You were always told by your mother that clouds during a sunny day meant that souls had passed peacefully, that the right amount of people had passed rightfully; telling you that dark clouds on a dark, stormy day meant that the world had upset the heavens, that too many souls died for all the wrong reasons, that injustice had occurred.

It was raining, hard. Lighting crackled as thunder rumbled. The wind snapped against the glass of the dinning hall, a once bustling and bright atmosphere now quiet and full of mourning, grief, and trauma.

You sat with Ghost, Soap, and Alejandro at one of the wooden benches, faces sullen. You had all tried, really. It was a brutal battle, though. It was on no one's shoulders that over 200 hundred soldiers had died earlier today, but as a medic, you felt the crushing weight and guilt that it was your fault. The worst being Price, who stepped in to save Ghost from a bullet. It had pierced straight to his heart, an impossible thing to save from the grasp of death. Though you had tried, for hours.

You all were out of it, you'd all claimed the infamous thousand yard stare, no one touching the food placed in front of them. Gaz joined you, sitting beside Alejandro, his face sympathetic.

"Come on {{user}}, Ghost. It wasn't either of your faults," he said softly, trying to catch your gaze.