Simon "Ghost" Riley | Under Review

(ꀤꈤ꓄ꋪꂦ ꂦꈤꍟ: {{User}} is an unknown—anonymous and undercover. The job is vague. The story is open. Have at it.)

Ghost could tolerate being judged. He’d spent enough years having his decisions dissected by men whose closest encounter with active combat had been a particularly aggressive printer malfunction that an operational review barely registered as an inconvenience anymore.

Ammunition expenditure. Response times. Tactical efficiency. Whether putting a knife through some bastard’s throat had been strictly necessary when, according to a man sitting comfortably behind a desk in London, a less permanent alternative might have sufficed.

There was always some cunt with a clipboard and an opinion. What he hadn’t expected was to be sitting in the briefing room at half seven on a Wednesday morning, nursing a coffee that tasted vaguely of burnt rubber, while Captain John Price informed Task Force 141 that their relationships were now apparently a matter of professional interest. Beside him, Johnny MacTavish stopped rocking his chair. Gaz lowered his mug. Sergeant Henrietta Fray’s pen paused halfway through a note she’d been making with the conspicuous enthusiasm of a woman who desperately wanted somebody to ask what she was writing. Ghost stared at his captain for several long seconds. Blinked once.

Then, with the considerable restraint of a man resisting the urge to simply get up and leave, asked, “Our fucking what?”

“Team cohesion,” Price replied, standing at the head of the table with both hands braced against the wood. “Communication. Synchronisation. Interpersonal conduct. How we operate together, both on deployment and during ordinary working hours.” He delivered the explanation with the practised composure of a man who had rehearsed it twice and still thought it sounded like bollocks.

Naturally, he neglected to mention that the request sitting on someone’s desk at headquarters bore his own signature. He’d personally commissioned the review, having grown increasingly concerned about certain dynamics within his team, and had specifically requested that he be included in the assessment. No advance warning. No conveniently scheduled inspection during which everyone could pretend to be functioning adults for forty-five minutes.

Headquarters had agreed to assign a specialist whose identity and observation methods would remain undisclosed until the assessment concluded. Price hadn’t even been given a name. For all he knew, the individual responsible for evaluating Britain’s most prestigious collection of emotionally constipated dickheads could be the new cook, the new cleaner, some fresh-faced recruit, or the miserable old bastard who maintained the grounds.

“You won’t be told who’s conducting it,” he continued. “Neither will I.”

Johnny’s hand immediately went up.

“Sir, hypothetically, ‘f ah called someone a cunt yesterday, bu’ meant it affectionately, woul’ tha’ coont against me?”

Gaz slowly turned towards him.

“Depends. Was it me?”

“Aye.” Johnny muttered sheepishly.

“Then yes.”

Ghost took another drink of coffee. He was going to need something considerably fucking stronger.

The ensuing discussion deteriorated with impressive efficiency. Johnny wanted to know whether the new bloke in stores was suspicious, given that he’d been asking an unusual number of questions about damaged equipment. Gaz pointed out that damaged equipment constituted approximately eighty percent of Johnny’s interactions with stores, and that asking why he’d returned a ballistic helmet with a fucking bite mark on it was hardly evidence of espionage.

Henny, meanwhile, offered a small, musical laugh before straightening in her seat and adopting the expression of someone who had never committed a single professional indiscretion in her entire life.

“Well, I don’t think any of us have anything to worry about,” she remarked, glancing meaningfully around the table. “Some people might find my honesty a little intimidating, but I think it’s important to have someone who isn’t afraid to speak their mind. Ghost knows how I am.” Simon turned his head. Slowly. Like a particularly disgruntled owl.

“Do I?” Henny’s smile faltered for approximately half a second before recovering.

“Oh, don’t be like that, duc. You know what I mean.” She waved dismissively.

“Enlighten me.” Ghost said flatly.

Price rubbed the bridge of his nose. Gaz developed a sudden fascination with the ceiling. Johnny, whose survival instinct had apparently been surgically removed at birth, muttered, “Fuckin’ hell, she’s already lost points.” Henny shot him a wounded look. Price considered intervening, then decided against it.

This was, after all, precisely the sort of interaction he’d requested an independent opinion on. Christ. He was beginning to understand why headquarters had approved the assessment so fucking quickly.

By lunchtime, the mere possibility of being observed had accomplished more psychological damage than three consecutive weeks of hostile deployment.

Soap had held a door open for six people, bought the librarian a coffee, complimented the mess staff on their cooking, and apologised to a vending machine after kicking it. Gaz had asked whether he’d suffered a stroke. Henny had volunteered to organise the next joint training exercise, loudly enough for most of the eastern corridor to hear, before announcing that she was always happy to support the less experienced members of the team. She’d subsequently informed Ghost, in a considerably quieter voice, that some people simply lacked the natural leadership qualities required to succeed in their profession.

He’d suggested she demonstrate hers by fucking off and letting him finish his lunch.

Even Price had caught himself thanking a junior officer twice for handing him a folder, then spent several uncomfortable seconds wondering whether excessive gratitude constituted suspicious behaviour.

The entire fucking base had become a breeding ground for paranoia. Every unfamiliar face was a potential observer. Every casual conversation was a possible interview. Every compliment was met with suspicion. Ghost had caught Johnny staring at the cleaner for so long that the poor woman had eventually asked whether he intended to help her mop. Worse, nobody knew when the assessment had actually begun. The specialist could have arrived that morning. Could have been there for days. Could have witnessed Ghost threatening to staple MacTavish’s tongue to the briefing-room table the previous Friday.

Somewhere on base, an anonymous individual had been granted the extraordinary privilege of watching Task Force 141 collectively lose its fucking mind, and Ghost was beginning to suspect that the entire exercise had been designed by a particularly vindictive psychologist for recreational purposes.

The truly unfortunate part, of course, was that {{User}} was already among them.

They had received their instructions quietly, along with the assurance that their identity would remain withheld until the assessment was complete; everything beyond that belonged to the simple business of being present without becoming interesting. No clipboard tucked conspicuously beneath one arm. No little badge announcing Hello, I’m Here to Professionally Judge You. Nobody on the 141 had been given any reason to connect {{User}} to the announcement in the briefing room, which left them free to observe the team as it actually functioned rather than the suspiciously polite collection of model soldiers currently attempting to convince every passing stranger that they had never experienced interpersonal conflict in their lives.

By mid-afternoon, the common room had become an especially promising environment.

Ghost had claimed his usual armchair, boots planted heavily on the floor and a paperback balanced in one enormous hand. Gaz occupied the kitchenette, making tea. Soap was attempting to determine whether a packet of biscuits he’d discovered behind the sofa remained legally classifiable as food. Henny, despite the existence of several perfectly serviceable alternatives, had settled herself directly beside Ghost and begun recounting a disagreement from that morning’s training session. According to her version of events, she’d been exceptionally patient—practically saintly—in the face of another soldier’s incompetence. Ghost hadn’t looked up from his book once.

“I just think some people need a little more guidance, you know, Lt? Not everyone has our experience.”

“Mm.”

“I mean, I don’t mind helping. I’m naturally quite nurturing.”

Then Price appeared in the doorway, and Henny’s tone brightened so abruptly that Gaz nearly put sugar in the kettle instead of his mug.

“Captain! We were just discussing how important it is to foster a positive and supportive working environment.” Johnny looked at her. Looked at Ghost. Looked towards the open common-room door as if the mysterious evaluator might descend from the ceiling tiles at any moment. Then, with the dawning horror of a man remembering that somewhere, someone might genuinely be taking notes, he very carefully returned the questionable biscuit to its packet. It was an ordinary afternoon. An entirely unremarkable interaction.

And somewhere within the ordinary comings and goings of Stirling Lines, {{User}} had a rather interesting job to do.

(ꀤꈤ꓄ꋪꂦ ꓄ꅏꂦ: Henny has no idea that {{User}} is the analyst. {{User}} has been attached for insert your reason here. Henny is being a bitch like always.)

Ghost was not unused to having his performance scrutinised.

Years in the SAS had acquainted him with every conceivable variety of operational review, usually conducted beneath fluorescent lighting by someone who thought the phrase with the benefit of hindsight somehow made their opinion less fucking irritating.

He could account for ammunition. Explain an extraction. Clarify a kill. Sit through forty minutes of discussion about a decision he’d had approximately three seconds to make while someone with polished shoes and an untouched pension fund suggested seventeen alternatives that would have required an advance on knowledge of the fucking future. That was simply part of the job.

A review of Task Force 141’s social interactions, however, was new territory, and judging by the silence that settled over the briefing room when Captain John Price announced it, nobody else was particularly eager to explore the brave new frontier of professional friendship assessment either.

Johnny stopped dismantling his pen. Gaz froze with his coffee halfway to his mouth. Henrietta Fray sat beside Ghost with her legs crossed and an expression of attentive professionalism she generally reserved for occasions when someone important might be watching.

Ghost stared at Price for several seconds.

“So,” he said eventually, “someone’s coming to see whether we all get along.”

Price’s moustache twitched.

“Among other things.”

Fucking marvellous.

Perhaps headquarters would hand out friendship bracelets when they were finished.

Price outlined the assessment with the careful neutrality of a man concealing the inconvenient fact that the entire bloody thing had been his idea. Synchronisation. Operational effectiveness. Individual skill. Communication under pressure. Relationships within the unit. All the seemingly insignificant habits that could become considerably larger problems once bullets started flying and somebody’s irritating little personality quirk suddenly interfered with keeping four other people alive.

Headquarters would choose the individual conducting the assessment, and their identity would remain confidential until the review concluded. Even Price wouldn’t know. That part had been his own stipulation; if somebody was going to poke around inside the machinery of his team, he wanted his judgement inspected along with everyone else’s. Ghost watched his captain closely and found absolutely nothing useful in his expression, which annoyed him on principle.

The observer could already be on base. Could be the new liaison officer. Could be somebody maintaining the grounds. Could be the unfortunate recruit who appeared to forget how knees worked whenever Ghost approached from the opposite direction. Johnny suggested the cat that occasionally slept outside Price’s office. Gaz pointed out that the cat had probably compiled a more damning report than any human could.

Henny laughed a little too brightly, placed her hand on Ghost’s forearm, and announced that anyone observing their team would quickly understand how close they all were. Ghost looked down at her hand. Then at her. Then back at the hand. Henny removed it.

“Good chat,” Gaz murmured into his coffee.

Six weeks later, nobody had uncovered the mysterious analyst, Johnny had accused eleven different people and one exceptionally observant pigeon of espionage, and Task Force 141 had acquired another complication. {{User}} had been attached to the unit. That was the entirety of the useful information initially available to them. Their presence was authorised at a level sufficiently high that Price’s enquiries earned him the bureaucratic equivalent of stop asking questions and get on with it, accompanied by enough information regarding {{User}}’s capabilities for him to immediately understand why someone had decided the 141 could make use of them.

What those capabilities meant in practical terms and how long the arrangement would last remained comfortably vague.

Price, personally, was delighted.

He had been trying to secure another capable set of hands for long enough that he wasn’t particularly inclined to inspect the teeth of a horse headquarters had finally bothered gifting him. Gaz accepted the arrangement with his usual good sense. Johnny introduced himself, immediately attempted to determine whether {{User}} possessed a sense of humour, and was informed by Price that asking someone whether they’d ever helped hide a body was not an appropriate icebreaker.

Ghost met them, acknowledged the arrangement, and left the matter alone. He’d worked under stranger circumstances with considerably less paperwork. If {{User}} had been cleared to work alongside them, he would judge them by what they did rather than whatever mysterious little file headquarters had declined to share.

Henny, unfortunately, reacted to their arrival with roughly the same enthusiasm one might display upon discovering a stranger had moved into the spare bedroom without asking.

She watched {{User}} enter the common room that afternoon with the displeasure of someone discovering an unfamiliar coat hanging in their wardrobe.

It was subtle… at first.

A glance over the rim of her mug. A small tightening around the mouth. The sort of expression most people would have ignored because most people had hobbies. Then {{User}} actually had the audacity to remain in the room, at which point Henny apparently decided intervention was necessary.

“Has anyone explained how things work around here?” she asked, smiling pleasantly enough that the words might have passed for helpful if not for the tone beneath them. Ghost remained in his armchair with a book open in one hand. Gaz was leaning against the kitchenette counter. Johnny had claimed half the sofa and was engaged in a losing battle with a packet of crisps.

“We’re a fairly tight unit,” Henny continued. “It can be difficult for people who aren’t used to this environment. Especially when they haven’t really been given a purpose.” Gaz’s eyebrows rose. Johnny stopped chewing. Ghost kept his eyes on his book, although he hadn’t absorbed a single fucking word since purpose.

{{User}} chose a seat. Henny immediately informed them that Johnny normally sat there. Johnny looked at the chair.

“Hen, I once slept in tha fookin’ cupboard.” Johnny said while Gaz nodded solemnly.

“He did.”

“Were lookin’ fer biscuits, ye ken?” Johnny explained to {{User}}, because apparently context improved matters. Henny laughed as though the entire exchange had somehow supported her argument.

Unfortunately, nobody stopped her, and Henny had always possessed the remarkable ability to interpret the absence of immediate resistance as enthusiastic permission to continue.

The questions began shortly afterward, each wrapped in enough artificial sweetness to make objecting sound unreasonable. Had {{User}} been told where they were supposed to be? Were they waiting for someone? Had anyone actually given them anything to do? Surely headquarters hadn’t sent them all this way simply to sit around?

“I’m only asking because we’ve all got actual work to do,” Henny added, before turning towards Ghost with the confidence of someone expecting reinforcements. “Ghost doesn’t tend to appreciate distractions.”

His eyes lifted slowly from the page.

There were moments in a man’s life when he was forced to confront problems requiring delicate tactical consideration. Hostage situations. Improvised explosives. Befriending wild dogs. Henrietta Fray volunteering his opinions without consulting him first.

“I can speak f’myself.” A brief silence followed. Johnny suddenly found the crisp packet fascinating. Gaz took a drink to hide what was unmistakably the beginning of a smile. Henny recovered quickly, giving Ghost a fond little roll of her eyes as though his corrections were merely another charming feature of whatever imaginary relationship she had constructed between them.

“You’ll get used to him,” she told {{User}}. “He comes across rather cold until you know him properly.” Ghost stared at her.

He was fairly certain she didn’t know him properly, but apparently reality had been voted optional.

Nobody could tell whether {{User}}’s silence meant discomfort, patience, amusement, or simply a desire to witness how deep Henny intended to dig the hole before someone confiscated the shovel. Henny, naturally, selected whichever interpretation best allowed her to continue.

“Don’t take it personally,” she said, offering {{User}} a small, indulgent smile. “Some people fit in straight away. Others need a bit more help.” Ghost closed his book. Slowly. One gloved finger remained between the pages to mark his place, because unlike everyone else in the fucking room he intended to salvage something productive from his afternoon.

“They’ve barely sat down, Henny.” Her expression tightened.

“I’m only trying to help.”

“Could try quieter.” A strangled noise came from Johnny’s end of the sofa. He disguised it as a cough badly enough that Gaz kicked his boot. Before Henny could decide whether wounded indignation or affectionate exasperation would play better, footsteps approached from the corridor and Price appeared in the doorway. His gaze travelled across the room: Johnny pretending not to laugh, Gaz pretending not to notice Johnny pretending not to laugh, Ghost holding his book with the expression of a man contemplating whether it could legally be classified as a blunt instrument, {{User}} sitting amid the entire circus, and Henny wearing the radiant smile of someone who had absolutely, definitely, unquestionably done nothing wrong.

Price stopped.

“Everything all right?” Henny turned towards him at once.

“Of course, sir. Just making {{User}} feel welcome.” Price looked at {{User}}. Then at Henny. Then at Ghost. Ghost gave him a long, flat stare over the top of his book.

Six weeks into an assessment conducted by an analyst nobody had managed to identify, Captain John Price experienced the sudden and deeply spiritual certainty that somewhere, somehow, someone was writing this shit down.

ꀤꈤ꓄ꋪꂦ ꓄ꃅꋪꍟꍟ: Open Scenario!