Disavowed: A Call of Duty Fanfiction

Chapter 20: The Other Side

It wasn't particularly cold on that misty morning, though it wasn't quite warm either. Price sat on a bench in the cemetery, not another soul to be seen. Gaz's headstone was just ahead, a bouquet of wilted white carnations leaning against it. His own plaque was still mounted to the tree beside it; he'd been meaning to pry it off since his return.

There was something uncomfortable about not having a burial site for her yet. Not that he was anxious to bury her, but it would have been nice to have somewhere else to grieve aside from the clock tower with nothing more than her dog tags; a place where he could still feel close to her, even if divided by six feet of earth.

He felt hollow, like a shell; he barely wanted to breathe and every movement felt painful. Though he'd always accepted death as a matter of life before, this purgatory between being alive and feeling dead was the most excruciating thing he'd had to live through yet; there was an ache in his soul, but nothing to relieve it. There was no joy, yet sorrow didn't feel like a sharp sting, but rather a prolonged ache, a condition he had to accept. Days had blurred together, there had been many nights without sleeping, but each and every moment of it felt monotonous.

No. Not entirely. There were plenty of moments he woke up in the middle of the night, desperately searching for any sign of her only to remember all over again that she was gone. The panic. The crying. The burn under his skin to hold her in his arms again and tell her she was safe. The deep, unceasing desire to follow her, while simultaneously feeling pathetic for even thinking about it.

Those moments weren't so monotonous.

He sighed, closing in on himself to stop the ache in his bones. It didn't help.

"Price?"

John heard a familiar voice and slowly turned his head to look at Galaxy standing beside the bench, somewhat transparent and ethereal in appearance. "... Hey, Gal," he said softly.

"Hey," she replied, stepping closer. "I apologize, I don't have long, I just saw you out here and wanted to talk."

"Sure..." he mused quietly. He could tell by her hesitance that she knew he didn't want to talk, but still carefully took a seat beside him.

"... You know I had to do what I did, don't you?" she asked, angling her head so her face nearly rested on his shoulder.

Price folded his arms, silently looking ahead of him. "I still don't see why there wasn't another way." She laid back her ears and turned her face away. "Why couldn't you just... Live?"

She cleared her throat uneasily. "I just..." She murmured something, but the words felt jumbled in his mind, yet he didn't have the energy to ask her to repeat herself; instead, nodding in vague agreement. "Listen, I came here to let you know I'm okay. I'm not in pain, and I don't want you to torture yourself over this, alright? I don't want you to stop living because I'm gone."

"Whatever you say..."

Gal opened her mouth to rebut his passionless response but stopped. "I... I'm sorry, I have to go."

Price didn't watch her as she stepped off the bench and started to disappear into the mist. "See you on the other side, love," he whispered.

Her movement stopped, and he wondered if she was truly gone or had stopped walking. John turned his head toward where she had been once more, and this time, Jessica was standing there, leaning over where he was seated. She cupped his face in her hands and placed a gentle, smooth kiss on his mouth. It felt like a cool draft on his skin, nothing like the warm, intoxicating kiss he had felt before. But if this was all he could have, he wasn't about to let it go or take it for granted. He pressed deeper into the kiss, reaching up for her as she faded away. His heart beat faster as he looked for her. He called her name, yet couldn't hear his own voice. John rose from the bench, looking around him, and suddenly, he felt lost. "Jess?" he called again. "Jess..!"

"Jess!"

John sat up in his bed, looking around him helplessly as he realized once more that he was alone. He shuttered, feeling that familiar pain washing over him again, and he doubled over, his face hidden in his hands as he wept. How much longer could he bear this?

With a deep breath, he straightened, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand. He rubbed his forehead, still feeling that deep ache, and he stared at the darkened room around him, waiting for the strength to check the time. Crying wouldn't bring her back or get her justice, but finding Makarov and saving the Russian president would. He put his feet to the floor and stood.

He had to find Makarov.

And he had to kill him.