Wordless Bonds

Breathing a heavy sigh, Jonathan pushed the door to the infirmary open. The excitement of the day had left him weary, which wasn't helped by the pain that was still shooting through his hand, courtesy of the hole put into it by a well placed round from Quiet's rifle. The only thought occupying him was to shrug off his equipment and crawl into bed for a rest. Shrugging off the webbing he'd worn throughout his assignment, Jonathan winced as he inadvertently pulled a strap off his shoulder with his wounded hand. He clenched his teeth and inhaled sharply, while cradling his hand in the grip of his prosthetic.

His mental complaints about the wound swiftly disappeared when he heard the door shut. Knowing that it was far too heavy to be blown shut, he looked over his shoulder and was given a brief glimpse of Miller, who slammed an open palm against Jonathan's cheek and pushed him against the wall. The armless mercenary leaned against Jonathan to pin him and whispered into his ear.

"Don't you dare think you can order me around, you piece of shit." He hissed acidly. "if you do, I will break you. Do you understand?"

Jonathan huffed back in surprise, his heart racing as his weary brain processed the threat he'd received. However, the lack of a response merely exacerbated Miller's frustration. Gripping Jonathan's hand, Miller slammed it against the wall. The shock passed through the bullet hole and up Jonathan's arm, causing it to become limp as he emitted a pained wheeze.

"Do you understand!?" Miller asked again, but was unable to receive an answer due to Jonathan being dazed by the torture. Exhaling in frustration, Miller reached down with his index finger and pressed against the bloodied bandage covering Jonathan's wound. Jonathan gasped, his eyes bulging as Miller continued to probe the wound. The agony was unlike any of the wounds he'd survived so far. It was a deep, sharp pain, similar to having a trapped nerve, only far more intense, which made his legs weak. Panicked, Jonathan pawed at Miller's hand with his metallic replacement to try and stop him, but the lack of coherent thought made it impossible for him to perform an action more complex, like grasping and pulling the hand away.

"I'll keep going until you answer me." Miller stated coldly as his finger, now partially embedded in the wound, began to twist. Jonathan's legs and jaws went limp, his mouth falling open and his body merely being held in place by Miller pinning him against the wall. His pawing at Miller's hand ceased too as the metallic limb fell to his side, the only action he could process was heavy, panicked gasping as he tried to respond to Miller's demand for an answer. However, his attempts were in vain as Miller interpreted his silence as a provocation and became more callous in his torture.

Miller opened his mouth to reiterate his demand, but was interrupted by the soft patter of liquid against metal. He glanced down to see that the pain he'd inflicted on Jonathan had caused him to lose control of other organs, specifically his bladder. His lip curled into a disgusted scowl as a puddle of urine formed next to Jonathan's boots. Miller retracted his finger and let go of Jonathan, causing the partially unconscious soldier to collapse into the puddle. Miller scoffed and retreated to the exit. Once his hand touched the handle, he turned back to Jonathan.

"Pathetic." He remarked quietly before turning the handle and stepping out. Jonathan's head was swimming as he tried to regain his senses. His vision was blurred and the sound of the door shutting was so faint that he could have made the mistake that he was listening to a door close that was miles away. Realising he was alone, Jonathan shut his eyes as tears welled up and began to drip down his face. He was desperate to pick himself up and get his now wet clothes off, but he was too weak. The feeling of degradation and despair crept into his mind. At no point in his life did he expect the horrors of torture and abuse would be inflicted upon him, but he had just been pinned up against the wall and had a wound so thoroughly violated that he had lost all ability to control his body. With a choked sob, Jonathan wept openly, resigning himself to the fate that he would have to continue to lay in his puddle until his strength returned. The hope of someone eventually find and help him was swiftly dismissed. How could he possibly be seen as the greatest soldier ever if one of Mother Base's inhabitants was to find him laying in a puddle of his own urine? Regardless, Jonathan felt ashamed and guilty. He could easily explain why he was ashamed, since he'd not been able to defend himself against a man with one arm, but he couldn't explain the overwhelming guilt washing over him. It wasn't his fault that he was so similar to Big Boss, nor was it his fault that he'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time in Cyprus, but he still felt guilty over his current state of affairs.

Sniffling, Jonathan opened his eyes and flexed his metallic hand. It wasn't the entirety of his body, but it was a start. Weakly, he reached out and grabbed one of the legs of an infirmary bed and pulled himself towards it. Where he was going hadn't been considered, he just didn't want to lay in the same place any longer. With a pained grunt, he sat up against the bed and looked around the room. He hadn't switched the light on, so it was relatively dark, and the only source of light was the small windows across the top of the wall which the door used to enter the infirmary occupied. Jonathan gazed out of the window at the blue sky and the white flecks of cloud splattered across it. It was a peaceful sight that was the polar opposite of the situation that had just occurred in the darkness and it extracted a few more tears of despair from Jonathan as he stared.

Once a few minutes of contemplative silence had passed, he picked himself up off the floor and staggered across the room, his metallic hand propping him up against the wall for support. He wanted to wash away the shame and sadness he felt was clinging to his body and the only method available was the showers down the hall. Slowly and painfully, he hobbled into the bathroom and continued undressing. Every article of clothing he removed felt like a weight being softly from his shoulders, the odour of urine causing him to wrinkle his nose in disgust. With the uniform now removed, Jonathan eagerly kicked the pile of discarded clothing into the corner and climbed into the shower cubicle. It was enclosed by a simple shower curtain, a middle ground between the lack of privacy provided by communal showers and a proper cubicle with a door. After sliding the curtain across, Jonathan turned the tap on and instantly hissed in mild shock at the sudden downpour of ice cold water.

Shivering, he leaned against the wall of the cubicle and clenched his eyes shut, too weak to retreat from the frigid torrent being unleashed upon his bare skin. His thoughts drifted to his time in basic training with The British Army, how he would be woken up at the crack of dawn by a foul-mouthed corporal, who would pick up the small metal bin beside the barrack door and march through the dormitory bashing it like a cymbal. The perfect alarm clock that would rouse the group of squaddies out of bed and into the showers, where they would stand, naked, under the line of ice cold shower nozzles and wash the fatigue away. Jonathan shook his head and let himself slump to the floor, where he sat with his chin resting on his drawn up knees. The water had warmed up enough for it to be lukewarm, enough to cause his shivering to cease, but not enough for it to be particularly comfortable. After a moment of just listening to the running water, Jonathan opened his eyes and looked at his prosthetic. As he watched the water beat down upon the red replacement and roll off it effortlessly, Jonathan wondered whether he should have removed it before taking a shower or it was waterproof and fine for him to wear indefinitely under any circumstance.

His gaze then turned to his remaining hand and its bloody and drenched bandage, the second of two pieces of irrefutable evidence that he was nothing but a fragile lump of flesh. In mere moments, he had lost one arm with the single swipe of a sword, while the other had a hole through it. Jonathan huffed in disbelief as he considered how he'd received these horrific injuries in the space of a few weeks, while the man he was masquerading as had received them in the course of years. By some miracle, Big Boss had escaped mission after suicidal mission with very little in the way of permanent injury, if one disregarded the missing eye and arm. It was becoming painfully clear to Jonathan that, in all probability, he will eventually run out of luck and die a horrifically gory death.

The tension amongst those selected to keep an eye on Mother Base's female guest was palpable. The seasoned veterans stood on guard could run through a hail of gunfire without a second thought, but the knowledge that they were in the presence of something completely beyond the capabilities of a normal human rattled them. In a gunfight, bullets don't differentiate between female or male, strong or weak, short or tall, they harm or kill everyone equally. The encounters Diamond Dog personnel had endured against The Skulls was a completely different situation, one that pitted human against inhuman, with usually fatal results for the human. While the sheer amount of guards surrounding the cage brought some comfort to some, none of them could shake the nagging feeling that they weren't in the presence of a real human, no matter how realistic Quiet looked.

The silence that the guards performed their vigil with was broken when they heard the sound of a single person's boots climbing down the stairs. A glance towards the entrance revealed the presence of their leader, the legendary soldier, Big Boss. The entire group immediately stood to attention and saluted solemnly, unaware that they were in the presence of their leader's body double, Jonathan Hyde.

"At ease, soldiers." He ordered in Big Boss' signature growling tone. "How's she been?"

"She's been... Quiet, sir." A balaclava-wearing mercenary responded. "Pardon the pun. She's not done anything of note and we were just about to give her some clothes."

Jonathan looked over towards Quiet. The scantly clad woman had discarded her webbing and boots, which were piled up neatly in the corner, and was laying, face down, on the bed. It was impossible for her not to know that the man she'd attempted to kill was in the room, but she clearly didn't care due to her not bothering to look up. He took a step towards the cage and gestured towards the stairs.

"You're all excused." He grumbled. "Wait outside while I give our guest her clothes."

"Are you sure that's wise?" The mercenary asked inquisitively, but swiftly cleared his throat and looked down submissively. "S-Sorry, I didn't mean to question you, sir."

"It's okay." He responded passively. "It shouldn't take long."

The guards nodded before vacating the area. Jonathan waited until the sound of boots on metal stopped before turning back towards Quiet. The sniper had, in the few moments it had taken for the guards to leave, stood up and was now hugging the bars of her cell, her gaze fixed solely on him. Eyebrow raised, Jonathan took a few calculated steps towards the clothing intended for her by the door to the cell. As expected, she watched him with an expression so blank it could be used as a chalkboard. He then squatted and picked up the clothing, which caused her to let go of the bars and take a step towards him. Jonathan stared back into her green eyes, unwilling to break eye contact.

"I'd like to thank you." Jonathan suddenly stated. Quiet's expression softened momentarily into one of surprise and confusion before solidifying into the stony form she'd been utilising before. Jonathan smirked internally, he'd caught her off-guard by referring to something she couldn't remember.

"For cooperating when we arrived," He elaborated. "And for saving my life. If you hadn't been on-board the helicopter, I doubt I'd be alive to speak to you now."

Quiet continued to stare silently at him, the only indication that she'd heard any of what Jonathan had said was a sudden and deep exhale she emitted through her nose. Carefully, Jonathan removed the simple padlock that kept Quiet secure and opened the door. After stepping inside, he shut it and watched as Quiet took another step towards him. With only the sound of seagulls and the open ocean providing ambient sound, the two warriors gazed at each other warily. After a few moments, Jonathan broke the impasse by stepping forward and holding out the clothes.

"Care to put these on?" He asked forcefully, a veiled request that was actually an order. Quiet's lips parted slightly and she looked down at the clothing before looking back into his eye. Jonathan raised an eyebrow as he studied the blank expression before him, unsure as to whether Quiet was able to actually understand him. While the orders he and others had given upon her arrival had been accompanied by gestures, this order hadn't, so it was possible, in his view, that she didn't understand English, but could guess from the gestures.

"Can you understand me?" Jonathan enquired. Quiet merely blinked in response. Grimacing, he then tilted his head in thought, his mind scrambling through the confines of his memory for the phrases from a variety of foreign languages he had learned from fellow servicemen and phrasebooks for use while posted abroad for the British Army.

"Sprechen sie Deutsch?" He asked, his copied tone making the German phrase a very irregular sound to vocalise. After waiting a few moments without any trace of a response, he tried again.

"Miláte Angliká?" Jonathan enquired in Greek, but received no response too. He took a deep breath and exhaled through his nose in mild frustration. With no other language he could try to communicate with her, he would have to use other methods. He extended his arms a little further, causing the clothes to press against Quiet's chest softly. The sniper looked down and placed a hand on the pile. Jonathan smiled as he believed a breakthrough had been made, but frowned when Quiet pushed the clothing gently away.

"You'll get cold if you don't put some proper clothes on." He explained carefully. "Care to sit down on the bed and I'll help you get dressed?"

Quiet looked towards the bed and then at him. Jonathan celebrated internally at the mistake Quiet had made. At no point had he made a gesture towards the bed when explaining the reason for providing clothing, yet she'd looked at it. She most definitely could understand English to an unknown extent. However, such a revelation wasn't helpful when she hadn't obeyed and sat down as requested.

"If you want to be treated like a child, I'll dress you myself." He stated firmly, his gaze hardening to show the matter wasn't open for debate. When Quiet made no attempt to respond, Jonathan placed his bandaged hand on the top of the clothing to prepare the jacket for the task of forcibly clothing her. His attempt to do so was stopped when Quiet placed her hand on his and gripped it slightly. Jonathan stared at it, studying the smooth, white skin and neat fingernails that the hand holding his was composed of. He then looked up at Quiet, who was still staring, lips parted, and looked deeply into her eyes. He'd never really paid any attention to people's eyes when speaking to them, it was the norm to look at someone's eyes when speaking, but never really took the time to actually process the sight before. He furrowed his brow and concentrated on the emerald irises, making a feeble attempt to see past her eyes and into her mind to ascertain her thoughts.

"You don't want them, do you?" He stated, making a guess from her attempts at hindering him. His mind reeled in frustration as Quiet made no attempt to respond, even if she was a mute, could she not have the decency to nod or shake her head? Jonathan turned his hand over and grasped her hand in return, causing her to glance down to see what he was doing.

"Your stay here won't be comfortable if you don't talk." Jonathan explained. "I don't know if you can talk or not, but it's not helpful if you won't make any attempt to communicate."

Quiet glanced down at his hand again and parted her lips in a manner that appeared to be an attempt to speak, but she never actually made a sound. Tenderly, Jonathan gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Can you nod or shake your head?" He asked politely. "Anything would be helpful."

Much to his disappointment, Quiet didn't respond, causing him to huff in frustration and let go of her hand. Tucking the clothing under his arm, he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"At the very least, can you tell me whether you will wear clothes?" Jonathan enquired grumpily. "If you won't wear them, say so now or someone else will inevitably try to clothe you anyway."

Moments passed and Jonathan's heart sank. Clearly, Quiet wasn't going to cooperate unless it was accompanied by the threat of force. As Jonathan began to turn towards the exit, Quiet suddenly shook her head. Jonathan paused before looking at her once more.

"You won't wear clothes?" He clarified and was rewarded with a subtle nod. Responding with a nod of acknowledgement of his own, Jonathan returned to the entrance of the cage and placed the clothes by the door.

"If you change your mind, they are right here for you to use." Jonathan stated quietly as he exited and locked the cell. After giving the sniper a nod farewell, he ascended the stairs leading to the surface and the group of awaiting Diamond Dogs.

"She doesn't want to wear clothes." He informed the group. "I've left them inside her cell, so if she changes her mind, she can put them on herself. Understood?"

The entire group saluted and replied in the affirmative before heading downstairs to continue their vigil. Jonathan rolled his eyes once they were out of sight and swiftly retreated back to the infirmary.