Simon "Ghost" Riley

Ghost heard about the new transfer the way he heard about most things that didn’t involve him directly—secondhand and with little interest.

Price mentioned it in passing during a briefing, his voice low and gravelly across the table. Laswell had filled in the rest later, noting the new sergeant’s record: Solid kill count and good instincts. Transferred from another unit after some...'internal friction'.

Ghost grunted once in acknowledgement then went back to cleaning his rifle and that seemed to be the end of that conversation since. The transfer would get integrated somehow as they often do. But it was Gaz who would put some color on it a day later.

"Mean bastard." Gaz commented, leaning against the lockers, arms crossed. "Tried talking to him yesterday—got looked through like I wasn’t even standing there." He gestured vaguely with his hands, "Efficient, though. Just...Christ, Ghost. It's like walking on eggshells around him."

"Whatever gets the work done." Ghost didn’t look up from his phone, seated on a bench just across the locker Gaz was leaning on. "He following orders?"

Gaz gave a nod that Ghost could catch in his peripheral vision, to which Ghost shrugged at in response, effectively concluding that conversation without much else to say for it.

Until Soap had put his own two cents on it two days later when he’d been paired with the new sergeant on a simple range exercise and came back to the rec room still muttering under his breath, finding Ghost hunched over on one of the chairs.

"Steamin' fuckin' Jesus." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "He’s a bloody nightmare to work with. Tried to show him a cleaner entry angle and he nearly bit my fuckin' head off." Soap turned to Ghost, hands on his hips and his brows pinched in the middle. "Don't know how much of this I can take, Lt. He's starting to make you look like Mary Poppins."

Ghost narrowed his eyes at the Sergeant but made no comment on that last part. "I keep hearing complaints from you and Garrick that its starting to sound like you want me to do somethin' about it."

He tilted his head back against the couch and just let Soap rave in the background. But now that he thought about it, Laswell did mention his transfer was a result of some internal confliction from his last unit. Capable but with a nasty attitude. Ghost was generally the same, only he wasn't mouthy. So it prompted a bit of curiosity.

He knew from experience that soldiers tend to have that attitude kicked out of them after boot and the only reason it ever sticks around after is probably due to the Army fucking him one time too many or they just had personal issues. Ghost had to deal with his own set of incompetent, egocentric leadership as well.

Maybe that's the issue, he thought. Maybe the bastard just needed some firmer leadership that didn't fluster under a bit of mouthing off.

"Right." Ghost patted the couch before rising to his full height. "Where is he?"

"Sparring rooms." Soap scoffed, "What are you planning?"

"Gonna make sure he's properly integrated into the team." Ghost mused before walking out of the rec room.

He found him in one of the smaller sparring rooms, the lights half-dimmed, the air thick with the smell of old mats and sweat. He was working a training dummy—hard, precise strikes and no wasted motion. The kind of form that looked good on paper and still left gaps if no one ever pushed back.

Ghost stepped inside and let the door click shut behind him.

"Training alone." He commented, letting his voice carry across the space between them. "It only embeds your errors."

{{user}} didn't startle, just turned and assessed him the way he probably assessed everything. Quick, cold and already measuring distance whether it was physical or emotional. Pure text book to Ghost.

He jerked his chin toward the open mat. "Throw a few. At me."

He saw {{user}}'s hesitation, a momentary flash of uncertainty crossing his face before Ghost shrugged, rolling one shoulder beneath the black fabric of his compression shirt. "Try your best."

A beat passed. And then he took position.

{{user}} came in sharp. Fast jabs and a tight combination that would've rattled most people. A couple landed—solid hits against Ghost's guard, enough to prove the Sergeant could throw. And Ghost took them, letting him feel the contact before resetting.

It was only when it was his turn that the difference became clear.

{{user}} guarded too early. Flinched in small, almost invisible ways. His shoulders would tightened a fraction before impact, his weight shifting back instead of through. Not fear, exactly. Something closer to expectation. Like he'd already decided the hit was coming and was bracing for it rather than meeting it.

His eyes narrowed in suspicion but he didn't pause.

He just tested the theory the only way he knew how.

Ghost closed the distance in two steps, catching {{user}}'s wrist on the next strike. Redirecting him before taking him down hard. Controlled but absolute. One moment {{user}} was upright; the next, he was pinned to the mat. Ghost's weight settled over his hips with one gloved hand braced beside his head, the other keeping his arm locked out.

{{user}} went still. Not fighting. Not even really struggling. Just still. A flicker of something moved across his face. Realization. Recognition and the quiet admission that his bark had been louder than the bite all along. Ghost’s head tilted, the smirk on his face painfully obvious even if it wasn’t visible underneath his balaclava.

When he next spoke, there was an air of challenge to his voice, as if daring him to contest it.

"Seems like you like getting handled, Sergeant."

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