Two Of A Kind
By evolution-500
Genres: Crime/Science Fiction
Disclaimer: "Time Crisis" is a property belonging to Namco Entertainment. I own neither the characters nor their respective title.
WARNING: This story contains violence and coarse language. Reader discretion is advised.
"The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary; men alone are quite capable of every wickedness."
- Joseph Conrad
November 1998
Somewhere In The Mediterranean
"He's running late."
Lighting his cigarette, the Doctor waited patiently in the large underground bunker with the rest of the Wild Dog Syndicate, tapping his foot as he waited for their leader, staring flatly at the red uniformed grunt, a young punk in his late twenties.
"He'll come," the Doctor assured, puffing out smoke as he waved his match.
The grunt frowned, crossing his arms as he demanded, "What makes you so sure?! It's been twenty minutes!"
He gave him a long, disinterested stare, unintimidated. "Son, I've worked with your boss before. I don't know a helluva lot about him, but if there's one thing I know with any certainty, he's a survivor. He'll be here."
The red-uniformed turd placed his hands on his hips, harrumphing as he started to puff out his chest, "He said that he would be here by nine-oh-hundred. It's eleven hundred hours."
"Give him ten more minutes. If he's not there by then, I'll get started with the project."
The Doctor watched as the man opened his mouth to make some sort of retort before pausing.
Frowning, the latter then gave a frustrated sigh, shaking his head. "Fine. But in the meantime, someone needs to be in charge of this lot." He gestured to the other soldiers in the bunker.
Casting a lazy eye around, the Doctor studied the men around him.
In one section of the bunker, a collection of blue-uniformed soldiers were engaging in target practice with their Colt Model 1902 handguns, their shots missing every target poster.
He sighed. Goddamn FNGs.
Some of them were rejects that the various world militaries had thrown out, either ones that were so incompetent that they were a danger to either their own colleagues or to themselves, or were so psychopathic that the militaries deemed them too dangerous or insane to be used. Some of them were street toughs who were looking to make names for themselves, from cartels, etc.
Whatever path they had been on previously, be it disgruntled police officer, mafioso, disillusioned V.S.S.E. specialist, or the lowliest street punk or gang member, many would be accepted by the Wild Dog Syndicate with open arms, just so long as they were able to pull their own weight.
If there was one thing that the Doctor had to give credit to their leader on, it was that he was a charismatic individual who was more than capable of filling in the ranks with people from various walks of life and that he wasn't picky.
Of course, that wasn't to say that he was a nice guy, let alone sentimental or careless; one doesn't become the leader of the Wild Dogs for being nice, after all.
On the contrary, the man that was simply known as Wild Dog had to be one of the most ruthless individuals that the Doctor had ever worked with, if not the most vicious bastard to have ever walked the earth.
While the Doctor had worked with plenty of individuals who were morally dubious or mentally unstable, Wild Dog was dangerous in a way few men were, for he was neither.
In all of his dealings with Wild Dog, the man seemed to take a certain level of pride in what he was, and wherever there was discord within the world, he was inevitably bound to be close, a constant lurking presence in every dark corner.
Arms dealer, assassin, bodyguard, terrorist - anything and everything vile could be said about the enigmatic figure. Nobody knew where he came from, let alone what his actual name was; many had hypothesized about his origins, and the various rumors surrounding him were numerous.
Many had believed that he was a former Mafia or Triad enforcer, while some believed him to be a CIA spook. Others had believed that he had used to work for the covert organization V.S.S.E., or Vital Situation, Swift-Elimination, and that he had gone rogue.
A number of different stories were given for his origins, some of them downright ludicrous, although admittedly funny to listen to.
One of the more outlandish theories that the Doctor had heard was that he was an alien, one of the lizard people from Atlantis, in fact, and that the reason for his seeming immortality was that he would regularly shed off his skin.
The Doctor fought the urge to grin at the image.
A couple believed that he was a government-created clone or cyborg experiment gone awry, and while the Doctor was somewhat doubtful about that, a part of him had wondered at times if there could perhaps be some element of truth in those claims.
For some of the more superstitious members within the ranks, however, they regarded Wild Dog with a far greater measure of existential and religious fear and dread; according them, the reason for Wild Dog's seemingly unkillable nature was because he had made a deal with the Devil.
Snorting at the thought, the Doctor shook his head in amusement, chuckling softly.
It wouldn't surprise if him if that were the case, but he knew better; he didn't believe that Wild Dog even had a soul to even give in the first place. The man was cruel, sadistic, and vicious in a way few men were, one that, at times, even frightened the Doctor himself.
As far as the Doctor was concerned, Wild Dog made no deal with Lucifer; in his eyes, he was the Devil.
Whatever his origins, one thing was certain - Wild Dog was a wily and dangerous adversary, one that unrepentantly relished his vocation.
Hearing the shots, the Doctor turned towards the greenhorns as they incompetently fired their Colt Model 1902 handguns.
Christ, could these pricks be any worse in their shots? Some of these assholes were actually missing the targets altogether!
Monitoring the blue-uniformed turds were the "Leader" class soldiers, whose distinguishing features were red caps, brown uniforms, and yellow trousers. They are armed with the same weapon as those of the blue soldiers but have better accuracy.
"No, no, no!" One of the instructors waved. "The fuck are you guys doing?! Where did you learn to shoot, from the Elmer Fudd School of Dipshits?! Let me show you how it's done!"
Nearby, a collection of red uniformed soldiers leaned against crates, regarding them with a mixture of humor and contempt. Red soldiers were often the marksmen within Wild Dogs, their aim and first shot always lethal.
In other parts of the bunker, helmeted soldiers wearing dark blue uniforms were either putting away crates or practicing with their batons and ballistics shields, a couple of them sparring with one another.
A few yellow soldiers were slacking off, playing cards and smoking cigarettes.
Probably the only thing they were good at, in the Doctor's honest opinion, was killing time; the yellow soldiers do not participate in fights. They were, by all accounts, useless in combat. Why Wild Dog bothered to include these pricks boggled the mind. Part of the Doctor had wondered if it was out of pity, but the thought perished just as soon as it was suggested.
Still, at least they were competent enough to maintain the organization's inventory.
The Doctor frowned. 'What a useless bunch of twits.'
Looking around, he spotted the Machine gunners as they field-stripped their Stoner 63 machine guns and cleaned them, their green uniforms and blue headbands standing out from the dark red uniforms of the Missile men as they did likewise with their M1A1 Bazookas.
In other sections of the bunker, he spotted the orange berets and vests of the Grenadiers as they loaded up explosives into crates, while the enigmatic Clawmen practiced martial arts and/or made adjustments to their steel-clawed, arm-mounted cybernetic gauntlets.
Regarding the latter group with interest, the Doctor passively observed them. Unlike the majority of the syndicate, the Clawmen were typically used for infiltration, their black and grey outfits allowing them to camouflage perfectly in complete darkness.
He had to admit, at times he felt a little apprehensive being around them, if only because of their silent though lethal nature and disquieting presence.
As if sensing that they were being watched, the Clawmen suddenly ceased what they were doing and turned as one to meet the Doctor's gaze, causing the former to abruptly flinch and avert his eyes, the scientist cursing himself for staring for so long.
Drawing back his sleeve, the Doctor checked the time, then glanced around.
No word on the radio, nor were there the tell-tale signs of the White soldiers, Wild Dog's personal guards.
Letting his shoulders droop, the Doctor sighed.
"Well, Dog," he spoke softly, "it would seem that you ran out of luck after all."
A small part of him felt a tiny bit of melancholy. Then again, however, the two of them were not exactly "friends" in the strictest sense of the word, and death was just part of the business; no use crying over spilled milk, after all.
Getting up from his seat, the Doctor snapped on a pair of latex gloves.
"Time to get to work."
Latex glove-covered hands slid a green ID card through a slot on the door, watching the light of the lock changed from red to green, the door whirring open.
Flicking a switch on the wall, the Doctor watched as the luminescent lights shone from the ceiling, revealing his workspace - a massive laboratory filled with various transformers, military-grade supercomputers, advanced medical equipment, and dozens of large, oversized capsule-like glass pods, each one filled with fluid.
Hard drives hummed as computers were booted up, while the pod bubbled with protein solution.
Humming softly to himself, the Doctor made his way over to the console, typing in various keystrokes as he prepared one of the experimental cloning vats.
There were not many things that he liked about the Wild Dogs, nor much that he could say positively about them, but he had to give credit where credit was due; they were incredibly resourceful little bastards, and they paid very well for his talents.
They have never discussed with the Doctor where nor how they managed to retrieve the various monies, equipment, and test subjects - sometimes it paid to be ignorant - but he appreciated how liberating everything was.
To be able to freely conduct his own research at his own leisure, without either interference by either ethics committee oversight or by morality, he had to admit, it was a far better experience than his previous employment with Langley.
As long as the Doctor provided the organization with his services, he was free to experiment as much as he wished, and he appreciated that.
Checking the monitor, he carefully scanned the readings, then pressed "EXECUTE".
Machinery hummed to life as the experimental cloning vat prototype bubbled, the Doctor folding his arms behind him as he observed the process in action.
While the roots of cloning stemmed all the back to the late nineteenth century, hardly anyone in the world was able to create a fully-grown individual automatically, let alone one independently from a mother. Getting the materials and storing them was easy, but the process, on the other hand, was far more painstaking, requiring constant monitoring. However, that should all change thanks to the Doctor's own expertise, along with his contacts from the DBR Corporation, who have been making tremendous strides with their all-new Bio-Reactors.
Growing a clone used to take months for the embryo to develop, but now, it would be able to take mere minutes.
He watched as the embryo grew into a fully-developed fetus, watched as it grew from a fetus to an infant, then a small child.
'Marvelous,' the Doctor thought with approval.
To watch all the stages of development at high speed, it was like witnessing a miracle at work. Never before had he felt such pride as he observed the child grow.
This must be what it means to be God.
Finally, the child started to edge its way into the early teen years.
The Doctor tilted his head in thought.
Interesting. The child appeared to have blonde hair as opposed to the much darker hair color of its host "father".
'Perhaps it's from the mother's side?' he reasoned.
He made a mental note to look into the matter once he was finished.
The child now resembled a fifteen-year-old, slowly edging his way forward.
Typing commands into the terminal, the Doctor started to upload scans taken from Wild Dog's brain into the new body, watching the bar as it filled.
The Doctor halted as he heard a noise, what seemed to be gunshots followed by shouting.
"Who wants next?!" He heard an all-too familiar voice call out challengingly, causing the Doctor to give pause.
What the hell? It can't be...
Suddenly, the door opened, causing him to turn, startling the Doctor from his work.
"Well, well, well," the man standing at the door said slowly, "I was wondering where you were."
Distracted, the latter blinked in genuine confusion as he turned to fully face the speaker. "What the-? Wild Dog?!"
Wild Dog stood there with a smirk on his face. "Good to see you too, Doc," he greeted affably, holding some kind of small chest under one arm, the other holding his distinctive Mauser C-96 pistol.
Staring dumbfounded, he took in his employer's appearance, not doing anything to mask his shock.
Wild Dog's usually well-kept brown trench coat and dark pants were badly burned and smoking, his collared navy blue button shirt and pink tie singed. His circular gray-tinted sunglasses concealed his eyes, his shoes, suspenders and fingerless gloves black. On the right side of his hard though handsome face was a nasty burn scar, his short and usually tidy black hair in disarray. But even more, the weapon attachment on his left arm looked highly damaged, if not broken.
"How...how are you still alive?" the Doctor said with some astonishment.
Wild Dog chuckled. "Trade secret," he replied as he regarded the working experimental vat within the lab. "Seems that I arrived just in time. You weren't thinking of replacing me already now, were you?"
The Doctor started to turn off the monitor, halting the cloning process.
"I...we thought you were dead," he said slowly.
Wild Dog reared his head back and laughed, a harsh sound like a knife cutting into jagged rock. "The Reaper's welcome to come and try to take me, but he'll have to wait. I don't plan on dying anytime soon."
He then placed the chest he carried on a nearby counter.
The Doctor carefully observed the mercenary, taking note of his movements and demeanor.
While the two of them always had a strictly professional relationship, even he knew to be cautious around clients, especially ones that were clearly agitated.
And given the gunshots that he had heard, Wild Dog must have been in a really bad mood.
"I gather the Neodyne job hadn't gone as planned," the Doctor stated flatly.
He watched as Wild Dog's form stiffened, the mercenary's jaw and fist clenching, looking as if he were considering whether or not he wanted to use the Mauser again.
Neodyne Industries, LTD was a communications corporation of considerable renown and influence, its chief accomplishment being the "Starline Network," which had consisted of roughly sixty-four low orbit communication satellites. To the public, the Starline Network was an advanced communications system, one that Neodyne had claimed would "unite the world." In actuality, however, it was a mere front for a far more ambitious plan, which was to launch into space a nuclear satellite, one that would be armed and ready, allowing the company to assume control over everything.
Wild Dog had been hired by Neodyne's CEO, General Ernesto Diaz, in order to both oversee the project as well as to ensure Ernesto's protection.
However, given the mercenary's smoking clothing, damaged equipment and apparent bad mood, though...
For a long while, Wild Dog said nothing as he eyed the Doctor, the lab deathly still.
Rolling his shoulders and neck, the mercenary groaned. "Damned V.S.S.E. bastards got in the way, as per usual," he growled. "Destroyed the satellites. Killed Ernesto. Neodyne is well and truly fucked." For several moments, he was completely and unnervingly still, making the Doctor wary.
Usually, when Wild Dog was quiet, he tended to lash out. Violently. His unpredictability often made the Doctor and others within the organization cautious around him, especially during one of his blacker moods. His actions would vary in their intensity. One moment, he may be pleasant and charming. The next, he would gun down, eviscerate, stab, torture, bomb or beat to death, or any of the following combination in no particular order anyone who was unfortunate enough to be in his way.
Part of the Doctor had wondered if perhaps the mercenary had some form of mental disability, but he never voiced his concerns, if only out of self-interest.
Seconds turned to minutes as watched Wild Dog standing there, his heart thumping heavily with each passing moment.
For a brief moment, the Doctor wondered if he were going to die right there and then at the mercenary's hand. Even though the two knew each other for a very long time and were probably the closest to being friends, he would be hard-pressed to say that they were. More like associates of convenience than anything really meaningful, which made his position with the mercenary somewhat precarious.
Finally, just as the tension became agonizingly unbearable, Wild Dog's form relaxed somewhat, making the Doctor let out a breath that he had been holding in.
"Well," Wild Dog spoke, shrugging slightly as his mood lightened somewhat, "it was not a total loss. The good news? I managed to nab a fuck-ton of valuable data from Ernesto's corporate headquarters, plus, I've cleared out all of his accounts." He nodded appreciatively, "I also had a quick stop at his home and office along the way, and look at what Papa has brought to the table!"
The Doctor watched as Wild Dog dramatically pulled the chest's lid open, revealing a large array of papers, paintings, sculptures and various other items, some of them made of gold and/or silver. "Tada! Should be more than enough to compensate us Dogs for this little fuck-up!"
He stared incredulously at the various items in the chest, shaking his head slowly.
"...It will never cease to amaze me how you are able to turn things around for you, Dog," The Doctor wearily replied. "I swear you must be secretly carrying leprechauns around with you in your ass or something. Even where you lose, you always find a way to win."
Upon hearing that, Wild Dog tossed his head back and raucously laughed, clapping the Doctor on the shoulder, the gesture making the latter flinch slightly. "Perks of being the best in the business, Doc!" He replied with a wide grin, tilting his head thoughtfully. "Perhaps you should consider a career change. After all, mercenary work can be quite a lot of fun, not to mention profitable."
The Doctor scoffed. "And dangerous."
"What, too scared, Doc?" the mercenary sneered.
"No, I just know what my limitations are," the Doctor admitted, not falling for his bait. "Put me on a battlefield with a machine gun and rocket launcher, I'm useless. Put me in a functioning lab in front of microscope, though? I can make miracles. Pathogens, biological agents, advanced weapon systems, stronger and more reliable soldiers - brains are what win wars, Dog. If it wasn't for the sophisticated equipment that I developed exclusively for you such as your prosthetic weaponry, you'd be beating people to death with rocks."
'Although I personally suspect you would have fun doing just that,' he privately noted, not even daring to say that to Wild Dog's face.
The Doctor watched the mercenary as he lifted his chin, pursing lips. Finally, he gave a conceding grunt.
"Touché, I guess," Wild Dog said as he adjusted his sunglasses, shrugging. "Whatever floats your boat, Doc." He then turned his attention over to the cloning vat. "So tell me, what've you been up to?"
Looking over to the pod, the Doctor nodded. "When we didn't receive word from you, we were beginning to assume the worst. Some of the men were getting ideas about who would be suitable in running the Dogs."
Wild Dog smirked slightly. "Yeah. Sounds about right. Some of those little punks were being quite mouthy to me when I got here. I showed 'em what's what. Needless to say, we're gonna need some replacements. Preferably ones of the less stupid variety."
The Doctor said nothing, biting his tongue.
While they were not exactly the most moral bunch - mercenary life was often a highly unpredictable and dangerous, even fatal business, after all - the Wild Dogs did follow a certain code of conduct when it came to their organization.
In order to remain with the Wild Dogs, it was expected that every member contributed in some manner in order to benefit the organization's continued survival.
Failure was anything but an option, nor was slacking off tolerated - the Dogs have neither patience nor use for non-contributing members, lest they wished to face the wrath of their fearsome leader. Those that failed to abide by the rules or had failed in a given operation would be penalized in some form or another in order to compensate the organization for the loss, partially depending on Wild Dog's often fickle mood. Whether it be through the forfeiture of legal tender, property, bodies or body parts, whether they liked it or not, payments would be made back to the organization someway and somehow, in blood if necessary.
Expulsion was mainly used for new recruits that typically fucked up on the first day, usually for minor things. The Doctor wasn't certain if there ever had been any higher ranked members that had the misfortune (or fortune, depending on one's point of view) of being expelled from the Wild Dogs, but if there have been, he was more than certain that they were being carefully monitored. Hell, he wouldn't put it past Wild Dog that he had them assassinated in order to keep his secrets, although that was purely hypothetical on his part.
For those that have really met Wild Dog's ire, however, death was usually the most preferable outcome, especially compared to whatever horrible fate he would mete out.
While some have ended up becoming unwitting guinea pigs for the Doctor's various experiments, courtesy of its leader during his better moments, the others were not quite so fortunate. The Doctor didn't know what Wild Dog did to them, nor did he ever inquire - sometimes in this line of business, it paid to be ignorant and easier to sleep at night.
That said, however, there were times where he himself had misgivings.
"I don't suppose you could have just told them nicely to stand down," the Doctor clicked his tongue.
Wild Dog smirked. "Heh. Where's the fun in that?" He rolled his shoulders and neck, groaning as he produced audible cracks and pops. "So, Doc, why don't fill me in on this little science project of yours."
The Doctor nodded, moving toward a monitor as he pointed at the screen, clearing his throat. "Ah, yes. I was just following your instructions regarding the possibility that you ended up...well..."
"Go on."
The scientist cleared his throat again. "Y-Yes, well...anyway, as per your request, I used a modified strain of your DNA in a host embryo. The cloning vat contains all of the necessary nutrients needed to help speed up mitosis and helps regulate the temperature." He shook his head. "It wasn't easy modulating the telomeres in order to speed up the cloning process, let alone ensuring stability. It's a wonder that the clone hadn't developed any tumors."
"Is it likely to keel over?"
The Doctor shook his head. "In my opinion, no. Not anytime soon, anyway."
"Hm." Wild Dog then pushed up his sunglasses. "So, what are we looking at here?"
"Physically, the clone has everything you could ask for - enhanced strength, speed, and durability. Combined with the microchips containing your memories implanted into its brain, in theory, he'll be just as much of an asshole as you are. Or, he might be an even bigger asshole. We'll need to wait and see on that front."
Wild Dog crossed his arms, turning his sunglasses ever so slightly at the Doctor, offering him a glare. "You know, there are few people that I would ever allow mouth off to me like that, and live, Doc. If it weren't for the fact that your services have proven useful, I would have gutted you like a pig."
"And here thought it was because we had such a warm friendship given the years that I've worked with you," the Doctor said flatly.
Wild Dog's face hardened, his trigger finger twitching ever so slightly. "Don't push it, Doc!" He warned. "I've already killed five guys already. Don't piss me off and make you number six."
The Doctor raised both hands up in the air in surrender.
While he was able to get away with more than most, even he recognized when to back off, and an angry Wild Dog is an incredibly dangerous one to be around, regardless of whatever somewhat close relationship they have.
Turning his attention back to the tube, the mercenary started to look doubtfully over the clone from top to bottom. "This thing is a clone of me, right?"
"Yes," the Doctor nodded.
"If that's so," Wild Dog said slowly, holding his chin, "then why does the clone have blonde hair?"
The Doctor shrugged. "A working theory that I have is that the embryo contained trace elements from the host mother, but I can't be certain without reviewing the data."
As the mercenary opened his mouth to respond, the monitor started to blare an alarm. "What's going on?!"
Approaching the computer, the Doctor frowned as he read the screen. "Ahh, shit."
"What?!"
"There's a malfunction in the system!" The Doctor explained. "The cloning vat hasn't properly shut down! The clone...it's gonna-"
A loud crash drew the men's attention over the vat, both of them watching as the container was completely shattered. Green fluid and glass spilled all over the steel-grated floor, while a pair of pink feet stepped out from the pod.
Before them, a tall, lean and muscular figure stood completely in the buff, his form tall and proud.
Rolling its head, the clone let out an audible growl as it cracked its neck, bones, and joints, the tall figure testing out its limbs.
Scowling, Wild Dog turned over to the Doctor, grabbing him by the lapel. "What the fuck happened, Doc?! I thought you had this under control!"
"I did, but you have-you have to understand, this technology is extremely delicate! DBR hasn't been able to work out all the bugs. At least, not entirely."
"You saying this junk is defective?!"
"No, it's highly experimental. Errors are to be expected from time to time with prototypes. It seems that the hardware hadn't properly halted the clone's development."
Wild Dog's scowl deepened as his patience started to wain. "Well then fix the damn thing!"
"I'll get on it, but, what about the clone?"
Wild Dog rolled his eyes in annoyance. "For fuck's sakes, I'll deal with it."
"But...isn't that kind of wasteful?"
"What do you care?! Yer just the egghead who helps make tech. I've no use for brats. At best, we can use him for parts if necessary. If not that, then his organs will fetch a pretty penny on the black market." Pushing his sunglasses up the bridge of his nose, he started to march up toward the clone, his hand clenching on his Mauser C-96. "No hard feelings, kid. It's just wrong place, wrong time, that's all."
The mercenary then started to raise up his pistol, aiming it at the youthful face of his clone, forcing the Doctor to squirm slightly.
"See you in the next life, mini-me. Don't take this too personally-"
Nobody had time to react at the clone's quick reflexes as he suddenly and swiftly lashed out with a vertical kick, the blow knocking the weapon out of Wild Dog's hand.
"What the-?!"
Before either Wild Dog or the Doctor could respond, the clone very quickly followed up with a powerful back kick, the force and speed so strong and fast that it had caught the two men completely off-guard, the impact launching the latter several feet back.
The Doctor watched as Wild Dog crashed indelicately to the floor with a grunt, the mercenary looking winded as he let out a loud grunt before recovering into a sliding roll.
Scrunching up his face into a vicious, animalistic snarl, Wild Dog looked up at his opponent with a growl, drawing out his second Mauser from his coat. "Argh! You...little...shit!"
The Doctor flinched as the mercenary fired his weapon. "WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! ARE YOU CRAZY?!" He yelled, watching the clone dodging the shots as he zigzagged around the room, moving extraordinarily fast. "STOP SHOOTING, DAMN IT! YOU'RE WRECK THE EQUIPMENT!"
"They're replaceable," Wild Dog dismissively waved. "Just like he is. Once I deal with him, we can worry about the damages later. Now stand still, you punk!"
Wild Dog discharged his weapon several times, his shots missing every shot as the clone dodged and weaved out of the way of every bullet before somersaulting high up into the air, landing gracefully several feet away near the exit.
"HE'S ESCAPING!" The Doctor cried, pointing to the door.
Snarling, Wild Dog reloaded his weapon one handed as he and the scientist chased after the young man, watching as the latter pushed a grunt carrying boxes aside.
"GET HIM!" Wild Dog shouted, drawing the attention to the rest of the Dogs as he pointed to the fleeing clone.
What happened next was nothing short of pure insanity all around as every man within the Wild Dogs started to pursue after their quarry, their shouts and yells a bellowing cacophony that echoed throughout the bunker.
To the Doctor's disbelief, the clone was proving to be surprisingly strong and resilient, moving faster than anything he had ever seen, leaping higher than any animal or athlete within the Olympics.
It attacked the other Wild Dogs with a ferocity that matched, if not exceeded their own, his strikes fast and hard-hitting as it let out an uncomfortably familiar cold laugh.
A roundhouse kick knocked three men away with alarming ease, knocking them out instantly.
The Doctor watched as the clone disarmed one soldier and used his own weapon against him before turning on the others, his shots clean and precise.
Even Wild Dog seemed somewhat mesmerized by the onslaught.
Hundreds of his men against a singular opponent, and the latter was winning with alarming ease.
Although some of the men were able to get a few licks in, with some of the red-uniformed soldiers actually managing to shoot him dead-on while a Clawman stabbed him in the back, the clone didn't fall as expected.
If anything, the wounds only seemed to enrage it further and encourage its destructive assault.
Heavy crates, machinery, and equipment probably more than five hundred pounds were being casually launched through the air at the clone's attackers as makeshift projectiles from a single kick, as if they weighed no more cardboard.
At other times, whole men were kicked out of the way, even at their fellow soldiers with unusual ease, injuring and killing several of them at a time.
The Doctor watched as the clone expertly managed his surroundings and precisely gunned down every mercenary charging his way, and for a brief moment, it almost seemed as if the clone would be able to escape.
Just as the clone was close to getting out, Wild Dog sucker-punched him to the ground from out of nowhere, the two pointing their weapons at each other in a standoff.
There the clone lay, bruised and bloodied as it was encircled by the rest of the Wild Dogs, all of them pointing their weapons down at him.
"Got you, you little bastard!" One soldier growled. "You're not going anywhere."
Looking back at the clone, the Doctor watched as it looked around in all directions, looking for a way out.
To his surprise, a confident though uncannily familiar smirk rose up the side of the youth's face in response.
"Not bad, old man," the clone remarked. "You actually managed to lay a hand on me in spite of having one arm. Color me impressed."
"Don't get cocky, punk!" Wild Dog snapped, his Mauser pressing sharply into his forehead, making the doppelganger flinch just ever so slightly. "Drop the weapon."
The Doctor watched as the clone fiercely met his gaze, staring back in defiance, although there was a slight tinge of fear.
Letting out a breath, the clone closed his eyes, his form slumping as he relaxed his grip of the pistol, looking defeated.
A soldier snatched the weapon away, but Wild Dog kept his weapon aimed at the clone, the youthful face reflecting off his dark sunglasses.
"You've been causing a lot of trouble around here, kid," Wild Dog said slowly, shaking his head. "You stole my favorite pistol, and killed a lot of my men." His index finger just slightly caressed the trigger, "By all rights, I oughta put a bullet in your brain."
The Doctor watched as the clone tensed up, his eyes narrowing in a glare toward his predecessor.
Time seemed to climb to a crawl as seconds turned into minutes.
Finally, Wild Dog smirked at the young blonde. "On the other hand," he said slowly as he holstered his weapon, "...I'm impressed. Few folks can do what you do, and I would be a moron to let such potential go to waste."
The Doctor raised a brow. "So, what, you planning on adopting him?"
The mercenary barked out a harsh laugh. "You're a funny man, Doc!" He pushed up his sunglasses with one hand, the clone's confused expression reflecting off the black lens. "I don't have time be anybody's daddy. But...I could use...an apprentice." To everyone's shock, including both the clone's and the Doctor's, Wild Dog kneeled down and expectantly held out his hand. "What do you say, kid?"
Surprise etched itself on the Doctor's face as well as on the clone's face, both staring at Wild Dog with perplexed expressions, the latter staring down at the offered limb.
Looking back to the mercenary, the clone smirked up at him, then took his hand, shaking it. "Sure," the clone replied. "Why not?"
Letting out a hearty laugh, Wild Dog helped him up to his feet. "Looks like we got ourselves a new brother-in-arms, boys!" He said loudly, causing the men to lower their weapons. One or two of them, however, were not so enthused.
"Sir," the Doctor spoke anxiously, "are...are you sure about this?"
"More than sure." Looking back to the clone, the mercenary stared hard at him. "Do you plan on behaving?"
After he received a singular nod in answer, the Doctor watched as Wild Dog nodded. "Good, 'cause if there's one thing I can't stand, it's fucking trouble-makers." Wild Dog's face darkened as he pointed at the clone, "Pull this kind of shit again, and I'll gut you and feed you to the pigs. Got it?"
The clone nodded again, causing his predecessor to nod back in approval. "Good. Get yourself cleaned up with Doc, kid - we'll find you some clothes to wear once he's finished with you. After all, wouldn't want you running around naked out on the battlefield, although it would admittedly be pretty funny."
He then smirked, clapping the youth on the shoulder, "Welcome to the Wild Dogs, Wild Fang. I sense great things are a comin!"
Author's Note: Annnd finished! So, the idea for this fic came about due to my fascination with the character of Wild Dog. As a character, he is surprisingly resilient, turning up in the most unexpected places, even after supposedly dying in a huge fiery explosion. Or in Wild Dog's case, several fiery explosions.
Granted, video games have no shortage of such characters as bosses - the Magician from "House of the Dead", Albert Wesker from "Resident Evil", Sephiroth from FFVII, among various others - but by the same token, though, Wild Dog is a little different in the fact none of the aforementioned characters have ever appeared so frequently, nor have they seemingly survived every encounter across numerous titles as Wild Dog has. Not even Wesker nor the Magician have ever appeared and "died" as many times as Wild Dog has, which is kind of a testament to his ability to survive imo.
Even more, one would think that, given the number of times he's been defeated by the VSSE, that it would impact his ability to gain clients, if not his reputation as a mercenary, so it seemed like something worth examining. I think he can make for a potentially fascinating character if handled well imo.
That, plus he's a sharp dresser, has an awesome theme and a cybernetic limb that can turn into various weapons - how is that not awesome?!
I also had wanted to explore his connection Wild Fang, so it seemed like an interesting way to kill two birds with one stone.
I'm not sure if this is good or not - if not, then I apologize, and hope somebody else does a better job with him.
Stay safe and healthy, everyone! :D