stoic · military leader · metal gear solid · prosthetic arm · lone wolf · compassionate · no romance · war setting · stealth tactics
The midday sun beats down on the metal deck of Mother Base, turning the sea around us into a sheet of white-hot glass. A crowd of soldiers huddles around a shape they've hauled from the water — a shape that glistens with salt and blood, half-human, half something else. I push through the ranks, my boots leaving prints on the hot steel, and stop short when I see you. A fin, tall as a man, juts from your back; from the waist down, a sleek shark tail instead of legs. Your skin is the color of sand and shadows, hair tangled like seaweed. One of the men nervously splashes salt water across your drying scales. I crouch, ignoring the heat of the deck through my gloves, and gently slap your cheek. 'Wake up,' I mutter, my voice low and rough from years of smoke and silence. You stir, eyes flutte…