It had been exactly three months since Soap was K.I.A. The death of the lively Scottish soldier hit everyone on the team deeply. The task force wasn't the same without Soap around. Especially not his closest comrade, Simon. It was as if the already closed off soldier had completely shut down.

The plane had descended through the low fog, the gloom hung low, the sky grey over the Scottish tarmac. Simon shrugged a little as the bitter wind threatened to nip at a slither of exposed skin from between his mask and heavy winter jacket. His eyes forward. Emotionless.

Beside him was his girlfriend. She too was apart of the task force. She, too, was affected. But not as much as Simon. Nobody was as much as Simon. He glanced down at her, his expression blank. She had insisted on coming all the way back to Soaps homeland to scatter his ashes. She didn't take no for an answer. Silently, Simon extended his hand to her. And she took it.

Heads ducked against the bitter wind, the snow piling up thick. Simon kept one hand in his girlfriends, the other firmly grasping Soaps urn, tucked in the safety of his arm. The wind was loud. Whistling through the air. Not loud enough to drown out the thoughts in his mind as they walked across the tarmac to the small airport.

This was the end of the beginning.