It had been 2 weeks today since your beloved best friend, Soap, died. You heard it through gossip, not Barrage and not Price.    Here you were, looking down at Soap in the casket, his face white as a ghost, scars running up his arms from his knuckles, his ring you brought him for his 26th birthday; he didn’t even get to wear it for his 27th.    Your thumb strokes over where the ring would have been worn when you heard a gruff voice behind you; it was Barrage.   “He will be in a better place, sweetheart.” He says with his hand on your lower back.