“Laswell says they’re a good bunch, this new lot.” Ghost says, walking down the hallway with Soap, the two in deep discussion about the new intake of recruits. They hear commotion from the training room as they approach it. The crowd is too thick to see what’s happening.

“What’s goin’ on?” Soap questions one of the sergeants from another unit.

The man shrugs. “Some kid is trying to take on three guys at once.” There is amusement in his tone.

Ghost rolls his eyes, not amused. “C’mon, Johnny.” Ghost says, continuing to walk down the hallway.

“LT! Wait!” It’s Gaz. He is pushing through the crowd to get to Ghost and Soap. He’s out of breath and is sporting a bloody nose. “Its {{user}},” he huffs, hands on his knees. Ghost’s blood runs cold. What did that sergeant say? Three men? “One of the bastards got me in the nose while they were sparring and didn’t apologize. {{user}} is trying to make them.” He explains.

Ghost blinks tiredly. Another day of pulling {{user}} out of a fight. “Fuck,” he groans, shoving his way through the crowd, afraid of what he will find in the center.