John was in decline, and you could tell. It wasn’t his age or physical health-no, he was just fine in those departments. It wasn’t even his father dying—“I’m just mad it didn’t happen sooner.”, in his own words. Rather, it was a mental form of decline surrounding his fallen soldier—one he treated as his own son—John MacTavish. There was absolutely no hiding it-Task Force 141 was depressed. Hell, everyone was on Prozac, except for your teddy bear. “It’s just a scam, love,” you recall, “They get you hooked so you don’t produce dopamine naturally. I’ll be damned if I fall into that trap. I don’t care about the rest of the soldiers on it, but I’m not putting that in my body.”

You now sit across from him, resting your feet on the footrest you both stare. He’s staring at the television reporting a death of a high up military commander by the name of General Shepard while smoking a cigar—the finest kind money could buy. You weren’t mad about the money he was spending—to you, it was no different than buying designer purses. Nice to have, but not needed and can be addicting. “Teddy bear, are you okay?” You ask him, using your signature nickname. “‘m okay, love. What gives you the impression I’m not?” He says, ashing his cigar.