A/N: It was suggested that I write a sequel to Trina, Interrupted, so here it is. Of course, as part of my practice of making things more complicated than they need to be, I also decided to turn it into a futurefic. As per usual, I'll decide whether or not to continue it based upon the level of reader interest. Please note that this story will contain strong language; reader discretion is advised.

Disclaimer: I own neither Victorious nor any of the songs, films, or works of literature mentioned herein. (How's that for an all-encompassing "cover your ass" disclaimer?)

July 4, 2018

Thessaloniki, Independent People's Republic of Northern Hellas

12:00 P.M. local time

As he looked down the empty avenue, PFC André Harris thought of one of his favorite films, High Noon. The residents of this, the second largest city in the chaotic patchwork of feudal principalities that had once been Greece, were all cowering in their homes and shops, behind triple-locked doors and heavily barred windows, fearfully awaiting what was about to happen. He didn't blame them one bit. If it were up to him, right now he'd be at home with a beer in his hand and another arm around his gorgeous wife, watching baseball on TV. But instead here he was, an American soldier fighting on the soil of what was still technically a NATO member country. It was insane.

The mission of his unit, a mix of US and UK troops, was to fight their way through the city center and join up with the French and German armored units currently engaged in furious combat with the rebel forces of the warlord Manolis Papageorgiou in the open country to the north. Papageorgiou was a monster, known for burning resisting towns to the ground and having men's throats slit in front of their wives and children, and André would be glad when the world was rid of the guy once and for all. But still and all, he had no taste for urban combat. No soldier does. His comrades' ultra-high-tech weapons would be of limited value in this unfamiliar maze.

He kept perfectly still behind a bus shelter, crouched in an uncomfortable position, awaiting the signal. The remorseless Greek sun beat down from a cloudless sky, and the pavement reflected and focused the heat with the efficiency of a microwave oven. Sweat pooled on André's neck, under his armpits, on the backs of his knees; his lower back ached. Wearing thirty pounds of nano-fiber body armor wasn't helping matters, either. But none of it made a difference- he wouldn't move, not an inch, until he was instructed to do so. His devotion to discipline had won him the admiration of his commanding officers, and his name was being bandied about for officer candidate school.

It was funny, really – André Harris, who had never wanted this life, who had only joined the Army because he and Tori were completely out of other options and near starvation, proved to be a brilliant soldier with terrific prospects for the future.

Provided, that is, he didn't get himself killed today.

The sergeant waved his hand. At the same moment, a Molotov cocktail thrown from the other end of the street arced gracefully through the air and smashed in a spurt of flame a few feet from André.

As if a switch had been thrown, the quiet avenue erupted into chaos. The deafening rat-a-tat-tat of automatic weapons fire, windows smashing, cars exploding, heavily accented cries of "Go home Yankee! Go home limey!" mixed with tactical commands in Greek that André couldn't understand.

"Harris! Machine gun nest, two hundred meters north! Take them out!" his commanding officer yelled, before a bullet through the throat cut him off.

Instantly André charged forward, bent over, head down, straightening up to fire a quick burst every three seconds. The cloud of dust rising around him obscured his vision.

Please, God, let me make it back to her in one piece, he silently prayed.

/

Fort Hood, Texas

Six hours later

"Kiss me, out of the bearded barley, nightly, beside the green green grass…"

Tori groaned and let her head sink onto her arms, which were folded atop her shopping cart. "Kiss Me"? Again? That's the third time in the last hour! Buy some different music, you tightwads!

She tried to focus her mind and shut out the music being piped over the grocery store PA system; no luck. With a sigh, she checked her watch. Exactly twenty-three minutes and forty-eight seconds since she had joined the checkout line, and there were still two people in front of her. Note to self: never shop on the morning of the Fourth of July again. EVER.

The haggard faces of celebrities without makeup stared at her from the rack of gossip magazines. "Donald Trump Weds for Ninth Time!" "Miley Cyrus' Secret Love Child Revealed!" "Justin Bieber to Play Julius Caesar in New Biopic?"

Bah. She turned to the newspaper rack. "Greek civil war enters ninth month; Senate Majority Leader questions President's decision to support NATO intervention." "Can America Afford Another Foreign War?"

I don't give a rat's ass about foreign politics, or budget deficits, or any of that, she thought. I just want André back home. So, so much.

She had wanted to cancel the barbecue when the news came that he would be deployed, but André wouldn't hear of it. They'd been planning for a month, and they'd already invited everyone they knew; Tori's parents were flying in, Trina and Adam, Beck and Jade, and André's grandmother too; why let all that go to waste, André had said, just because he himself couldn't be there? And she'd smiled, and nodded, all the while thinking, You just don't get it, do you? Without you there, it won't mean a damn thing.

Now they would be apart for God knows how long, and every waking moment she'd be afraid for his safety. Her PTSD would flare up again, she just knew it. Ever since she'd found her sister bleeding to death on the bathroom floor eight years before, she'd had a deathly fear of losing her loved ones whenever they were apart from her; thousands of dollars' worth of psychotherapy might have helped her control the disorder, but it would never be gone entirely – even though she pretended to André that it was. No sense worrying him, after all. If he were spending his time stressing over her while he was on active duty, he might take his eye off the ball – and then – a bullet – dying – dying all alone – and her not knowing, until the soldiers in dress uniform showed up at her door, saluted, gave her the telegram…

No. No, no, no. Think about something else. Anything else. She flicked on her PearPad and checked over her grocery list one last time. Steaks, check. Potato chips, check. Budweiser; charcoal; lighter fluid…

Lighter fluid. I forgot the damn lighter fluid.

"Shit," she said loudly, and the woman in front of her, who had a small child in her arms, whirled to give her a look of daggers. "Sorry," Tori mumbled, her cheeks flushing.

Well, better go get it, then spend another hour or two in line. God, I hate my life. She pulled out of the line and shoved her cart forward with determination into the throngs crowding the aisles, still thinking of her husband half a world away.

Her PearPhone jangled at her hip. It took her a few seconds to find an empty spot (next to the Brussels sprouts, naturally) where she could park the cart and answer it. The caller ID read West-Oliver Household.

"Hey, Beck and/or Jade," she answered, managing a cheery tone. "What's up? Your flight hasn't been delayed, has it?"

There was silence on the other end. "…Um, hello?" said Tori, a knot of worry forming in the back of her mind. "Is anybody there?"

Beck spoke, slowly, heavily. It sounded as if he had been drinking. "Yeah, um, Tori. We're, um, not coming. Sorry to let you know this late."

"What? What happened?"

"It's Jade. She…"

"She what?" The knot grew bigger.

"She walked out, Tori. And she took the kids with her."