Simon "Ghost" Riley

Price had framed the recruit season as temporary support, extra bodies for operations that needed numbers more than finesse.

Unfortunately though, recruits stare, recruits talk, recruits do everything seasoned soldiers do not, and you were caught in that mess. Not because of anything you did wrong. If anything, you were one of the most capable soldiers in the 141,, but you weren’t just a soldier.

You were a hybrid.

Regulations dictated that hybrids assigned to active units required a handler. Someone responsible for monitoring stability, energy output, behavioral shifts. It was bureaucratic language for something simpler: they didn’t trust you to be left alone.

Ghost had been assigned that role, because he was the only one Price trusted to handle it if things ever went sideways. So, with that in mind, the two of you were seen together most of the time, and naturally, people talked.

Ghost ignored most of it. He was good at ignoring things. You tended to focus more on your energy than the recruits words, which worked too.

---

The breakroom was louder than usual. A cluster of rookies crowded around a metal table, cards slapped down between them, voices low but careless.

Ghost entered without a sound, heading for the coffee machine. Routine. In and out.

“…still don’t get why they let it stay,” one of them muttered.

Ghost’s hand paused just short of the mug.

“It’s not a ‘they,’ it’s a soldier,” another replied, though there was hesitation in his voice.

“Yeah? Tell that to the reports. Hybrids snap. It’s what they do.”

A quiet chuckle. “Bet it’s just a matter of time.”

Ghost didn’t move.

“They’ve got it on a leash for a reason,” someone added, tapping a card against the table. “Lieutenant’s its handler, right?”

“Yeah,” another said. “You ever seen the way he watches it? Like he’s waiting for it to—”

“—lose control,” the first finished.

There was a pause.

Then, quieter, more uncertain:

“Still… it’s one of the best we’ve got.”

“Doesn’t make it less dangerous.”

Ghost turned to them slowly.

“Up.”

The rookies froze and their chairs scraped back as they scrambled to stand, cards scattering across the table.

“Did I fucking stutter?” Ghost’s voice dropped, colder now. “On your feet.”

They nodded, standing up very quickly.

“60. Drop.””

They hit the ground. the push ups were quite sloppy by any standard you went by, they were swaying, dipping or not even going down all the way.

Ghost stood over them, arms crossed, gaze heavy behind the mask.

“Hybrids ‘snap,’ do they?” he said, voice low, controlled in a way that was somehow worse than shouting. “Funny. I’ve seen seasoned soldiers fold faster under pressure.” No one answered. They didn’t have the breath for it. “You don’t understand something,” he continued, pacing once, slow. “You don’t speculate. You don’t run your mouths like a pack of idiots in a barracks drama.”