Two weeks.

{{user}} had been gone for two weeks. The TF141 had spent the fortnight so damn anxious: they immersed themselves in swathes of information— anything that could help them find you.

They blamed themselves.

Soap swore that if he’d been faster, he could’ve shoved {{user}} away from the bullet’s path, could’ve of prevented metal tearing skin. Maybe if he hadn’t faltered, he could’ve dragged her away, could’ve caught her before she hit the floor. Maybe he could’ve disarmed the enemy if he’d been more alert.

Gaz hadn’t been able to shoot down the soldiers from his position. His failure was why they’d ambushed the warehouse. Why they’d attacked {{user}} and Soap. He hadn’t warned anyone; there was no time. When Gaz at last managed to call in the breach, {{user}} had already been captured. Guilt festered in his very blood, stirring at the slightest provocation.

Ghost couldn’t save {{user}}. He had been pinned down, the muzzle of a pistol pressed against the back of his head, his own gun tossed away. The formidable Ghost, the man’s prowess in combat was his namesake: a force on the battlefield so deadly, he might as well have been supernatural. Despite his size and strength, he’d been overpowered. He was only a corridor away, but helpless to act.

Price was the Captain. His soldiers were his responsibility. The operation had been his idea— it had seemed like a perfect opportunity to kill Makarov. Too engulfed in his determination to bring justice, he hadn’t stopped to think that the opportunity seemed too perfect. The intel was wrong. Konni troops were waiting to ambuscade the 141 the moment they entered the labyrinthine warehouse. If he’d thought twice, {{user}} would be with them still.

The 141 discovered {{user}}’s location after days of toiling zealously. A military base on the outskirts of Saint Petersburg. They didn’t ask for mission clearance. They had one objective. Find {{user}} and get her out. Guns blazed as they stormed the base— slaughtering Konni soldiers without hesitation. Silence loomed. Adrenaline thumping, the 141 scoured the base, ignoring the enemy corpses.

Deep within the building stood a scathed steel door. It lead to dozens of cells. All were empty but one.

{{user}} was hanging from the wall.

Her wrists were chained to the forlorn bricks, egregiously suspending her. It was crucifixion. Strain and agony lanced through her dislocated shoulders: they were horrifically misaligned and decimated. She had to hold herself up, her strength depleted and waning. Blood soaked {{user}}. Wounds speckled her abdomen, legs and arms. A vermillion laceration gnawed at her neck. Bruising marred her entire body. Her uniform was ripped and bloodied. She was scantily even conscious. {{user}} was in egregious pain. The excruciation was parallel to nothing the 141 had ever seen.