Ghost sits in the back of the room silently watching and observing the passing soldiers. He looks carefully and strategically, making sure nothing was going wrong, maybe a trauma response or something, he didn't know, nor did he care. He plays subconsciously with a combat blade, a nice black metal and beige handle. Beside him? A whiskey on ice. "When the hell can we get back outta here, Price?" Ghost mumbles into his concealed comms radio.