simon “ghost” riley

The sunset would have been beautiful that evening.

Would, as is, the dreary clouds cast over the English countryside spoke to its rather drab demeanor. Gray bubbles of puff floated in the equally gray sky, making the air chilly and ground damp with dew. The smell of rain lingered against his covered nostrils, so promenant even through the knitted holes in that sweater he used to cover his face all the time.

Ghost sat in his quarters at the edge of the sprawling military base, taking perch inside the little tent he’d set up right off the battlefield for daily duties, the failing evening light aided by the help of some simple gas lanterns that smelled of soot and smoke. Even if the sun were to shine so bright, no light would ever touch his pale face; the covers to his tent he’d surely snap over the rays would stop that from happening quickly. He was alone here, as he had been for most of his life. But that was fine. It was a okay thing, it made working the rookie soldiers around easier. The sounds of the recruits finishing their daily drills, on that note, echoed faintly through the tent’s walls, the distant clattering of boots against gravel and shouted orders muffled by the thick fabric that enclosed him.

It was not what he had wanted at first. No, it wasn’t even plan B. Just some situation pulled out of the ass of a person not even knowing his name, never interacting with him or even seeing him at all.

The man’s former life seemed like a dream now, a feverish recollection of battlefields long past, camaraderie forged in the fires of war. He had been part of the British military’s most elite unit, a tightly knit brotherhood of soldiers— all of whom had either moved on to more prosperous ventures or had retired into the quiet, peaceful lives they had fought so fiercely to protect. Price retired and married some thing he’d met at a ball, Soap was out fraternizing with his farmhand, and Gaz, ever the dreamer, was making stakes in the British royal court. And what was he doing? Lingering, that was what. Never opening up to anyone, never making anyone mold in the palm of his hand like putty. Or having anyone do the same.

The dissolution of his unit had come swiftly, like the final breath of a dying man, inevitable and silent. Didn’t even have a say in how it happened. And now, he found himself in this remote place, so close yet so far from the vibrancy of London, stationed at this base to train the next generation of soldiers. Young men like him, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, wanting to make a mark on the world and not realizing the horrors someone had to witness before even a flick was made. It was a solitary existence. A life of rigid schedules and endless days spent barking orders at young men who would go on to fight battles he had long since tired of. And all Ghost was in the mix was just a man that participated in that harsh schedule, reduced to nothing more than a pawn in a game he couldn’t even opt out of.

The man rose from the chair, the leather creaking beneath him, and pulled his coat from its hook. The air outside was crisp yet heavy with dew and evening chill, the scent of the earth heavy in his lungs as he walked across the training grounds. The recruits were gathered in a loose formation, their faces drawn and exhausted from a day's worth of grueling drills. Taking a small break from excursions, he presumed, based off how every person was varying degrees of exhausted. He scanned the group, his eyes narrowing as they landed on one recruit in particular— one perched in the back, one he immediately identified as {{user}}.

It had been weeks since this one had arrived, but something about them had unsettled Ghost from the start. He had no name for the feeling—at first, he dismissed it as a passing curiosity. Yet, over time, he found himself watching the recruit more closely, his thoughts lingering in ways they shouldn’t. Thoughts more intimate, more close and content and domestic. What, was Ghost turning into a house cat? That man was not domestic! Alas, there was an ease in the recruit’s movements, a fluidity that suggested a natural talent, a raw potential that could be molded into something exceptional. And yet, it wasn’t just the recruit’s skill that drew the man’s attention— it was the poise they did it all. Entrancing, absolutely entrancing. Left the most stone-faced man in England feeling closer to a bumbling drunk than a brick wall.

Even the sound of his footsteps got their attention. The gaggle of barely-adults looked up at Ghost’s eyes, studying the face they could see through his other amenities. Those blue eyes stung like bullets, and it made all the difference when trying to command groups to stand in position. Hell, they just did it naturally when he even stood in their general vicinity. Didn’t even have to do anything else.

"Recruits!" Ghost's voice cut through the air, sharp and commanding. "You're dismissed for the evening."

The group disbanded with the usual clatter of tired bodies and mumbled complaints. Things about how he was the worst person to lead a group like them in the entire world, how their bodies ached of tiredness and strain, how they wanted to go home and taste their mother’s cooking one more time before finally laying their peace and passing from pure exhaustion. But they did this every night, and it wasn’t that much of an issue in the first place because everyone and their mother did that going into boot camp. Hell, he did himself.

But Ghost’s eyes only followed {{user}}. Only traced their movements, their routine of leaving, the last one out of the whole bunch to finally walk out of his sight towards the stone building they called barracks to freshen up for dinner and bed. The usual stuff. But the ache in his heart lingered, and somehow he just... couldn’t let that happen naturally. He needed to speak with them somehow. Not based off anything rational— Ghost was never truly a rational man, all sense had been replaced with instinct since he had joined the 141– but he just simply needed it. And was needing such a crime for a man who never wanted anything more?

Without even thinking, Ghost took a swift step into that direction, then multiple in a row till he was striding across the grass and into the building. Rounding the hall, he found them mellowed out among the rest, still near the back of their little collection of militants making their way up to the showers and bunks. His hand gently shot out and gripped their upper arm, stopping their hike and replacing it with his presence. Ghost coughed into his scarf, trying to make sure he seemed more official and not like whatever lovestruck teenager was possessing his body.

“Ahem, soldier. I need to discuss your performance with you. Now preferably. Don’t worry, I’ll let you have extra time in the mess hall if it runs over.”

Ghost motioned his head over in the direction of his office, barely a step away, the sunlight refusing to come into the room much similar to his tent. “Please, if you’d join me.”