Call of Duty Fanfic

Series

Finished

Dude, Seriously? (Comedy: Soap really likes mean women. 20 parts.)

Is This Love? (Comedy: Soap and Weisz are two idiots in love. 26 parts.)

In-Progress

The Trouble with Tems (Fluff: The 141 find a cat.)

Ritual (18+ Angst: Soap would rather bathe with a toaster than be seen as a civilian. Unfortunately, toasters are waterproof. 11 chapters published.)

Yoga Instructor AU Masterlist (18+ OC x canon fluffy smut: Based on this post by l3ibnest. 4 fics.)

Caught (18+ OC x canon smut: Soap catches his teammate masturbating at work. And she catches him making audio porn as a side hustle. Four chapters plus bonus.)

His Heaven, His Hell (Angst: Heaven is supposed to be everything he ever wanted. ...so why isn't it?)

One-Shots

I Hate You, No Really (Mild angst: Reader gives a eulogy at Soap's funeral.)

Death In His Infinite Wisdom (Mild angst: "Rarely does death do you the favor of allowing you to say goodbye.")

Bullshit Bulldozer (Angst: Updated version of Death In His Infinite Wisdom.)

Leave for Simon (Mild angst: Simon's comes home after a mission. Based on this TikTok.)

How to Be A Pretty Boy (Fluff: Soap takes the 141 through his skincare routine.)

Would You...? (Angst: Soap and FMC confront their feelings for one another.)

Adjust Your Grip (Angst: Gaz asks Price for comfort. Price can't provide it.)

Blanched Palms, White Knuckles, The Blood Rushing Back (Angst: Twenty-seven was Ghost's unlucky number.)

Screen-Shot Through The Heart (Comedy: Price's laptop is broken. That isn't Ghost's primary focus.)

Can't Believe I'm The Woman (Smut: Ghost and Soap have always wondered what fucking a man in the arse feels like. Problem is, one of them has to be the bottom.)

He'd Do Anything for Love (Even That) (Smut: Soap finally agrees to let his girlfriend do him in the bum.)

It's All To See You Smile (Fluff: Eve and Ghost enjoy a day on leave. Turns out, Eve had something up her sleeve.)

Laid Bare (Angst: Gen (of @/sleepy-dino12) has to come to terms with how close she really is with one John "Soap" MacTavish.)

Man in the Mirror (Smut: Soap loves lingerie. Especially the way it looks on him.)

Muscle Memory (Angst: Sergeant Weisz had such bright hopes for her future.)

Sketches

The Base (Non-CoD. A servicemember and her shadow.)

Soap and Panic Attacks (Mild angst: So long as nobody knows, they aren't a problem...)

Beach Episode (Fluff: Gaz and Soap prank Price and Ghost. It ends, predictably, rather poorly. Based on this pic.)

A Dangerous Dance (Soap figures battle is as close as he'll ever get to a rave.)

Ghost and Soap Get a Divorce (Drabble. What it says on the tin.)

Nipples and Belly (Smut practice. Ghost is pierced. Guess where.)

Count (CoD poem: The beads on a dog tag and beads of a rosary are rather similar, don't you think?)

Waxing (Inspired by having to wax my legs recently.)

Tea Time (Mild Fluff and Angst: Ghost makes his teammates tea.)

Thistle and Bone (Mild angst: Ghost writes a letter after Soap's death)

Glasses Wearing Reader x Soap (Ask response)

Ghost x Reader with Foot Fungus (Crack!fic)

Headcanons

The 141 Is Protective

The 141 and Sleep

The 141 as Boyfriends

10 Ghost HCs

I haven't been in a fandom, like truly in a fandom, since I think Death Note. That came out when I was 13. I am about to turn 33.

It was the last time I had a level of uninhibited joy and surety that I was enjoying myself. I don't think it's a coincidence that was when I became well aware I was being relentlessly bullied by both my peers and my family. I had friends (and they're still my friends today. -waves- Hiiii! I'm okay, I promise). But around that time I began to realize that I didn't quite fit anywhere.

I don't really recall why it was that I left fandom, but I just couldn't find that spark for a long, long while. Between high school and college I tried, I really tried, to be "normal." To wear the right clothes and like the right things and be nerdy but not too nerdy.

It didn't pan out.

After college, I met my partner (still with him).

Shit got harder.

I got a new job working at the same company as my partner. Shit got easier. Then harder again.

I was crying and drinking through most of this time. My partner, with the patience of a saint, taught me some healthier coping mechanisms while desperately watching from the sidelines as I failed to unlearn how to hate myself.

And then I got laid off.

And I had to contend with this odd... lack. For so long, I had tried to define myself by my schoolwork, by my family name, by my job, and my successes as they measured against external metrics: income and filial responsibilities, a house and a loving partner, clothes and house clean and clearly maintained.

And yet here I was left to do... whatever I wanted. Wear whatever I wanted. Be whomever it was I wanted to be that day.

My partner had one rule during this time, "So long as you can pay your half of the mortgage, you can do whatever you want."

I had 2.5 years' of expenses saved up. What would I do for, potentially, 2.5 years?

I got kind of into TikTok, wondering if that could be a new job.

I... tossed that out immediately. Started applying for IT jobs again. But in the back of my head, I was wondering about this thing that kept popping up on the app: Ghost.

Yeah, crazy, right?

Ghost, whom I've mentioned as being one of the least interesting CoD characters (to me). But, hey, I was bored and the thirst traps got me.

So, I started wondering what his deal was. Why was everyone going gaga over Ghost?

I giggled to my partner about how cheesy some of these thirst traps were and he said, "Ghost? From Call of Duty?" I nodded, shrugging and admitting I can't recall if I ever played it.

So, he bought BO6 for me.

A cliche, I know - the unemployed partner playing Call of Duty all day. (I did, in fact, get back into eating cheese puffs because of this game. But ye gods is it funny to be a stereotype.)

And I got good.

Guys, I got really good. I was playing with sweats with Twitch streams within a few months. And it was fun. So, I played the original trilogy of MW games.

They were fine. I wondered how it was there was any fandom.

My partner mentioned it was probably the reboot.

So, I played the reboot.

And it was just...

I met someone on Reddit to play Black Ops with. (Miss you, V! Hope you're doing well in WI!)

I met @l3ibnest and started chatting about art again.

And it cascaded on from there. I was writing. I hadn't written in a decade. (Directly their doing, by the way. The first fic I really got right was the Soap Yoga AU. And they drew me art for it.) I was talking to people. I was excited to wake up. I felt fucking alive, like this part of me that had shriveled on the vine had managed to push out one small, green leaf.

I met @caly15 and @hopefulnightlady, @ewegee, @wonderfullydeceitful ,@sleepy-dino12, @liu-senrust...

And I'm fairly certain it wasn't just Call of Duty that did it. I'm almost certain that would be giving a middle of the road, propagandistic, jingoistic video game franchise too much credit...

No, it's unequivocally not the video game. It's the people that I've met who have made me feel so welcome and cared for, cheered on and supported, and it's... indescribable.

I hit a goal tonight. Just a random goal I set for myself - 150k words in a year. Difficult but not unattainable. Manage it by 31 December, 2026 - that was the idea.

It is 15 June, 2026 and I hit it.

And for the first time in my life, I don't feel the hollow ache of a lack of purpose. I don't feel confused and let down by the fact that it's just done now.

I feel... fuck, guys, I feel proud. For the first time in 33 years I feel proud of myself.

And there is no doubt in my mind that it is because the journey was not 150,000 words, but to keep working on my craft. And in finding that passion again I met other passionate people and they have truly, truly given me a sense of myself back.

So, thank you Call of Duty fandom.

This may be one of the most singularly obvious signs of healing I've felt in my life.

This is not to discount all of my fleshspace friends who have supported me, ensured my health and well-being, and inconvenienced themselves for me. I hope they know I love them, and I am working on ways to show them how loved they are, because I am frankly an awful fleshspace friend and need to do better.

But it's amazing what just finding a community can do for somebody.

You know?

@callsign-meat isn't going dark for a good, long while.

The heart is part of a system called our autonomic systems. Those that we have no control over.

The heart is particularly good at continuing to do its work even when the brain in charge of it isn't focusing on telling it to beat.

---

I sat on my civilian bed, in my civilian house, with my civilian roommate. Slashes of separated skin glistened in the light filtering through my drawn blinds. I stared at the thin trickle of blood that dripped over and down my bad knee. It would scar. Not noticeably amongst the stretch marks that lingered from puberty, or the scars that crossed my skin from bullet grazes and close calls in close combat. But it would scar.

The sting and burn was almost unnoticeable compared to other pains I’d endured, but it sharpened my senses nonetheless.

I allowed myself to exhale through my stuffed nose, tears finally drying, breath steadying, and heartrate lowering.

"Better," I murmured, "much better."

---

"How are we doing?" The doctor tapped a few notes on her computer before I'd even had time to speak.

"I'm making it," I replied, "It's hard to adjust, but I'm sure I'm not the only one going through it."

"Correct," the doctor gave me a wan smile, "and I see you told my assistant you were going to therapy sessions."

"Group," I corrected, "veterans' groups. Twice a week." 

"Good." She tapped a few more notes. "Well, let's take a look."

The appointment lasted a quick fifteen minutes, with everything coming up not just good, but "perfect." I pulled my leg back on and smoothed my trouser leg over the new, shiny carbon fiber limb. She had already left me to my business. Alone.

---

The report stared at me, redacted heavily. But only one line stuck out at me.

1 KIA - John "Soap" MacTavish

My leg ached.

I could see my pulse behind my eyes.

I gripped my bad thigh, swallowing thickly.

"Sorry," Corporal Merrill rested a hand on my shoulder, "I know you two were close."

"We were." I agreed. "How...?"

"GSW to the head." Merrill replied, "through and through. He went quick."

"That's good." I croaked. "May I... May I be excused for a moment, sir? My leg..."

"Of course. Take your time."

---

I sat, alone, at the bar. My head was fuzzy from the booze I'd been quaffing down for the better part of the evening waiting for a text message, a phone call, anything.

The boys had gone on a mission without me. Their first operation without me. And it made my chest ache to see them gear up while I sat back and counted rounds and glow sticks and other miscellany to corroborate the requisition requests.

Like the pitying glances I saw from civilian patrons at the bar, I could see the furrow in Soap's brow, the downturn of Gaz's lips, while they readied themselves for a mission that had been mine to run before Urzikstan.

I was still a little heavy on the prosthetic when I waddled over to check their gear (an allowance they gave me) and squeeze them both on the shoulder.

Ghost watched me from where he stood, ready early, at the door that would open toward the motor pool.

"Come back whole," I said as I knuckled his tac vest familiarly. He didn't so much as blink. I nodded, gnawing on my cheek as I turned and continued on my job.

---

"Creative writing," Eve said as she worked her way through a mess hall sandwich, "can sometimes help with all the new feelings."

I sighed, picking at my ill-conceived salad. What I needed was a beer. I shifted, the hard plastic seats too close together to allow me to rest my prosthetic naturally against the ground.

"No?" She twirled a strand of hair that had escaped her bun, "Okay, what about something else? I can show you some new stretches."

"I thought you were a field medic," I pointed my plastic fork at her. From across the cheap metal table, she shrugged. Leaning back, she folded her arms over her chest in an uncanny recreation of a certain masked lieutenant. Right down to the ironically expressive deadpan.

"Don't deflect," she scowled, "you can't keep avoiding how you've been feeling. Soap told me you said you wanted to die again."

"I didn't say I wanted to die!" I threw my fork to my tray with a clatter, "I just said I wished I'd died. But here I am. I'm not gonna finish the job myself."

Eve uncrossed her arms, fidgeting uncomfortably. "Thea..." She tried, unable to hide her concern.

"Until I pass counseling I'm barred from the armory." I assured her. "And yes, the fucking counselor has the same concerns you do."

She worried her lower lip, dropping her eyes back to her plate. As the silence stretched, she busied herself picking at her fruit salad.

"Okay," she murmured, "I believe you. But if you ever feel that hopeless..." She looked up at me, green eyes pleading, "you talk to me. Or Soap. Or somebody. Deal?"

"Deal." I nodded, dropping my own gaze. I stood, shoving back my chair. "I'm gonna go get some air."

---

"Does it hurt," Soap had asked while he massaged the muscle of my thigh. He lay propped on one side, the hair dusting his chest and stomach glistening from combined sweat and other fluids. "when I touch it?"

He had unintentionally grasped the nub of it when I moved to wrap it around his waist.  I shook my head, watching his fingers dig into still-alive flesh. Not purple or mottled or pale. Pink and healthy and full, in spite of itself. His hand drifted to the calloused remaining flesh, bone that had been snipped and covered by skin, the muscle having wasted away long ago.

"Don't," I grasped for his wrist, tugging his hand away. He laced his fingers through mine, blue eyes missing nothing.

"Why?"

"It's..." I swallowed, tearing my eyes from my body, "Don't you think it feels wrong?"

"No," he pulled his hand from mine, reasserting its place right over my knee, "why?"

"It's all hard and weird and it's..." I gestured to the nothingness below it, "it's fucked up."

He sighed broadly, levering himself into a seated position. "Alright," he'd come to a decision, "stay there."

---

I hated the sweat that trickled over my temple as another lance of pain shot through my leg.

Through my "phantom limb."

Look at your other leg. Curl your toes. Hold. Unclench.

I whimpered, the pain barely receding.

Hold. Unclench.

"Mhmph," I ground out as I dug my teeth into my lip. "Fuck this stupid fucking leg." I whimpered as another stab shot up my leg. "I'd rather have fucking died."

"I wish you'd stop saying that," Soap sighed from where he leaned against my new desk. "I'm glad you're still with us."

"Oh, aye?" I snarked.

"Don't start, dobber." He snarked back, eyebrows pulling together. Not in frustration, nor dark humor. It was unadulterated fear, filtered through his ever-present rage. "You can't fix what it was that happened but you can sure as hell keep yourself out of whatever grave you're trying to dig."

"I'm digging it with a fucking ballpoint pen and a ThinkPad, MacTavish." I gestured to my desk. Scattered over the top were printed reports, red and blue pens, and a laptop in the corner where a steady stream of dings notified me that everyone and their dog wanted me to wipe their ass. I slapped a palm over the computer's lid, closing it.

"Thea," With great effort, Soap relaxed his features into something resembling apology, "please. You've no clue how relieved we are that you're doing as well as you are." He shifted, leaning against his palms and, in the same motion, covering my hand in his. "It's not many folks that survive something like that."

Purpled skin and dead eyes overwrote reality for a too-long moment.

"I know," I said quietly.

---

I stared at the dog tags winking sunlight into my eyes, waiting patiently for me to don them post-shower. Little stainless steel rounds that read out the most important parts about me:

B POS

2073555

THEODORA

WEISZ

ARMY

J

That first line had saved me.

In the end, it always came back to blood.

---

I lay in a hospital bed, staring at what should have been my leg. Should have been. Had been.

Was.

I stared at the soft blue knitted blanket that lay too flat where my foot should have been. Had been.

Was.

I dragged my gaze over to the window, staring out at the skyline.

Where was I?

The door to the right squeaked as a nurse pushed it open, his hair just longer than regulation would typically allow. He was also out of uniform. He stared down at his tablet, frowning slightly.

"Miss... Wise?"

"Weisz," I corrected, "Sergeant Theodora Weisz."

"Miss Weisz," he nodded, "how are you feeling, today?"

"Not great," I frowned. No rank? That's disrespectful. "Care to fill me in on where my leg went?"

"Ah, well the doctor will be in shortly to discuss that. I'm just here to ensure you're awake and alert." The nurse smiled tightly.

"I am awake. I am alert. And I am angry." I confirmed. "Who the fuck gave you permission to cut off my leg?"

The nurse pointedly ignored my question, instead doing a quick check of... something. I couldn't quite tell what it was he was looking for on that screen, or what he noted on his tablet.

"Hello?" I pushed myself upright, tracking him.

"Please don't sit up, Miss Weisz, you might strain something."

"I can do whatever I damn well please. And it's not Miss Weisz, it's Sergeant Weisz." I readjusted myself. "Of the Royal Army."

"Mm." The man shot me an unimpressed glance before turning toward the door. "Doctor will see you shortly." He repeated before pushing his way out of the room.

The doctor did not, in fact, see me shortly. She, in fact, took over an hour to finally deign to see me; during which I had nothing better to do than stare at my leg and try to recall what it was that had happened.

When she entered - brown hair cut into a chin-length bob and thick-rimmed glasses perched on a thin, freckled nose - she at least had the presence of mind not to be staring at a screen.

"Sergeant Weisz," she greeted, deep brown eyes landing on first my face, then my leg, "I heard you weren't feeling your best. Understandable, given the circumstances."

I said nothing, watching her badge into her computer and pull up my file. She wasn't wearing a uniform either. She was wearing brown slacks and sensible black shoes and a pure white blouse.

"I'm in a civilian hospital," I studied her as she continued to type.

"You are," she agreed, her tone carefully even.

"You amputated my leg," I continued.

"My colleague did," she agreed once more.

"...who said you could do that?"

"The Hippocratic Oath," she turned, leveling me with an unimpressed look. "Seems you're feeling rather upset by that."

"Rather," It was my turn to agree.

"Do you recall what happened?"

"Bomb went off. Wall collapsed on me and tore my foot clean off. Teammate applied a tourniquet. Had to wait for exfil."

"Exfil," she consulted her computer.

"Exfiltration," I closed my eyes, briefly gathering the strength needed to speak to a civilian doctor. This is going to be a special kind of hell. "Removal from combat."

"Ah," she tapped a few more notes in my file. "I see. And you recall being removed?"

"Yes."

"But you don't remember agreeing to have your leg amputated."

"Not in so many words."

"Right," the doctor adjusted her glasses, "well I'm glad you chose the amputation."

"Yeah, that's what I did," I sagged back against my pillows once more. "So, what now?"

"Rest and rehab," she said, as if it weren't the most devastating thing to happen to a person.

"And how long will that take?"

"That's up to you," she stepped back from the computer at last, standing over the side of my bed with that same serious expression the surgeon had worn. "Most folks who lose their limbs as you did... three to six months, provided they have a support system and are able to maintain their mental health."

"And if they can't?"

"Twelve to eighteen months."

A snarl curled my lips viciously. "Eighteen months?" I repeated.

"Yes."

Embarrassingly, I felt my chin begin to wobble, and my snarl twisted into an altogether more pathetic grimace as tears sprang over my lash line.

"And my career?"

"You'll have to speak to your boss about that."

"Right." I didn't bother to correct her. My chest twisted cruelly as the truth settled heavily over my ribs. This is it. It's over.

...why couldn't it have just killed me?

---

"You're killing me!" I cried, thrashing against the restraints. "Take it off! Take off the fucking tourniquet."

"No." The doctor - a greased up surgeon - had examined my limb with the severity of a coroner declaring a murder. "I'm sorry, but if we do that now..." He glanced up at his attending. "Prep the OR." He turned without another word.

"No!" I thrashed again, the soft restraints pulling against the rails of the bed.

"Yes." A deep baritone sounded from somewhere behind me. "Weisz, you do this here and now or you die." What was his name again? I blinked up at the stripes on the voice's shoulder. Why would a major be at my bedside?

"Then kill me," I croaked.

Major Asshole snorted, "After all the trouble we took to get you here? Not likely." He dipped his chin toward the glass doors. "We need your tactical mind, Weisz. You don't have to be in the field to be of use to your country."

"Fuck my country!" I howled, "it's my fucking leg!"

"Below the knee," he offered. "You'll be practically whole."

My strength left me.

"Sir," I tried one more time.

"It's your life, Weisz." And with that, he left, too.

---

Soap held me against his chest as our teammate grunted and tightened the tourniquet winding painfully around my calf. The world was a bit dim. A bit cold.

Distant screaming - shrieking, really - registered as coming from my throat. I shook as if I'd been doused in ice water, though I didn't actually feel cold. My teeth chattered and my eyes darted wildly between tourniquet and deep red blood that had finally, mercifully halted its continuous spurting from the stump where my foot used to be. I was a world away from it all as MacTavish's hand finally clamped over my lips. My jaw snapped shut.

Everything halted. The panic fled, light was brighter, sound was louder and tears I hadn't even registered stopped their trek down my cheeks. A shuddering breath expanded then caved my chest.

"Weisz," he shouted, "this is going to hurt."

I had only just registered his words before he began to drag me. Hurt was an understatement, but I was too busy assessing what had happened to feel it. Boots rushed by, gunfire pocked the soundscape. I collapsed against a still-standing bit of concrete and rebar.

To my left, a soldier sat hunched, one hand pressed firmly on an oozing shoulder wound. To my right... a corpse. I blinked slowly, registering the purple pallor that matched my leg - blood loss. A lethal amount of it.

I turned my head slowly, facing forward once more. The last bit of information fell into place.

---

"Soap," I laughed, pushing him away, "quit it! I told you, I don't want to get in trouble."

"What trouble?" He scoffed, "It's just a quick kiss - nobody has to know."

“I’ll know,” Gaz quipped from across the room, idly cleaning his rifle with the hem of his shirt.

"God, you're insufferable." I fended off yet another playful attack, his lips puckered cartoonishly as he tried to land a kiss on my cheek, or forehead, or shoulder. It was his favorite game - pin the smooch on the sergeant.

"Aye, and you love me for it," he grinned, succeeding in pinning me to the ground.

"Love's a strong word, MacTavish." I snorted. He scrubbed his cheek against mine, whimpering like a kicked puppy.

"I'm gonna vom," Gaz snorted from where he sat propped against the wall. "Can you take it outside?"

"And get shot?" Soap snorted, pausing in his playacting for just long enough to shoot Gaz a wounded look.

Gaz regarded the two of us, then nodded sharply. "Yes."

The three of us laughed, and Soap finally crawled off of me, allowing me to right myself.

"Been a while since we've received any orders," I noted, "d'ya think we're gonna move any time soon?"

"Three days of hurry up and wait," Gaz intoned, tracking Soap as he checked his rifle for the third time this hour, "I'm guessing not."

"Shame." I sighed. I opened my mouth to say something else when the roar of a low-flying plane began to shake the earth. Too low to be a jet, but too loud to be anything other than-

"Shit!"

Gaz and I scrambled to our feet, but it was too late.

An explosion sounded somewhere above us, and the sound of crumbling infrastructure rushed toward us.

"Move!" Soap's feet were already pounding forward as we rushed toward the exit.

---

The world was pleasantly hazy as a certain somebody's mouth laved over me, tongue and lips moving in a practiced rhythm. I clutched a short brown mohawk.

"Johnny," I giggled breathlessly, "you've been down there for hours."

"Been down here five minutes," he murmured against saliva-slicked skin. He dragged his lips over my inner thigh, blue eyes gazing up at me mischievously. "You that drunk, Weisz?"

"I'm sleeping with you, aren't I?"

He tutted. "And here I thought you wanted to see God," he pulled away. Cold air rushed in to fill the space between us.

I scoffed. "To do that you'd have to be my vibrator."

"This vibrator?" He grinned, reaching over to open my bedside drawer. I squawked, scrabbling to try and keep him from bringing out the little black cylinder. "'s fascinating. Truly. That you'd want it to look like lipstick." He uncapped it, the hard plastic tip gleaming in the low light.

He tugged off the bottom, too, revealing the soft rubber button.

It hummed to life between his fingers.

"Don't-" I tried, but he was already sinking back where we both knew he belonged.

---

"What's your name, sergeant?" Thin lips turned up into a self-satisfied smirk as blue eyes watched me from their perch above a straight nose.

"Weisz."

"Weisz," the man offered me a hand up, "You're telegraphing." He slid into position, loose fists raised. He slowly, insultingly, dropped his shoulder to demonstrate.

"Gee, thanks," I rolled my eyes.

"Telling me you don't want to improve? Could mean life or death," His voice was silky and smarmy, matching the tilt of his eyebrow as he was faced with the reality of somebody not giving a damn about winning.

"Sure could," I eyed the blond lieutenant watching us intently.

"So?" He didn't move except to adjust his shoulder, "Go again?"

I huffed sullenly. "Fine."

---

Gaz and I were neck and neck on the track, but he'd always been better than me. Never showy, he'd had the fastest records for nearly every course we'd done. If you beat Kyle Garrick, you were the best of the best.

My feet pounded over dirt and then I was on my stomach, crawling through mud and trying to eat as little of it as possible. He was pulling ahead, the concentration on his face infuriating.

I gritted my teeth, eventually pulling myself out of the muck. But I couldn't do it. I stumbled into the climbing wall, barely able to hoist myself up.

“Fuck," I panted, finally backing up and finding my momentum.

He was waiting for me, twenty seconds ahead.

"You did good," he clapped me on the shoulder.

---

I was so proud, graduating phase one. Proud and puny and shiny and eager and all these things that new recruits were. I'd learned how to salute, and I'd learned how to read ranks. How to make my bed perfectly and be part of a unit.

I'd made some of the best friends I could ask for.

I'd made some major enemies.

And now finished with it all here I stood, chest puffed with pride.

My heart was fluttering, knowing that my dad would be proud of me. Finally proud of me.

God, what a rush.

I couldn't wait to see the world.