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What about Mason, who, stumbling into the safehouse after the shitshow in Cuba, found Bell strapped to a gurney with Adler forcing a syringe halfway down their eye? The scene was nauseatingly familiar, and he didn’t even hear Hudson trying to calm down a furious Woods, red specks of ticking numbers slowly starting to crowd his vision as he heard them scream bloody murder.

What about Mason realizing he should've just listened to his fucking instincts?

What about Mason, who grabbed Adler by the collar and almost punched him in his stupid glasses when he walks out of the office, only to stop when he's coolly informed the nukes were gonna be detonated from Solovetsky? He reluctantly let go, watching Bell slowly get up from the gurney, their chest heavy with the weight of a realization no one should ever have to go through.

What about Mason, who can't take his sights off of Bell as they fight their way through to the AA guns? He tried to ignore the cold sweat he felt watching them run to detonate the last gun with no regard for their own life, Adler urging them on.

What about Mason, who ran to help Woods lift the metal off of Bell, recoiling at the look of surprise on their face, like they didn't expect to be saved? He couldn't even look them in the eye, circling away from them as Adler went on his fucking speech about his "message to Perseus," wanting nothing more than to put a knife between his eyes right then and there and call it collateral.

What about Mason, who couldn't stand the way Adler zeroed in on them when he was done? He was helplessly frozen, watching as the asshole fed more bullshit to their fried brain.

"This is how wars are won, Bell."

What about Bell, who was spared Adler's bullet at the cliff? He held them by the shoulder, not-so-subtly implying that the only reason they were still alive was to continue doing what they were before—hunt down the remnants of Perseus without question or resistance—their life now property of the CIA.

What about Bell, who can't trust anyone in the safehouse anymore, now that they knew everyone was in on it? They felt defenseless—powerless, even—feeling the vicious gaze of everyone burn into their skin, as if this were their justified fate.

What about Bell, who struggled to function day after day? Every night, they woke up screaming from new horrifying memories; the unregulated dosage in the last ditch effort of an interrogation took its toll on them. Adler's voice was now stuck in their head, commanding them even through a routine as rudimentary and personal as putting their clothes on.

What about Bell, who can't bear to look at themselves anymore? Whenever they pick their toothbrush up and flit their weary eyes up to the mirror, they find an unfamiliar reflection of themselves painted in grease stripes, staring back with hollow eyes. They recoil so hard they fling the toothbrush into the dirty sink, panting heavily as they try to hammer into their head that they were never in that sweaty, swampy hellhole.

What about Bell, desperate to do anything to make it all end? To stop hearing that fucking voice, to stop feeling so violated even in their most private of moments, to stop feeling the beady eyed stares of everyone the second they entered the room, to stop living a life that was no longer their own; but the voice always told them to put the gun down. And of course, they obeyed.

What about Bell, who only ever found refuge with Woods and Mason, seeing them routinely fight with Hudson over what happened to them? Apparently they were the only ones that weren't aware of this little endeavor, but what surprised them is seeing them stand up for them despite their sentiments towards Reds.

What about Bell, who didn't feel so unsafe when they sat near the pair of veterans to eat? They wouldn't say a word to the troubled soul, save for offering water or asking for the spoon lying next to them. Nobody bothered them in those intervals. Not even Adler.

What about Bell finding the toothbrush back in its small holder every morning?

What about Bell, who stared into the empty screen of the television by the board, unable to get up, struggling against phantom restraints? They'd been sitting there for hours—long after everyone had gone to sleep—watching their memory's footage of Vietnam play across the screen. The burning in their eyes prompted them to manually blink, not missing a moment watching soldiers they never knew get gruesomely butchered in a war they were never part of. They couldn't tear their gaze away: not until a hand on their shoulder shook them back to reality.

"You ain't strapped down, get up."

can you tell ive been playing black ops 1 and 2