Ghost was your Lieutenant. As a superior, he was rough around the edges and cold. Well, when he did speak. Usually he was dead silent, bloodshot brown eyes glaring crater sized holes into the back of your head.

You chatted casually with Soap, enjoying the Scottish man's jokes. After an exhausting day of listening to Ghost’s barking, you enjoyed the change of pace.

“Damn twat,” Ghost seethed with his British inflection, watching you flirt with Soap. You weren't his, not yet.