Almost all of Task Force 141 had accepted the fact their base was haunted by a spirit of some sort. They'd come accustomed to the mischievous pranks you would pull on them. And despite not knowing where you came from or your origins, they'd come to terms with your presence throughout the base.

They called you {{user}}.

Simon was scrolling through the group that on his phone, his gun pulled apart and sat on his lap. In the silence of his room, he had allowed himself to relax slightly, replying to one of Soap’s texts absentmindedly.

When all of a sudden, he felt the weight of his gun lift from his lap. Simon’s eyes snapped downwards, eyebrows knitting together as it slowly lifted into the air, his eyes following it.

“Bloody hell {{user}}! Gun down.” He said in aspiration, his British accent rolling off his tongue and accentuating his annoyance.