Maylancholy 2: Electric Boogaloo

An age, he lived. A lesson he learned—many things stay close to the heart, even as they should fade. The shadow on a wall, the brush of a hand, the impact of a weapon. Some things cling, even when their time has long passed; even when their memory is nothing but a dust-filled room, left in the end to rot. Certain sensations wedge themselves into the heart like little shards of glass, impossible to remove, yet aching so deeply with every beat. Even an unbeaten heart knows the pain of a memory, eternal. The prolonging of life only prolongs and strengthens the pain of remembrance. 

Spike understands this well—-years slip through his fingers, yet the same echoes cling like dirt under his nails. Dreams of beauty haunt him, an image of a long past happiness. He knew people once, people he loved. Golden luminescence forever lost behind him, buried in time. Nightmares of old pains haunt him, images of blood that he could not wash away. Within his skin, within his hands, within his soul. Guilt and grief stand at odds within him—-should he grief for what he lacks, or weep for what he has stolen? Yet, no matter how much time passed, the answer remains irrelevant. No action now could change his past, nothing could return him to the warmth of yesterday. 

Every touch on every surface stings like glass, as though his hands were made of paper. The wind and water shapes him as though he was forged from clay; soft, malleable. Time changes nothing. He drifts through the present and the future like a plastic bag set upon the infinite sea; his nature undegrading, but the world around him subject to indefinite change and movement. No aspect of life is fixed. Not love, nor family, nor happiness. Sadness, too, is just a transient state. 

Time passes through him like water passing between mountains, like flowing rivers that loop upon themselves and lead to nowhere. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Days. Decades. Centuries. Millennia. His presence remains the controlling factor, as all the world changes but himself. 

Truthfully, he should not feel such regret for the outcome he has come to. His choices, however painful they are now, were not ill-chosen. Even as the years pass him by, Spike cannot bring himself to truly hate his decisions. He had done right in not turning her, in not turning any of them. Although he stood alone, his misery too was solitary—no person but himself suffered the wrath of his pain. 

Death would be easy. He could walk into the sun, set himself ablaze as he had once before. In his mind, the warmth of the sun would walk him comfortably into death. He could stake himself, stabbing deep into his heart just as she almost had many times before. Yet, something called him to continue on. Within his despondence, there laid a quiet influence. A silent, ever-present whisper begging him to live, just one more second. 

Together, the two walked through the streets, into a dark area of the city. Nausea rose in Spike’s throat, resisting the reflex to pull his arm away from the Buffybot’s waist. She smiled, sincere. He swallowed. The guilt clawed at him like a rabid dog—-yet, he could not allow her to live through any more torment.

The image already floated within his mind. Buffy had returned, so the Buffybot no longer served a purpose. The bot’s cries to him would grow more incessant. Spike, how can I be of use to you? Spike, is there anything I can do? Spike, don’t you love me? The real Buffy, suffering the wretchedness of life anew, would require all of his attention. Slowly, the Buffybot would fade wholly into the background. He imagined it—-wires, like bursting blood vessels, sparking and rotting beneath her rubber skin. Mechanisms whirring with no reprieve. Willow would not attend to her, nor him, nor Giles or the others. Lacking maintenance, her mechanical body would grow frail. At first, he imagined,  it’d be a lapse in language. He recalled the “pun” glitch Willow had caused before—-that’ll put marzipan in your pie plate, bingo! The bot’s death would start with a simple glitch, then language altogether would become strange to her. After that, her body would begin to fail. A minor slip at first. Perhaps she’d drop a cup. Then, her systems would break completely. She’d fall from slayer strength to human strength, then from that to frailty, then to death. 

He saw her curled into a corner; wires bursting from her skin, electrical charring spreading from her stomach outward, joints crackling and crunching. In her final moments, she’d hide away, not even understanding the demise she suffered. 

The image made him sick. Spike narrowed his eyes in resolve. 

“Spike, where are we going?” the Buffybot asked, tilting her head mechanically. 

“Somewhere wonderful,” he replied without thinking. 

They turned into an alleyway, ancient bricks lit by the streetlamps above. The artificial luminance provided the only light available in the darkened night. 

“Turn around,” Spike ordered, voice cold. His lip trembled, but he forced himself to remain unmoving. 

The Buffybot smiled at him, before turning away with a spring in her step. 

Panicked words echoed endlessly in Spike’s mind, like a looping reel of guilt and responsibility. Oh god, oh god,  he thought. He was going to kill her. 

She turned her head back, still smiling. The plasticine tint of her skin shone in the light of the streetlamps. 

“Do you have a surprise for me?” she gleamed. 

“Yes. Turn back around. Close your eyes.”

She obeyed. He grit his teeth, taking one step closer. 

Slowly, he unsheathed a knife from his coat pocket. His feet led him closer to her, yet his mind felt disconnected. It was as though he was watching someone else’s life through their eyes. Tentatively, he wrapped one arm around her waist, as a lover would. The Buffybot smiled wider, and in his mind he already knew what she was thinking. Before she had a moment to consider anything else, the knife was plunged into her stomach. 

Spike let go, her body falling to the ground. 

The bot’s mouth opened, sputtering out a garbled approximation of speech. Sparks burst from her power center. Her wires crackled and hissed. Black charring spread across her skin as her body continued to scintillate, mechanical parts sizzling like a hot grill. The quantity of sparks radiating from her became so momentous it appeared she was aflame. Spike stepped back, shielding his face from the blaze. Her limbs seized, twisting and cracking in directions her joints were not built for. Seconds passed, her violent combustion near blinding Spike’s covered eyes. 

Finally, her body grew still. The final hisses of her deteriorated wires gave way, and silence fell upon the alley. Spike slowly unshielded his face, allowing himself to gaze upon the corpse. His expression faltered, a face close to fear passing over his own. He came close, lifting the body, and dragging it home. 

Vengeance is mine, she said, and D’hoffryn placed the crown of vengeance upon her feeble head. Anya grew a name, a purpose. No longer was she An, wife of a hideous man and scourge of the town. She would no longer be the person who barely counted as a person, no longer the person who people gave strange looks and offhand comments. She was no longer a person; she was vengeance. Anyanka was her name—punisher of evil men, patron saint of scorned women. Dutifully, she rained suffering and death upon the men of the world. A millenia passed, and more than a billion men fell beneath the wrath of Anyanka. She relished in their pain, relished more in returning to D’hoffryn with a bountiful harvest. 

“Just today, I took out one-hundred men,” she said, carrying one man’s head tucked against her hip. 

D’hoffryn took the head, holding it up like a trophy. The man’s glassy eyes shone in the light as if they were gold. “Very good, Anyanka. I imagine you will bring home even more unfaithful, unworthy men tomorrow,” he replied, turning the head around to inspect. 

“Yes, yes I will.”

Close to her heart, laid the amulet of Anyanka. An aventurine gemstone, encased within a golden pendant. It hung low on her neck from its gold chain. It holds the power of the wish, D’hoffryn had said. Any wish spoken to it, by any woman but you, will become an absolute reality. Her first test had been large—a woman of her town wished her lover into a horrible ogre, just as she had. Compared to the spells she’d performed to transform her own husband, the power of the wish was simple. Words spoken, close to the heart, close to the wish—-they grew into reality, as though the words themselves held more power than the amulet. She witnessed its strength many times throughout her years, unimaginable sights becoming clear before her through the simple words of a desperate woman. Anything could be brought forth from the mouth of someone with nowhere else to turn. 

From the start, Anyanka had no limitations nor boundaries nor blocks. The wish’s power was fixed—you ask, you receive. As the years passed, she did not grow in power, but in influence. Her name slipped from the tongues of women worldwide, an ailment to summon for all problems related to the males of the species. 

A cheater, an abuser, a rapist, a liar, a murderer. So many men fell into her clutches, crushed beneath the heel of justice. Yet, none of them differed. 

A woman summoned her once. Except, she was not a woman.

 Anyanka appeared before a young girl no less than fourteen. Heavy bags, tinged with pink, shadowed the girl’s eyes. The remnants of tears clung to her cheeks. In her hands sat a book of incantations far too heavy for her. I want him dead, was all she said. So, Anya smited the man, squeezing his heart until the vessels burst from his eyes and his skin turned a deep purple. The girl discovered him soon after, sprawled across the living room floor like a dead rat. Anya observed carefully. She wept at his side, tears falling in fast streams down her puffy cheeks. Thank you, the girl said. Thank you. She took the man’s body in her hands, lifting his head onto her lap, cradling him as though he were a child. Anya looked upon the scene with new eyes—a resemblance grew obvious between them; the same thin eyebrows, the same dark circles, the same eyes. Where she held daughterly guilt, he held shameless ego. 

From the top of her tower, Anyanka looked down. Seeing into the mortal world, she observed something she’d never noticed before in her human life: all men were the same. What she had assumed as individual vice was instead the transgressions of a whole species. All children, all boys, all men, all fathers and brothers—every man carried the same sins upon his soul, the same stain; dark as demon’s blood, immovable as fate. Try as you might, you’d sooner wash away the remnants of a corpse than scrub the decay from a man’s soul. 

From then, her work fastened. The death of hundreds a day would not atone for the abuses of four billion, for the malefactions of all. Anyanka no longer needed to be called forth, she appeared before any who needed her. D’hoffryn delighted in the thousands of heads she returned to him. Her name was spoken worldwide like a prayer, as though she was not a saint, but a god. 

Vengeance was her name. Vengeance was her blood, her promise to the world. She finally understood, her singular duty in life was to attain the dark justice that stood beyond the bounds of the mortal eye. Through her, the men of the world would atone for their sins in blood. 

And yet, she was not happy. Often, she thought that—horrible as it had been—her human life was something wonderful. There was beautiful simplicity in the stupidity of it all, of the routine of what she had forgone. The men kept coming, and regardless of her efforts, a million days of vengeance did not end the suffering of the world, nor did it end her own. 

The rules of the wish remained steadfast. She could avenge any woman in the world, except herself. 

The cold; a deep, biting frost that dug into his skin and bones. That was one thing he’d never acclimate to, even if he spent millennia outside in his parent’s yard. The frigid air struck against his skin like lashes from a belt, yet still, the cold was gentler to him than his parent’s wrath. Their shouts echoed from inside, distant, indistinct. His grandmother probably hated the casserole, his mother probably hated the pie, his father probably hated her. Every year, his family formed a metaphorical circle, spiraling like ants in a death march. The same vitriol every year, the same cyclical insults and violent affections. Even outside, he could not escape the volume and intensity of his family’s hatred. Admonitions, hurled from within. Xander took in the sound, letting the broken pieces of insults fall upon him like hail onto the windshield of a car. He could almost hear the cracking of glass, as every word fell upon him. Their words became easier to bear, because he was not their target, but still—-he did not wish to hear his family in such a state. Yet, that was the only state which he had ever witnessed them in. Fighting, screaming, bruising, belting; beneath every action, laid the same wretchedness. Why don’t you come inside? they’d ask. But inside was a trap, full of wide eyes and harsh hands. No chill could ever sink as deep as his father’s hands. So, he stayed the night, every Christmas, upon the grounds of his parents’ lawn. Sunnydale rarely snowed. The one night it did, Xander laid alone in his ratty sleeping bag, laying flat on his back as he listened to the screams of his father from within. He could never be happy about….about something. About anything. Xander clasped his hands together, as if trying to fester warmth from within them. A chill swept through the lawn. The lights within flickered. His family quieted for a moment. Xander’s eyes passed slowly across the sky, dark clouds forming above. Snow, falling from above like little petals from heaven. He closed his eyes, willed himself to accept the cold. Xander laid there an indefinite amount of time, drifting in and out of consciousness. The shouts of his family continued long into the night, until all became peaceful. With his family quiet, Xander finally began to drift off into sleep. Rolling onto his side, he noticed a peculiar shaking of his fingers. Whatever. The house was silent. He needed sleep. His teeth chattered in the cold, and he pulled the sleeping bag over his head. Yawning, his eyes closed. Darkness. He awoke an hour or so later, still swaddled within his old sleeping bag. Heat and humidity emanated from the sides of the bag, and he hastily tugged himself out. Something about that seemed…off, but Xander shrugged the feeling away, rolling over onto the grass. Within seconds, his clothes grew damp. Too tired to fight the weather, he closed his eyes. Xander awoke once more, eyes slowly opening to the light of the fireplace. Stretching, he realized four blankets lay across him. His eyes widened, and he spotted someone seated on the couch. “Oh, you’re awake,” his uncle sighed, looking up from the television. Xander sat up. “...Huh…?” “Went out to get a smoke. Found you passed out on the lawn. Fingers were purple.” “Oh.” The man’s eyes returned to the television. “You’re lucky I found you, you know,” he continued. “One of my other nephews died from hypothermia. It's a gruesome sight. Would hate for your mom to have to see that.” “O-okay—” Xander shut himself up. The conversation was already over.

Riley drifted between unconsciousness and wakefulness, sometimes achingly aware of the emptiness within his chest, other times the feeling soothed by the warmth of truthless dreams. There she was, his mother, watching over him with sad eyes. There was Buffy, her face cold but her eyes displaying a speck of hidden warmth. His heart burned. He was in his parent's home, his grandparent’s home, and the strange halls of the Initiative. He shifted between states of dream, between visions of painful familiarity, bizarre hopes, and aching memories. The air stifled his breath, cold and hot, choking him like a forest fire’s blackened smoke. 

A long while passed before he awoke. Riley’s eyes slowly opened, timid against the relative brightness of the room. A slow glance at his surroundings confirmed the heart-rendering suspect of his suspicions. The stacks of fresh papers. The bright-white walls, their shade of white so cold they were almost blue. The empty walls, tainted by nothing but dust. He had returned to the Initiative, half-whole and half-destroyed. Between sleep and wakefulness, the aching within his chest had subsided, but the discomfort of violation lingered within the empty wound. Riley’s breath hitched, lungs struggling to fill with air. A flash of wariness overcame him. Feverous heat tugged at his mind, begging him to return to sleep so that he might imagine this to be a terrible dream. 

Walsh said something, but he didn’t hear. Her thin hands slowly brushed through his hair. 

“Mom…?” he asked, his voice cracking. His hand ran uncertainly over his heart. 

Her lips curled into a half-smile, the corners of her eyes wrinkling in equal weariness and happiness.

“No, just me,” Walsh replied. 

Riley attempted to shake himself awake. 

“Why…?”

She shushed him. “Shhh…”  

Her hand stopped in his hair, her self-assured eyes fixed to his trembling gaze. Unease permeated the air’s thickness, electrifying some primal component of his mind that urged him to run. Her hand drifted to his cheek, and he instinctively flinched away, eyes darting across the room. Riley jolted up in bed, pulling his legs closer to his body as if to protect some fragile semblance of autonomy. His eyes widened and his shoulders stiffened, seeing the shackles at the edge of the bed removed and his limbs entirely free. For an instant, the realization of freedom came with relief, then a secondary torrent of wretched realization poured the calm from its chilled glass, spilling the darkness of fear across his expression. Riley flexed his hands and moved his legs, the movement of them had stayed, but a vital component within him felt unmoveable. The vague sense of emptiness within him clawed at the back of his mind. His gaze slowly drifted towards Walsh, and she smiled.

 A long-forgotten, but necessary instinct sprung within him; the discomfort of prey within a predator’s arms, the numbing premonition that he was to be consumed. His gaze faltered, shifting to anywhere but his mother’s. The events of his previous night descended upon him, like a phantom in the night, sucking the weak remains of comfort from his dried veins. The awareness of his own vulnerability preyed upon his weakened heart. What was he now? A defenseless, fragile thing. Riley shook with misery.

He attempted to pull his strength from the empty well of his heart, but in the gap of his chest all that remained was an unknown abyss. The instinct to summon remained, yet the mechanism which that instinct pulled had become absent. He tried once, then again, but the actions were empty. Within that abyss, there laid no monster to summon, no power to beckon. 

The unnerving emptiness he had noticed then became a gaping hole, an empty space within where the defensive aptitudes of his soul once remained. Fury and melancholy surged within him in equal, but neither as the same purifying fire or cleansing rain they had once been. His emotions ached with the vulnerability of humanity. His heart pounded in his ears. His lungs throbbed with every attempt at breath. The flame of fury flickered within him torturously, and his wretchedness overcame him as the sea overcomes a feeble boat. His ache no longer accompanied a feeling of salvation—it cursed him, and he cursed it. 

Walsh smiled, brushing the hair from his pale face. “You can’t be trusted with that kind of power,” she said. 

Riley gazed up at her, heart heavy. “Why?”

“I know what you were doing—behind my back, colluding with that girl,” Walsh hissed. “She’s poisoned your mind.”

Before Riley could answer, Walsh held a jar of water up to his lips. “Drink. The medicine dehydrates you.” He wanted to ask what she had given him, but instead, he obeyed. His tiredness tugged at his already falling consciousness. He didn’t have time or energy for questions; he just wanted to return to sleep. 

“It’s for your own good,” Walsh said, without prompting. He heard the plaster smile return to her voice, “You’ll understand.”

“I don’t.”

“You will.”

His eyes fell to the ground, fatigued by the effort of simple conversation. It was as if somehow, during his couple hours of unconsciousness, she had managed to drain all the fight out of him. Only the smallest part of his heart even resisted his confinement. Some part of him even thought it was…nice. Acceptable. 

Walsh sighed, seating herself again in the chair next to the bed.  

“I was hoping you’d be my perfect project,” she admitted. “But you turned out wrong.”

 At that, he turned to face her. 

“But it’s not your fault. You just have to be kept away from your true strength. You don’t need to worry about any of that anymore,” she continued. 

“Could I…earn back…what I lost?” Riley asked. 

Walsh’s response was blunt. “No.”

Replying to Riley’s confused expression, she sighed. “I considered that. However, your answers indicated that you’d never really be where I want you in terms of…” she trailed off. “Let’s say ‘ideology and morality.’” 

Riley’s brows furrowed. “My answers?”

“Don’t try to remember it. It’s best you don't. For your sake.” 

Is it true that you…? Have you…? Will you ever…? Is….? What….?

Snippets of the incident came to him in flashes—something going into his veins, searing pain, endless questions, answers he could not keep off his tongue. 

I did. I have. I will. I won’t. It is. I don’t know. 

The already aching sense of violation within him grew somehow deeper, the emptiness in his heart falling from a gaping crater to another creature entirely. It was as though his heart and soul were hollow, torn away and left open for someone else to puppet. He felt as though all his organs had been scooped away, his skin left behind for a stranger to walk within. Even he could not recognize himself compared to the person he was hours ago—so strong, so assured, and now everything within him which he once relied on was torn out from inside him. The strength and power which Walsh granted him, gone. The few companions he had gained, gone. The confidence and heart he’d had to start this fight at all, demolished. His very heart and soul was crushed beneath the boot of another one he loved.

The great tragedy—he could not convince himself to care. Regardless of whether he forced anger or hatred upon himself, the glaring space within his chest remained. Nothing internal or external could change what was taken from him. He couldn’t will himself to care anymore. Part of him chastised him for being so weak, for giving up within a day, while another part of him sighed in relief. 

Walsh lifted the glass to his lips again. He’d seen her pour some bizarre liquid into it, yet he drank anyway.

Riley had long been a slave of his habits. No matter how many times he departed from the military, promising himself this was the last time—that he’d never come back after this—he found himself back on the doorstep of the one place he knew. The Initiative could kick him to the ground, crack his ribs beneath their boot, and still he would one day return. Once they were gone, he returned to a different part of the military. Not the same, but not too far. It didn’t matter where he went, as long as it was familiar. To him, a pattern was easy to follow. Living within his habits was frictionless. Pain and punishments slid off him like rain dripping from a soaked umbrella. Nothing burned too bluntly, so long as he was loved. No one could blame him for being the man his father raised. 

Yet, when the time came for him to leave, heavy regret clung to him. Like a poison weighing heavy upon the heart, he could not shake the feeling that something was inside him that he could not remove. That they, the people he trusted, had sickened him with some incurable ailment. The thought of leaving caused bile to rise in his throat, made him deathly ill to an inconceivable degree. As soon as he left, he would return—-back to his home, back to his cage. The organization would kick him down, break his bones and tear his heart out for leaving, but he’d take the pain with sincere guilt. Beneath the crushing boot was where he found his place, where the solace of home remained. He could hurt, so long as he was home. 

His first infraction was as a child, when he’d ran away from home to sleep over at his friend’s cabin. He had often been regarded as the perfect child, but this incident marked his image within his father’s mind. He recalled packing his little bag, stuffing it with snacks and magazines before swinging himself out the window. Coincidentally, his father checked his room minutes after that. No one suspected anything, but dinner was coming into frame. Young Riley had not considered this, blissfully walking away, bag strapped to his back. His father discovered him within minutes. 

I only do this because I love you.

Riley received a horrible scolding, swears and insults slamming into him like physical projectiles. His father’s words ached like a deep bruise. Yet, from within the pain festered an odd sense of comfort. This was home. This was love. From then on, he accepted his father’s words unflinchingly; surrendering himself to his father’s punishment. It was then, he realized, that he was great at not crying. However, he realized after that realization, that he had to be. Would he still be his father’s son without the refusal of tears? The question burned, and he left it forever unanswered.

Following that, he seldom abandoned his father. The occasional familial squabble separated them, but his love for family always beat out his desires for freedom. Riley stood akin to a domestic bird; willingly caged, wings clipped and cut so he could not desire a freer home. He never wondered who he would be with wider wings, with a world and a heart that did not imprison him. These sights remained forever out of his reach, locked away behind a dream he could not have. The simplicity of his life had robbed him of that wonder. Of course he would not question how he was raised—-how could he, when he had never witnessed another way?

Yet, as life moved forward, he witnessed a greater world. Riley grew aware of the bright wings flourishing from his back, observed their flapping as he tested his freedom. The first try tasted irrestisteble—-no sir, I’m an anarchist. Blood rushed in his ears, voices within him cheered his name. Buffy stood at his side, and he appeared wondrous. However, the appeal soon fell. A single flap of freedom led his wings to ache and tear. He gazed down at his own fallen feathers. To avoid further damage, he wrapped them up. No movement, no tears. No flight, no pain. 

Regardless of how far he ran, Riley always returned to his home. 

Day 1: Wounds of the Mind Prompts used: may-lancholy: "nothing's wrong, stop asking!" whumpay: dreams and nightmares Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Price discovers that Gaz and Soap reached out to friends to help them with the situation. Hoping to help Jamie recover from the psychological aftermath of being framed a spy and the torture she endured.

Day 2: Fractured Progress Prompts used: may-lancholy: "please don't leave me." whumpay: hidden injury Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Jamie struggling with the mental impact of the mistaken torture.

Day 3: The Price of Failure Prompts used: may-lancholy: "Don't make me do this." whumpay: "On your knees." Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Price's attempt to keep Jamie safe backfires.

Day 4: Heavy Eyelids, Heavier Hearts Prompts used: may-lancholy: "Stop fighting it." whumpay: Sleep deprivation Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Jamie's struggle to sleep due to nightmares turns into fear to sleep.

Day 5: The Weight of Rubble Prompts used: may-lancholy: alt; caught in an explosion whumpay: blood loss| Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Jamie is caught in an explosion and is seriously injured.

Day 6: A Different Kind of Battlefield Prompts used: may-lancholy: fever-induced delirium whumpay: hallucinations Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Jamie gets very sick.

Day 7: Under the Radar Prompts used: may-lancholy: "Why did you lie to me?" whumpay: stitches Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: A mission results in Jamie getting a minor injury. price thinks she was trying to hide it from him.

Day 8: The Weight of the Watch Prompts used: may-lancholy: caretaker burnout whumpay: panic attack Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Soap has a panic attack worried about the situation

Day 9: The Captain’s Penance Prompts used: may-lancholy: excessive drinking whumpay: alt 5; withdrawal Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Price goes to a bar to deal with the news of Jamie's emotional withdrawal.

Day 10: Echoes of Yesterday Prompts used: Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Price has a hangover and Ghost learns that Jamie is self-harming.

Day 11: The Price of Peace Prompts used: may-lancholy: "look at me, deep breaths.' whumpay: non consensual drugging Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: The team resorts to sedation, but without Jamie knowing.

Day 12: The Ability of One Prompts used: may-lancholy: "You thought I wouldn't notice?" whumpay: Head injury Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Price notices Jamie's injury before she can heal it.

Day 13.1: A Foolish Move Prompt used: may-lancholy: "Never do that again." Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Jamie is doing something foolish

Day 13.2: The Burden of Remembering Prompts used: whumpay: memory loss Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Soap is frustrated he can't remember people who are his friends.

Day 14: The Scapegoat Prompts used: may-lancholyhave passedin, "This is all your fault.", Broken ribs, whumpay: strangled Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Jamie is blamed for a death n a mission.

Day 15: Breach and Reveal Prompts used: may-lancholy: "No one is coming to save you." whumpay: restraints Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: An ally helps Jamie escape.

Day 16: Grief’s Illusion Prompts used: may-lancholy: hallucinations whumpay: "Stay with me." Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Jamie sees Soap's ghost

Day 17: An Anchored Reality Prompts used: may-lancholy: adrenaline crash whumpay: broken heart Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: The effects of Jamie seeing Price.

Day 18: Waiting for a Smile Prompts used: may-lancholy: "I don't remember the last time I saw you smile." whumpay: betrayal Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: It's been tong since Jamie smiled

Day 19: No Safe Haven Prompts used: may-lancholy: backed into a corner whumpay: isolated Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Jamie feels isolated.

Day 20: Fraction of Strength Prompts used: may-lancholy: head injury whumpay: concussion Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Jamie gets concussion from sparring.

Day 21: Close Range Prompts used: may-lancholy: medical emergency whumpay: alt 1; gunshot Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: T Warning: None Description: Jamie is shot during a mission

Day 22: Hiding Being Sick Prompts used: may-lancholy: "How long have you felt like this?" whumpay: left behind Fandom: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare Rating: G Warning: None Description: Jamie tries to hide a cold to go on a mission

Task Force 141 mostly fell into enemy hands. The enemy takes the four men to their camp. The enemy tie up Gaz, Ghost, Price, and Soap. They see a fence with barbed wire surrounding the camp. None of them see Jamie hiding in the trees.

Hours pass. The four men know Jamie didn't ditch them. They thought she would have freed them by now. The three soldiers who kidnapped them are asleep in a tent. "No one is guarding," Soap observes. "That's odd." "How likely is it that this is a trap?" Gaz asks. "They're waiting for Jamie." "Damn it. She knows not to let her guard down, but I don't like this," Price adds.

Jamie looks at the barbed wire on the fence. She climbs further, accepting the injuries she'll receive from the barbed wire. Climbing the fence is easy. As she reaches the barbed wire, Jamie braces herself for the pain. She bites her lip to avoid making a sound as pain goes through her body.

Jamie's hands and legs are bleeding by the time she climbs down the fence. Jamie looks around the camp. She spots Gaz, Ghost, Soap, and Price tied up and asleep. She ignores the pain as she walks towards them. She feels blood going down her legs.

Soap is the first to awake. In the moon's light, he sees the blood on Jamie's hands and darker color of her pants. He remains quiet as Jamie wakes the others. Gaz, Ghost and Price also see the blood. Saying nothing, Soap picks Jamie up. The four men find their weapons. They know the risk of delaying escape but refuse to leave their weapons to the enemy. "Going somewhere?" A male voice asks. The three soldiers discover their attempt to retrieve their weapons. "You're too late," Price comments. The three enemy soldiers see Gaz, Ghost, Soap, and Price have retrieved their weapons. "You're outnumbered," Price states. "Let us leave, and you can live." The soldiers raise their hands to surrender. Task Force 141 walks away.

Once far enough, Price uses the radio he stole to contact Nikolai. "… and bring a med kit," Price finishes. This worries the Russian as he prepares his helicopter. "Right, ETA is thirty minutes."

Soap takes off his shirt to stop the bleedings on Jamie's legs. The men realize the bleeding appears more severe than her actual cuts because of her movement while injured. They worry about the number of minor cuts she has on both legs.

As soon as the helicopter lands, Nikolai rushes out with the med kit. The Russian knows there are supplies for minor injuries, but he worries that someone has serious injuries.

So, long story short, we were evicted and given just 8 days to find a new place to live, pack everything, move everything and figure out what we're doing with the cats. We are low on money and just struggling to make it through the day.

As I write this, we have just a day and a half left. We still haven't found a place to live. We're still packing.

I'm fucking terrified and I have no idea what I'm going to do.