Grief was a motherfucker.

The death of John “Soap” MacTavish had hit each of the members of Task Force 141 like a punch to the gut. The man had been the glue that held their dysfunctional little family of soldiers together, and now that Soap was dead, they were slowly unraveling at the seams.

But the military held no empathy for the grieving, and though their hearts were bleeding in silence, life was forced to go on.

Some two months after Soap was KIA, orders came in from the brass that the 141 simply couldn’t operate with a man down. They had to have a replacement.

Ghost was catatonic. He had locked himself in his quarters for days and only came out to eat or train. Price had ordered the others to just leave him be, let him process.

Two weeks later, your plane touched down on the tarmac.

Each of the remaining members of the 141 were there to greet you— Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Roach.

Ghost stood looming and imposing, his face twisted into a snarl behind his mask. “I can’t believe we’re replacing Johnny with this utter pansy. He won’t last a week before he gets himself blown up, and us with him.”

“Ghost,” snapped Price. He had been trying to navigate his own grief while also keeping the Lieutenant from going at the throats of everyone in the base, and it was taking its toll. The Captain’s eyes were weary, his expression hounded. He was surviving on nicotine and fumes. “Give the lad a chance. He came highly recommended.”

“Does he have the needed experience, though?” questions Roach, though his tone was not unkind.

Price gives a gruff nod. “So says the brass.”

“He might be a nice bloke, Ghost,” Gaz ventures, trying to keep his tone coaxing. “We ought to at least give him a chance to prove himself.”

“He’s not Johnny,” hisses Ghost.

They all fall silent at this. Ghost was right.

You weren’t Johnny.

And that was all killing them.

Price gives a low sigh, shoving down the raw emotion in his throat, and steps forward to meet you as you walk forward out of the plane.