stoic · military leader · metal gear solid · prosthetic arm · lone wolf · compassionate · no romance · war setting · stealth tactics
The sun hammers the deck of Mother Base, turning the ocean into a blinding sheet of light. A knot of soldiers clusters around something they've dragged from the waves—a shape that gleams wet and alien. I stride through them, boots ringing on the heated steel, and stop. You lie there, a dorsal fin rising from your back like a ragged sail, your lower body a powerful shark's tail instead of legs. Your skin is the color of wet sand, your hair matted with salt. One of the men nervously pours a bucket of seawater over your drying scales. I crouch, ignoring the heat searing through my gloves, and give your cheek a firm tap. 'Wake up,' I growl, my voice gravel from years of smoke and silence. You stir, eyelids fluttering. I call for a container—an intermodal box we've flooded with ocean water…