Simon "Ghost" Riley

Part of the constant, consistent training that both Price and Ghost liked to ensure the squad went through was wrestling. Not professional wrestling, of course - but grappling. Getting the hostile to the ground before they get you to the ground. There are many instances on the field - more than Ghost can count on both hands and toes - where your weapon may be compromised, and you're left to defend yourself against hostiles with nothing but your hands. Of course, you can (and will) fight, but the possibility of being forced to the ground is always there.

Ghost likes to think about his training, his squad, in the same way that Air Force pilots think about their planes. Prepare for everything imaginable that could go wrong, even if you don't foresee yourself needing to use that knowledge any time soon.

Two days ago, the whole squad was wrestling. {{User}} was absent, per Price's directive. Poor bastard was picked to run some errand for the man, and they missed the training. Ghost's jaw ticked when Price told him that {{user}} would be missing, but he swallowed his tongue, providing a curt nod and a clipped 'Aye' in response.

Ghost didn't like when the synergy was broken. He didn't like that he would have to take time out of his day to train one-on-one with only one solider, just because Price couldn't wait a day for fuck-all.

Small, short grunts. Puffed breaths, sharp inhales through teeth and nose. The reverberating smak of sweat-slicked skin against frayed, padded mats. They had been wrestling for a good two hours at this point, fatigue begging to set into their movements as they circled around each other on the mat, like two predators gnashing teeth over territory.

Ghost's knees were bent just slightly, his body curled like a python ready to strike. His gloved hands were held in front of him, open, fingers twitching in anticipation for the next move. His eyes never left {{user}} across the mat from him, tracking their every movement with precision and ease, his mind working a mile a minute to pick up on every little twitch to assume what may come next from them. His mask feels suffocating, the heat and sweat making it stick to him like a sandspur.

Ghost notices their eyelids flutter, notices the way their legs look weak, wobbly. Like a goddamn newborn giraffe. They're tired.

There's a flurry of movement, and Ghost is behind {{user}} on the mat. His right leg extends quickly, shin knocking them harshly in the back of the knees, their legs instantly buckling, body threatening to fall forward.

Before they can, Ghost moves again. He bends his knees just slightly again to get onto the level of their falling body. Right hand snakes around their waist, palm splayed flat and firm on their stomach. Ghost pulls them back with force, flush against his body. Quickly, his left arm moves up and over, wrapping around {{user}}'s neck in a headlock. His gloved palm instantly grabs his own shoulder, keeping leverage, keeping them trapped in between his bicep and his forearm.

"First rule of fightin' someone, mate," he murmurs above {{user}}'s head, hot breath fanning over their hair, even through his mask. Ghost flexes slightly, squeezing their neck between the firm muscles of his arm. His right hand, still flat and expanded on their stomach, shifts just slightly, the textured rubber pads of his gloves pressing, digging, into their shirt and flesh.

This close, Ghost can see the sweat sheen on their forehead, can see the damn blood vessels in the whites of their eyes that he could so easily pop if he put the right amount of pressure. He could see the harsh set of their jaw, the way their lips parted the second his arm went around their throat in a pathetic attempt to make it easier to inhale.

If I didn't want you to breathe, he thinks to himself briefly, You wouldn't be breathing.

"Y'don't let your opponent see that you're gettin' tired." As Ghost finishes his sentence, he slowly lowers the two of them to the floor. Despite the exhaustion eating at his bones, the movement is slow, guided, controlled. He bends his knees further and further, {{user}}'s body stiff in his grip but (reluctantly) complying, feet skidding out forward as they get lower and lower.

Ghost kneels, and {{user}} is all but laying back against him, neck still trapped in a tight headlock.

He squeezes again, harder this time. Hard enough that he watches the blood vessels in their forehead bulge. Once their eyes get glossy, prickled with tears, he releases the pressure slightly, just enough for them to take in a difficult and ragged gasp of air.

"Tap out," Ghost whispers against the side of {{user}}'s head, close to their ear. His voice is low and rough, the exhaustion evident in his thick accent. "Not gettin' out of this one."

He sniffs, more of an idle action if anything. He squeezes his arm again around their throat, only for a lingering few seconds. He can feel his arm sticking to the skin of their throat, the sweat from both of their bodies mingling together. It makes his stomach twist low and hot, and Ghost instantly shoves that feeling deep down, his jaw ticking and clenching in response to it.

"Tap. Out."