["This was many Christmases ago, but still fresh on his mind. His most recent Christmases are lost to him," says the Ghost. Wash's last Christmas was spent somewhere much nicer than the place in his memory. But because of his memories being blocked, this is the last Christmas he remembers.]
[The memory starts with him sitting on a weight-lifting bench, eyes scanning the horizon. Wherever he's at, it's not winter. He closes his eyes and seems to just be trying to soak the sun in. Even if it wasn't obvious from the way he's reacting to it, there are other signs that make it clear he doesn't get to go out in the sun as often as he'd like.]
[The signs: The barbed-wire fence around the gym equipment. The starchy prison uniform. The cuffs on his hands, which are attached to a chain that goes to his waist and then to the cuffs on his ankles. The stamp on his orange prison scrubs has the initials "UNSC: MSDF."]
["Half hour is up, Washington," says a prison guard, gun raised, like the guard thinks every moment Wash is up and walking around is dangerous.]
[Wash opens his eyes again and breathes out a long, slow breath.]
["No funny business. You try to run, I will shoot you. You try to fight us, I will shoot you -"]
[Wash's tone could cut glass.]
I think I've got it. You've painted a pretty clear picture.
[He's led back inside and down a long hall, forced to take only baby steps, the chains tinkling with each one.]
["Can't believe we're stuck on duty today," the guard says to the other guard. "I put in for holiday leave months ago, but here I am."]
Holiday leave? What holiday is it?
["It's December 25th back home," says the guard. "Yet here I am, stuck babysitting your ass." They reach a cell. It's labeled with his prisoner number. No name.]
["Remember, no -"]
- Funny business. Like I said, I've got it.
[They unchain his shackles and he walks into his cell. They switch a forcefield back on.]
["You have no messages, by the way," says the guard, clearly enjoying this a little too much. "A few inmates got Christmas messages from family. Trouble with the fam, huh?"]
[Wash sits on his bed, exhaustion held in the slope of his shoulders.]
Even if we hadn't fallen out of touch years ago, being accused of treason tends to get you taken off the Christmas card list.
[He lays down on his prison cot and turns his back to the door.]
["Suuuch a shame. Oh well, there's always your birthday, right? Maybe they'll send you a card then."]
[Wash is silent as the guard leaves, eventually laying flat on his back again. Time lapses. He doesn't move. The lights to all the cells go dim for lights out. Down the hall he hears the tinny sound of an actual Christmas card, playing music. Wash wonders how difficult and how expensive it'd been to courier that out here.]
[He closes his eyes, and there is a memory within a memory, showing what Wash himself is thinking about.]
["This may be a memory. But he took refuge in other memories himself on this particular Christmas," the ghost says. "Memories of home."]
[Instead of laying on a cot, the viewer will see a younger Wash, now only 14, laying on a couch. He's in a very nice looking house, decked wall to wall with wreathes and tinsel and holly. The smell of pine and mulled cider fills the house, and a Christmas tree in a corner sparkles with lights and glinting ornaments.]
[The house is filled with the sounds you'd expect in a home. Several girls can be heard giggling over something in another room. A man can be heard calling out, "Honey, did you remember to pick up onions for the stuffing?"]
["Check the bottom of the pantry."]
["I already checked it."]
[Wash lays there with a bedraggled, ancient calico cat purring on his chest, as he trails fingers through its patchy fur. He pets the cat contentedly as "I'll be home for Christmas" plays from some sound system somewhere in the background, just like it'd played from the other inmate's card.]
[Christmas eve will find me Where the love light gleams I'll be home for Christmas If only in my dreams.]
[The image abruptly cut out and disappears. Wash is laying alone, his hand curled at his chest, where the cat had been in the other memory.]
[He stares up at the ceiling, his guarded expression finally giving way to one of misery and despair. His hand tightens into a fist at his chest, like it's mimicking the clench of his heart. It's a quiet moment, and he's not being watched, so he allows himself the tiniest bit of emotion.]
[He closes his eyes tight and a single tear squeezes out of the corner of his eye and streams down his temple. He wipes it away and doesn't allow himself any more weakness. The grimace also relaxes, too, and he doesn't allow himself anything beyond that brief moment, either. Something shuts off again and instead of showing any emotion, he stares up at cold metal with an even colder gaze.]
PAST
[The memory starts with him sitting on a weight-lifting bench, eyes scanning the horizon. Wherever he's at, it's not winter. He closes his eyes and seems to just be trying to soak the sun in. Even if it wasn't obvious from the way he's reacting to it, there are other signs that make it clear he doesn't get to go out in the sun as often as he'd like.]
[The signs: The barbed-wire fence around the gym equipment. The starchy prison uniform. The cuffs on his hands, which are attached to a chain that goes to his waist and then to the cuffs on his ankles. The stamp on his orange prison scrubs has the initials "UNSC: MSDF."]
["Half hour is up, Washington," says a prison guard, gun raised, like the guard thinks every moment Wash is up and walking around is dangerous.]
[Wash opens his eyes again and breathes out a long, slow breath.]
["No funny business. You try to run, I will shoot you. You try to fight us, I will shoot you -"]
[Wash's tone could cut glass.]
I think I've got it. You've painted a pretty clear picture.
[He's led back inside and down a long hall, forced to take only baby steps, the chains tinkling with each one.]
["Can't believe we're stuck on duty today," the guard says to the other guard. "I put in for holiday leave months ago, but here I am."]
Holiday leave? What holiday is it?
["It's December 25th back home," says the guard. "Yet here I am, stuck babysitting your ass." They reach a cell. It's labeled with his prisoner number. No name.]
["Remember, no -"]
- Funny business. Like I said, I've got it.
[They unchain his shackles and he walks into his cell. They switch a forcefield back on.]
["You have no messages, by the way," says the guard, clearly enjoying this a little too much. "A few inmates got Christmas messages from family. Trouble with the fam, huh?"]
[Wash sits on his bed, exhaustion held in the slope of his shoulders.]
Even if we hadn't fallen out of touch years ago, being accused of treason tends to get you taken off the Christmas card list.
[He lays down on his prison cot and turns his back to the door.]
["Suuuch a shame. Oh well, there's always your birthday, right? Maybe they'll send you a card then."]
[Wash is silent as the guard leaves, eventually laying flat on his back again. Time lapses. He doesn't move. The lights to all the cells go dim for lights out. Down the hall he hears the tinny sound of an actual Christmas card, playing music. Wash wonders how difficult and how expensive it'd been to courier that out here.]
[He closes his eyes, and there is a memory within a memory, showing what Wash himself is thinking about.]
["This may be a memory. But he took refuge in other memories himself on this particular Christmas," the ghost says. "Memories of home."]
[Instead of laying on a cot, the viewer will see a younger Wash, now only 14, laying on a couch. He's in a very nice looking house, decked wall to wall with wreathes and tinsel and holly. The smell of pine and mulled cider fills the house, and a Christmas tree in a corner sparkles with lights and glinting ornaments.]
[The house is filled with the sounds you'd expect in a home. Several girls can be heard giggling over something in another room. A man can be heard calling out, "Honey, did you remember to pick up onions for the stuffing?"]
["Check the bottom of the pantry."]
["I already checked it."]
[Wash lays there with a bedraggled, ancient calico cat purring on his chest, as he trails fingers through its patchy fur. He pets the cat contentedly as "I'll be home for Christmas" plays from some sound system somewhere in the background, just like it'd played from the other inmate's card.]
[Christmas eve will find me
Where the love light gleams
I'll be home for Christmas
If only in my dreams.]
[The image abruptly cut out and disappears. Wash is laying alone, his hand curled at his chest, where the cat had been in the other memory.]
[He stares up at the ceiling, his guarded expression finally giving way to one of misery and despair. His hand tightens into a fist at his chest, like it's mimicking the clench of his heart. It's a quiet moment, and he's not being watched, so he allows himself the tiniest bit of emotion.]
[He closes his eyes tight and a single tear squeezes out of the corner of his eye and streams down his temple. He wipes it away and doesn't allow himself any more weakness. The grimace also relaxes, too, and he doesn't allow himself anything beyond that brief moment, either. Something shuts off again and instead of showing any emotion, he stares up at cold metal with an even colder gaze.]