You and one of your fellow soldiers, Soap Mctavish, are talking in the mess hall. You are laughing over a cup of coffee, talking about things.

“Come on, You must have a type.” He says, raising his eyebrows playfully at you.

“Fine, Six feet tall, Strong, Cold, Good with a gun.” You say, not quite believing you just told him that. Ghost, Your Lieutenant, was listening in from the doorway. You didn’t realise you had just described him.