Why, hello there. You have stumbled upon another crack baby from the Writing portion of my brain. This time, it involves the world of Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2. I've recently gotten interested in Call of Duty, and I've decided to write a story using the characters. I guess this is more like an attempt to get my creative juices flowing. (Haha. Juices...)

The story is called "Through the Lens" and revolves around a new character of mine named Brenda. I was originally thinking about using Sophie Watkins from my story "A New Revolution", but I've decided that Sophie stays with Resident Evil. Brenda's a retired war photographer wrapped up in the death of her CIA agent of a sister, Brionna. Make a possible long summary short, COD characters come in and help, and Brenda goes on an adventure. Yeah...

Anyway, I'm a little nervous about this story. This will be my first Call of Duty story, so I guess I'm kind of a noob. Ah well. Be nice, will ya? I appreciate constructive criticism, but don't be a total bitch or tyrant just because you have different views of how the story should be, or if I spelled someone's name wrong.

I don't own Call of Duty, but that would be hella cool if I did. Enjoy!

Through the Lens

A Call of Duty and OC Story

By SamuraiWriter

Prologue: Faces

If I were still a Christian, I would be down on my knees and begging God to remove the Devil from my body and spirit. If I had high self-esteem, I would be out and about on a cool Saturday night, wearing heels too painful for me to wear, but too cute for me to care. If I had friends, I would be calling them to talk about what he or she was doing, or saying "What's up" to them everytime I passed them in their cubicle. If I still gave a damn about the world, I wouldn't be sitting here down in the dumps, looking for something that I know will never come. But, that was okay. I didn't deserve that something. I didn't deserve one once of it.

I used to be a war photographer. Yes, that's right. I used to go out into war-torn areas and snap pictures of people's sadness. I used to travel to highly dangerous areas just to take a few pictures for the rest of the world to see. I had the opportunity to capture some amazing, yet heart-wrenching moments. Moments that would come back to haunt me for what I had done. I had collected the expressions of the modern warriors; interrupted the recovery of the survivors; disturbed the resting of the deceased. Yes, I was a walking sin. A walking sin with a camera.

I had started my photography career at the age of 24. I am now 29. Yes, I had been a war photographer 5 years. I felt that 5 years was well more than enough for me. In that span of 5 years, I had given the democracy protected world that I take refuge in a taste of life in other countries. 5 years worth of war photographs was more than enough for the rest of the world to see; there were just things out there that others were not meant to see. When I announced my retirement, my other fellow photographers looked at me with a mixture of shock, sadness, and anger. Some were surprised and a bit upset with my departure; others were angry and thought that my leave from the world of photography was far too fast. My boss insisted on calling me a baby, and demanded that I hand over my camera for it to be smashed into bits.

Was my camera smashed? Yes, it was. Right into my boss' face.

Today, I resorted to waking up in the suburban morning with morning breath in my mouth, and coffee on my mind. I needed my morning coffee, as it was the one thing that could get me up and functioning through the morning. I relied on energy drinks and water to get me through the afternoons. In the late nights, I would occassionally break out the Barcadi and have a few shots. It was nothing too serious. Just something to ease the pain of being alone. I was alone in the world, but there were people still among me. People still haunted my life, mocked my life. I needed a way to escape from them, even for a little bit.

...where was the knife? I needed it...no...

I couldn't let them see the scars. It was either live or die for me, nothing in between. That was too risky. I would've had to wear long-sleeved shirts for a long while until the scars had healed. I couldn't cut myself. Not when my mind was already being shredded to bits by the faces of the victims of war. They were the same faces I had snapped, kidnapped, and stuffed into a photograph. The very same faces haunted me in the nighttime, and had scared me into the deep, piercing rays of the morning. There was no escape, I had realized. There was no way for me to rid of these faces. They were there in the mirror in the bathroom, in the rearview window of my car, in the puddles of water that remained after a long, hard rain shower.

I desperately asked these faces for forgiveness, but they never said anything back. They just continued to reenact the various scenes of violence, cruelty, and death that I had become for too familar with.

I had to realize that these faces were not leaving me anytime soon. I had to do something...and suicide was the only option that I could have thought of. I heard of veterans seeking therapy for post-traumatic stress due to their time in the war. However, I was not a veteran. I was a photographer, and it was said that I lived for that kind of energy. Therapy would have been a good option, but money was one thing that I lacked. I could not affored to see a therapist even if I wanted to.

Suicide it was. How will it be? Slitting my wrists? Suicide by hanging? Jumping off of a bridge or a tall building? I had no idea. All I knew was was that I wanted to die.

Those faces couldn't get to me if I died, just like them. That's what I believed. Perhaps it was foolish, or more delusional if anything.

Taking one glance of my smashed camera, I released a small laugh. I didn't know what to do with myself, so I suppose leaving Earth was the proper solution. Killing myself was not just an escape, but it was an apology. An apology to the many faces that I stored, and that now haunt me as rest.

Forgive me, faces. You have made your point.

There's the end of the prologue. In my opinion, it wasn't that good. I'm sure the summary you saw before opening this story was kind of light-hearted, but there will be light-hearted moments in the story later on. This prologue just reveals a little bit about Brenda and her current state of mind. I may submit a character biography on Brenda later in the story. Don't worry; the real action and storyline starts next entry. Anyways, I hope you all enjoyed it. Review please!

Thank you! :)