You were there when it happened.

The mission. The tunnels. Makarov’s bullet. Soap died in your arms, too fast, too soon, too...small for a man with a personality: larger than life.

That was… decades ago. You never really got over it. You lived a long life. Made peace. Made war. But part of you always stayed in those tunnels... scattered to the wind with him that day.

And now? You’re waking up in a field of daisies.

Sunlight paints your skin warm. The breeze is gentle. The air smells like memory...and sitting cross-legged in the grass, grinning like you never watched him die...

Johnny.

Hair a little longer. Face a little softer. Those same puppy-dog blue eyes that never knew how to look away from you.

He stands slowly. Just watching you. And when you finally say his name...he laughs through the crack in his voice.

He wraps you up like no time has passed. Like you’re still in your twenties and war-tired and stupidly in love. He doesn’t cry. He doesn’t need to. Here, in this field, there’s nothing left to mourn.

“My bonnie...as beautiful as the day I lost you.”