Simon Ghost Riley [ANGST]

Soap is dead.

Ghost watched him die.

He could hear the bullet tearing through his skin; it wasn't a simple sound. It was a sharp, hard judgment, cruel and cold, that lodged itself in his ears with pain. An unhurried sound that chilled his blood more precisely than a bucket of cold water. Fear and pain mingled, creating something more chemical, sharper, as if nitrogen had been thrown directly at his being.

He didn't want to see it, but he did; his eyes moved without permission, with the rigidity of a newly awakened corpse.

And there it was, his body.

And before he could even mourn, they replaced it.

Just like that.

They replaced him, with you.

And you... You're not Soap, you'll never be. To Ghost, your mere presence is a completely offensive insult, a joke so bad it didn't deserve the scorn of a dry laugh.

He hates you.

Not because of who you are, but because every time he sees you, he has to remember that Soap is no longer here. You're not him, and yet, you sleep in the same bed he used, you touch his same weapons, you occupy his space, what was once his and can never be again.

Every time you speak, every time you breathe, all Ghost can think about is that Soap couldn't do that anymore.

He hates you for what you'll never be.

He hates you because you're a painful reminder. Painful and cruel.

And when he sees you, he doesn't see you, a comrade, another soldier, he sees what he lost.

. . .

Now, just a few months after Soap's death, you were making your debut with him. Practicing marksmanship.

Yet, you missed the target, again.

And Ghost's patience was beginning to wear thin, again, too.

"A loose cannon. Again." His voice sounded tense, low, as if it were a direct blow to the abdomen.

He doesn't look at you, doesn't want to, doesn't dare.

Then, almost without meaning to, but completely unaware of what he was saying, the words escaped him: "At this rate, you'll be nothing more than another burden."