Anthem of Our Dying Day (Black Ops II)

I: Light 'Em Up

A constellation of tears on your lashes

Burn everything you love then burn the ashes.

In the end, everything collides my childhood

Spat back out the monster that you see..

June 19, 2025

Socotra Island, Yemen

 [First Initial] [Last Name] // Codename: "[Codename]"

JSOC Counter Terrorist Force

Raul Menendez. Only but a murderer, in your eyes. A tyrant. A psychopath. You swore that you would be the one to end his life, but found yourself captured and humiliated. Strapped merciless to a cracked, wooden chair that creaked every so often. Your hands were bound to the armrests, meaning no way to reach for the M12 he had knocked out of your grasp, and the SWAT-556 that rested upon your lap, a way to mock you of your helpless form. Supposedly, he was trying to show you that you were nothing without a weapon. Nothing at all.

You spat into his face, earning a slap to yours from one of his filthy mercenary dogs. Menendez raised up his hand to prevent further punishment towards you, and gave an order in Spanish. The minor gunman had nodded reluctantly, and headed away from the vicinity, leaving you and the Menendez the only ones in the semi-torn adobe building. You refused to give eye contact of any kind, averting your eyes to the dark shadows of the room to the red hue given from the stained glass windows. You despised how Menendez was acting cocky. He was acting as if he had complete dominance over you. 

And then, apparently he had some important business to take care of. Thus, he exited the building out to an open street leaving you with one of his "best" men. Evidently, there was no escape and he was going to do something terrible to you. Shove a SPAS-12 in your mouth? Slowly cut both hands off? Or just plain overkill with the AK-47? You knew not what he had up his sleeve, but you refused to let him lay a finger on you. Which was unfortunate since you had no way of moving. He drew out a tactical knife as you felt perspiration fall down your forehead.

However, a quick turn of events had ceased the Cordis Die soldier from placing the blade on your skin. Farid ran through the building, and your eyes both locked for a moment, but you knew he could not do anything about your situation. He was a spy for the CIA, helping the SEALs with their missions. He had gained the trust of Menendez and has to prove his loyalty. So, helping you would prove otherwise, thus, ruining JSOC's objective of capturing and/or killing Menendez, if it ever comes to that. Your few feelings of false hope instantly vanished when he ran out through the door Menendez did.

And now, back to the Cordis Die man. He was inching closer to you now. Step by step, you found your heart racing. You were not going to die here. The ropes that tied you to the chair were taut and could not be loosened with strength alone. You could only do one thing. 

You'd have to endure the pain. Endure it until an ally finds you and hopefully takes the man out. That is, if an ally finds you. You weren't so sure. The situation here was difficult. There were multiple MQ-27s roaming through the streets of Socotra Island. Enough the keep them busy and focused on survival only.

He ran the blade through the skin of your cheek. You closed your eyes shut and twitched a bit, taking deep breaths in and trying to focus not on the pain. You felt the blood trickle down your face, some dripping down your lips, the taste of iron incommodious. You were disgusted. It was as if you were an experiment, under his inexperienced ways. Your cheek throbbed with pain. This was only the beginning. You learned this a while ago: It's the inevitable that would be the death of you.

The blade was thrust into your left thigh. Your breathing was uneven now, and groans of pain escaped your mouth. It hurt like hell. Bloody hell, that's for sure. You were bleeding out, crimson liquid soaking your leggings. There was nothing more you hated than damp pants. 

The main problem carries on. A way to escape, and a way to kill this man.

Well, the latter was just solved. A Dragonfire flew through the room and shot at the man. This, you were grateful for. Now for escaping. The MQ-27 would not be able to do anything about the ropes. Sure, it could shoot the ropes. If you no longer wanted your hands and stomach. The Dragonfire flew off, and the only thing you could resort to was trying to move in the chair.

It was difficult, but you jerked forward, careful not to tip the chair over that would cause you to be in a worse position. You scooted the chair all the way to the doorway, in time to see something you'd never want to witness.

A gunshot sounded, the gun you recognized as an Executioner in the hands of Farid. You saw crimson blood splatter onto the ground and brought your eyes up to who it belonged to. It was Harper. You prevented yourself from gasping and remained in the shadows to hinder being compromised. (Although you had no choice, being strapped to a chair).

You could barely make sense of what had occurred. You wished it hadn't happened. But it did, and there was no way to mend the past. Harper was a good man. One of the bests, you believed.

Now was not the time to mourn. You were still on a mission, and you'd have to say proper farewells at his funeral. You had to handle the current situation, and also call for a MEDIVAC unless someone does it for you. Casualties were expected, and you'd have to accept that. Even if it were you. 

Menendez was also there. You could interpret the situation Farid was in. Menendez ordered Farid to shoot Harper, an enemy of Cordis Die, in order to prove his so-called loyalty to him. Unfortunately you would have done the same. Farid needed to survive. If he were to disobey Menendez's orders, or even think of something as preposterous as attempting to shoot him, that would end terribly. They'd both end up dead.

Again, the inevitable will be the death of you.