can barely make his face out. He stares just as a stocky soldier approaches him.
"Commander, the Sandinistas are retreating. It looks as the tiger squadron has been taking down.
"Good. I don't like to deal with revolutionaries. We can now focus on the operation
"S-Sir, is that him?" the soldier utters. "Yes, it looks like he hasn't kicked the bucket yet." The Commander sternly replies
"Should we kill him?" the soldier raises his gun.
"No, he'll bleed out soon. Besides, we need the wheels in motion."
"What if he comes back?"
"…then I'll deal with him." Now go check the others"
The soldier runs off, as the commander takes one last glance at the bodies.
"War child will rise again. I'll make sure of that…"
As the commander walked away, all he could look at was those tags, that one solitary word.
Wolf.
"Anything?" the doctor quizzically asks. "No." he lies and puts the tags on the neighbouring table. "Well, keep those on you, just in case. I'll be back for physio, stay put." He would stay, but not for long. He knew what he had to do. To take back what this commander took from him, and find out what was war child.
9 days later….
Clanking sounds could be heard down the hallway, as he was getting used to his new plastic limb. "You're getting very good, No need for a crutch this time. You're very resilient." The man stumbled, as the doctor reached to hold him steady. "Ugh, nothing wrong with a few tightened screws." He began to pace from one side of the room to the other. "How long before I can leave?" he took the dog tags in his hand and started fumbling it in his hands "At this rate, I can say you can properly leave in a few wee-"
His hand grips the doctor's shoulder "No… it has to be sooner, I-I need to figure out these things, who am I? Who do I know?" The doctor grabbed him by the shoulder, with a stern look across his face "I can't let you leave here, your just not ready!" With one fell swoop, he knocked the doctor's arms off and pushed him against the wall. "What does that mean!? I have to get out now… Ah!"
Blood streamed down from his eye, as a violent tear. He stepped back and clutched his face in pain, staggering. Then, something caught his eye, he twisted around to see a figured, slightly blurred by his vision, beginning to become clear. A man, similar, almost identical to him, pale as the white walls of the room, smirking at him before vanishing out of thin air.
"Something wrong?" the doctor was brushing off his coat. "Nothing… just him Again." He wiped the bloody tear streaming of his face, and turned back to the doctor "Please, get me my things, I have to make a call." He steps back onto his bed with a soft thud. "Hold on a moment" the doctor turns to a passing nurse, calling on her to rush to get his things. The patient took a paper slip that was on the table and he picked up the phone, dialling the number on the slip with the greed, cracked rotary phone. Holding the receiver to his ear, he waited the tone to end, with a gruff voice on the other end.
"Hola?"
"Um… is this duvan?"
"Yes, who is this?"
"Uh… you gave me a number, it says if I needed help I could cal-"
"Hold on, were you with the Sandinistas two years ago?"
"I think so-"
"It is you! Man, it's been so long since I saw you. Ever since that incident, things have gotten boring here…"
"Wait, Incident?"
"Yeah, you know the, uh… Peace Walker thing, the Basilisco.
A wave of pain surged through his mind, as memories came back, grunting at the pain, remembering a hulking beast, the rebel strikes and a man with an eyepatch.
"You still there?"
"…yeah, I'm fine. You probably know why I'm calling."
"Uh-huh. I owe you a favour. What do you need?"
"A ride, something fast. What do you have?"
"I… think I have something. Where do you want it?"
"La Mascota hospital. Be as quick as you can."
"See ya then."
He put the phone down, just in time for the doctor to put a box on the table. He dug into the box to pull out a pouch and then takes something out and puts something in the doctor's hand. "Please, I need to go." The doctor pulls back and opens his hand to reveal a small diamond. The doctor closes his eyes and fixes his glasses. "Fine, you can leave."
"One last question…"
"Hm?"
"Was there someone with me in the hospital?"
"Yes… Anton. He was here, but he was comatose, we had to move him to Managua central hospital, we didn't have the equipment here."
"… Thank you, I won't forget this…"
19.25 La Mascota hospital
He stood outside the hospital, where his soldier fatigues, browned by the unwashed bloodstains. He staggered to the main road, still getting used to his new leg. As the horizon was beginning to darken, a truck, with blinding headlights, screeched to a halt. A skinny man wearing a busker cap, hops out of the truck to greet him. "Hey!" Duvan takes off his hat to regal scruffy dark glances down to see his plastic leg. "What happened?" Duvan question. He decided not to answer. "… I see. Well, I got your ride." Duvan opens the back of the truck, pulling out a motorcycle. "There she is, the Triumph Bonneville" He pulled the stand down to rest the bike. "She's got some kick, just be careful. I've gotta go… it was nice seeing you again. If you need help, you know who to call." Duvan hops back in the truck, while he hops onto the motorcycle "Likewise, hopefully we'll meet again."
The truck starts up and drives off. He starts up the motorcycle, he knew what to do, to get back what he lost, and to answer his questions. He didn't even know his real name, but he knew what he was. A lone wolf, left to his actions. His pain grates him, but his will like iron.
His name is Steel Wolf.