A/N: I know it's been a while since I've posted anything. As I writing chapter five I realized that some of the stuff didn't make any sense because of how I wrote chapter four. So here is the re-edited version of chapter four. Honestly, I like it much better than the previous version.
~X~
When Piers finally awoke he had no idea where he was or why he was there.
What he does know is the pain that stretched throughout his athletic body, and it felt like he had just awakened from a nap that lasted hours instead of two years. In Piers' nightmares—or were they memories?—he vaguely recalled an atmosphere of pure chaos. Sounds had been clashing, rapid flashes of iridescent light, a cacophony of macabre moans and shrieks possessing an inhuman nature. He also remembered the anguished screams from men whose names are presently unknown, along with the thunderous bursts of gunfire. There was always gunfire.
Had he been in a battlefield somewhere? Did he get wounded and that's why he's lying on a hospital bed? What about those men who were screaming in his dreams? Did any of them survive to tell their tales, whatever they may be? For the love of God, why is it he can't recall anything deeper than that?
Proven to be a challenge, the BSAA soldier simply could not connect the dots. No faces to voices, no voices to faces. Just… nothing. It was frustrating to say the least. Exactly how was he affiliated with those men, assuming he was affiliated with them at all? And what transpired that resulted in this hospital being his final resting stop?
Piers groaned, squeezing his hazel eyes closed as an awful wave of nausea overcame him due to the unnecessary strain of attempting to recall what evidently was determined to stay concealed. Although not one-hundred percent invigorated, he felt well enough to stay awake for a few more hours.
Just then the all too familiar click of a doorknob turning reverberated throughout the spacious room, and entered into Piers' ears. Purposeful footsteps ambled across the waxed tile floor until they reached the bed where Piers lied. Curious, the youthful brunette raised his eyelids in order to see a middle aged man with black hair gazing down at him, both hands set securely inside the deep pockets of the white lab coat he wore proudly. Emerald eyes shimmered amicably and he displayed a smile filled with warmth, as he scratched the stubble on his bronze-colored chin. The doctor's square jawline practically declared his European race to Piers in a weird sort of way. Sewn in dark cursive letters on the left side of his chest area was the name Dr. Rothstein. An odd name indeed, but at least Piers was correct about this man being European. He saw no harm in finding him fairly attractive for his age either (early forties, he estimated). Just when Piers figured he could no longer endure another second of being watched as if he were an exotic animal trapped in a zoo, the foreign doctor spoke.
"Mr. Nivans, I am pleased to see you are now fully awake. You've been unconscious for quite some time. To be honest, we were a little afraid that you'd never wake up."
Piers noted the urbane, mild German accent this Dr. Rothstein held. Initially, he appeared to be a man with few problems in his life and ample friends (or female companions) in which to spend time with. Piers wasn't really sure what made him think that of all things, but it's the first impression he received from this tall and confident individual. Suddenly Rothstein's eyes darkened as his lips drew into a tight line.
"Please forgive my manners. I just realized I didn't give you my name. It's Al—"
"Dr. Rothstein?"
Piers winced inwardly at the sound of his voice; it did not sound like him at all. Hoarse. Like he'd been gargling nails or something worse.
The doctor chuckled. "Actually I was going to say it's Aleo Rothstein. But yes, that is my surname and I am a doctor. You may call me by my first name, if it pleases you. So… how are you feeling? "
"I've been better," mumbled Piers as he ran his tongue over chapped lips. "You're… a doctor then? Where am I and what happened to me? Why can't I remember?"
The multiple queries rolled off Piers' tongue before he could reel them in, bombarding Dr. Rothstein in the process.
"Easy Mr. Nivans. I know you have questions, but one at a time."
"Sorry," Piers apologized. "And call me Piers. Mr. Nivans is… was… my father."
"Okay Piers. Would you like to sit up? It might ache a little, but that's to be expected. Your body just needs to be utilized again."
Dr. Rothstein was correct. The BSAA soldier's slender physique felt sore and heavy from lack of use, his movements sluggish as the good doctor helped him sit upright. Fallow bones cracked from being neglected. Rothstein lowered the bed's side guardrail and tossed aside the warm blankets, assisting Piers as he slowly slid his legs over the edge of the mattress.
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, I am fine," Piers replied.
"Good. Now…" said Rothstein as he pulled out a stool with wheels that had rested beneath the counter, sitting down for a change. "Before I answer your questions I need to ask a few of my own. Just to see what you can recall. Alright?"
Piers seemed hesitant, but nodded his head slightly.
"What is your full name?"
"Piers Nathaniel Nivans."
"What is your date of birth?"
"July 3rd, 1988."
"Your hometown?"
"Bismarck, North Dakota."
"What are your parents' full names?"
"My mother is Leslie Margot Nivans. My father… was Matthew Joseph Nivans."
Piers' voice had become stiff upon saying the name of his late father.
"I'm sorry about your dad. I can tell you miss him very much." Dr. Rothstein cleared his throat. "Do you have any siblings, Piers?"
"Thanks. And no… no, I don't have any brothers or sisters. I'm an only child."
"Are you certain Piers?" He sounded unconvinced. "Think hard."
Piers shook his head and said, "There's no need for that, doc. I… I had a younger brother… once. But he died in a car accident a long time ago. His name was… Luke. On the day of the accident… he had just turned ten years old."
"So… he passed away on his birthday."
"Yeah," said Piers, emitting a disconsolate sigh. "Luke was so excited. Dad and I were going to finally teach him how to shoot a gun, out in the woods. After that we'd go fishing… and basically do whatever he wanted. It was his day."
"I'm sorry for your loss," Dr. Rothstein said softly. By looking into Piers' glossy eyes he could tell the young man wanted to cry. "You two must've been close."
"Yes, we were. Very."
"Well… I only have one more question Piers, and then we'll be done. Okay?"
Piers glanced up at the doctor from the tile floor he had been staring at in order to hide his tear-filled eyes, sniffing once.
"Go ahead. Shoot."
"Do you remember anything before being admitted to this hospital?"
"No, nothing. In my dreams I heard gunfire and… screams that would make anyone's blood curdle." Piers set a hand on his aching temple. "It was godawful. Actually, I was kind of hoping you could tell me why I'm here. Was I in an accident?"
"Um… not quite," replied Rothstein. "You're in St. Luther's Hospital. For a while we had to keep you in the ICU. Over time your health improved and thus we were able to move you to another room—this one more specifically."
"That's still not telling me why I'm here."
Dr. Rothstein sighed, combing a hand through his dark silky hair. He wasn't entirely sure how to explain the situation.
"Look… I won't lie to you Piers. I don't have much information about what really transpired before you arrived here. Top secret info, that sort of thing, you know? All I know is that you were a BSAA operative, second-in-command to the legendary Chris Redfield."
Chris Redfield? Why did that name sound so familiar to Piers?
"During your last mission you had been injected with a lethal virus, which threatened to annihilate the whole world. According to Mr. Redfield's report, you had stayed behind in some underwater facility as it came crashing down… but not before pushing Chris into an escape pod. You saved him, Piers. After the chaos died, everybody presumed you to be dead once there were no signs of life. Then, on the final day of searching, they found your motionless body floating on the ocean's surface. They rushed you here where I, among other medical professionals, tirelessly worked on you for two years in order to bring you back."
Rothstein shrugged his broad shoulders casually.
"The rest is history."
Dr. Rothstein gazed at his patient, concerned. Piers was uncannily quiet the entire time. It appeared like he had something on his mind, but was unable to adequately express his current emotions, which hadn't been calmed any more than before he had received this incredible mass of information.
"You okay Piers?"
"Yeah, it's just…" he said, blinking a couple times in disbelief, "a lot to absorb."
The doctor suddenly smiled and laid a hand on the brunette's shoulder as a gesture of comfort.
"Chin up, lad. You are a hero."
Piers scowled. When he spoke Rothstein could hear the deep agitation that laced his voice, causing it to tremble.
"If I'm such a fuckin' hero, then why can't I remember anything?"
"You have amnesia, Piers. Down in the facility, during its destruction, you must have banged your head against something hard… or something hard banged itself against you, resulting in a severe concussion."
Piers wasn't exactly sure what to make of that. He stared for a while at the long counter behind the doctor's back in silence, equally afraid and exasperated by this new knowledge. Reluctant, Piers asked the sole question that ricocheted throughout his brain like a stray bullet.
"Will my memory ever return?"
Dr. Rothstein looked at him pensively, stating frankly, "I don't know. With amnesia it's difficult to tell when an individual's memories will come back to them. I suppose the severity of the injury and time are the constant determining factors."
There was a lengthy pause from both men. The room had been enveloped by Piers' dejection, crushed underneath the overshadowing weight of uncertainty.
"There's… something else you need to know as well," Rothstein continued carefully. At this moment he would be treading into unsteady waters.
Piers' eyebrows furrowed in fear and annoyance. There's more? And just as he started to hope things wouldn't get any worse…
"What is it?"
"The virus you were injected with—the C-virus—caused serious deformities to your right arm and the right half of your face."
"Deformities?" The soldier's heart began to race harder, its wild rhythm echoing in his ears. "My arm looks the same though," he said as he examined the limb in question. Granted, parts of it were a shade darker than his natural skin tone, but the brown spots were mild at best, and barely noticeable unless one searched for them.
"Yes. Fortunately the "medicine" we administered helped in reducing their severity. But the scarring and blemishes are a different matter altogether. Don't fret. We have a special cream for those, which you'll receive before you're discharged. As for your face… it's fine, same as your arm. However, not much could be done where your right eye is concerned."
"What's wrong with my eye?" Piers enquired rapidly.
Sensing his patient's trepidation, Dr. Rothstein put up a single hand in a defense posture, saying "Relax son. Your eye is fine. It's just… a different color compared to the other one. I'm afraid we failed to save your original eye, so we had to use a transplant from another patient that had recently expired at the time."
"I have a… a dead man's eye?" Piers said incredulously. He ceased talking so he could fully soak it in.
Rothstein stifled a laugh in spite of himself. Piers' reaction was far too adorable to deny, even for a 26 year old adult man.
"Yep, that's correct. You'd be surprised what miracles modern medicine can do nowadays."
"I need to contact them," he whispered. He stared intensely into Rothstein's vivid eyes. "I should thank that man's family for what he did for me."
"I'm sorry Piers, but I can't release that private information. Would you like me to send a message informing the family of how grateful you are for their member's donation?"
Piers considered it at first, but then said in disappointment, "No. Thanks. I would prefer to tell them in person… or at least send a card and gift."
Rothstein sighed, understanding his patient's feelings. He wasn't the only individual who asked to thank the family of an organ donor.
"I know how you are feeling, Piers. I'll send a message anyway, just in case. Okay?"
"Yeah. Whatever." Piers sounded downcast.
"Well…" said Rothstein on a sigh, while smacking his knees once in finality before rising from the stool. "I can see you need a few minutes alone. It's a ton of data to take in, so I'll leave you to it. Besides, I promised to keep in contact with a friend of yours. I should call and inform him of your condition."
"A friend of mine?" Piers said curiously.
"Please excuse me, Piers. I'll see you before you leave. In the meantime, I'll send a nurse in shortly to assist you in getting dressed."
Dr. Rothstein turned around then and briskly walked out the door. Piers watched as it shut behind him. He was now trapped in a surreal atmosphere. None of this felt real to him…
"Chris Redfield. Rothstein said he was my friend. Then why… why does it feel like he was something more?"
Piers suddenly grunted in pain and gripped his forehead as a sharp sensation unexpectedly rattled his mind.
More voices. More images.
Another memory.
Chris Redfield wasn't just a friend. He is his…
"Captain?"