No specific direction at the moment. Feel free to add what you think could develop into something.
Johan swore silently as several coins fumbled out of his hands and onto the snow underneath the pay phone. His legs ached as he struggled to bend down and pick them up, a constant reminder of what his life use to be. A low growl transformed into an enraged snarl as the payphone refused Johan's coins. He slammed the device down on the holder ferociously, snapping the holder right off and sending the phone towards the ground. A streak of blood stained the snow as the angered fellow clenched his fist, blood trickling from a cut he had somehow recieved.
A single onlooker, now aware of this, took a pair of earphones out of his ear and pulled down his hood. "You alright, man?"
Johan whipped his head around. He didn't mean to have a glare on his face, but there's one present anyways. The asker of the question's eyes widen a bit. "I'm fine," he hisses. "Thank you."
"Really? Seems to me that you cut yourself."
Johan looks down at his arm and stared at the blood. "It's nothing kid. It's nothing compared to what happened to me back then." Johan's mind begins to stray away from the cold, secluded telephone and bus stand that he's in. The other man has disappeared as well and a familiar chaos that has surrounded him before echoes through his mind.
He was once called Johan "The Panzer" Gott, one of the most feared names in German boxing. His body was indeed a living machine, capable of withstanding crushing blows and able to deliver punches that could potentially break bones. He was thirty then, in the prime of his life and the highest boxing record anyone in Germany had held. All of the attention he recieved, the glory that came with his name, the honour that was carried by the Gott family, was destroyed on the day he faced the American. His name was forgotten, lost like his spirit to fight after that devestating loss.
The American not only beat him but also permanently crippled him. It was the final seconds of the seventh round, both heavyweight contenders tired from the war that had taken place. Somehow, the American had caught him off gaurd and delivered a blow to the side of his head so strong that it caused him to buckle and fall. His tank-like figure, his greatest asset, became his greatest weakness. The weight of his body and the sudden motion of his fall took its toll on his left leg, tearing or straining his leg to an extent that the fight was stopped.
His fighting spirit had left on the day that his leg was destroyed. After that fight he became timid, frightened that he may never walk again. A year of no wins later he retired, not as a winner, but as a broken loser. He left the country after that incident, afraid to face a family that saw him as a fearless warrior, a true kreigsmann.
"So you were a boxer then?" Johan snapped out of his trance and gave the young man a shocked look. "You were mumbling something about German boxing for a bit." he added quickly.
Johan gave an absent minded nod. "Yes...yes that must be it." He straightened himself out and took a good look at his wound, which was starting to hurt a bit.
"I'm a little bit of a nurse, maybe I could patch that cut up for you a bit?"
"You walk around with medical supplies?"
The 'nurse' grinned and reached into his satchel, pulling out bandages and a small glass tube with brownish liquid. "Hey man, you never know when you'll need them. Now hold still, this could sting just a little bit."
"Thank you for bandaging me Sven."
The nurse-in-training smiled and nodded at the rough looking man with blonde hair and blue eyes. Although he still looked intimidating, Johan seemed to be less angry, as if he had spoken to the man cleaning his cut about all his problems. However, he didn't remember saying a single word to him, probably because the nurse had done enough talking for the both of them.
"No problem Johan." As he stepped into the open bus, he turned around and said, "You really are a true kreigsmann you know. A real warrior isn't afraid to admit something that makes him feel weak, or to shout like a little girl when he gets bandaged."
Then he was gone.
Johan stood there flabberghasted for a moment as the bus pulled away. He hadn't told Sven his name, much less the meaning of the word kreigsmann. Did he know German? Had he mentioned his name to him as well?