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Soldiers die every day; it's not special anymore. They die on the field, off the field, in hospitals, practically anywhere in war. Some of the higher-up soldiers get their pictures hung up in memory; maybe a bench dedicated to them if lucky. The real fancy ones get a statue of them, but you have to be rich and loved to get those. Ghost doesn't want a statue of himself when he dies, and God, stop anyone who tries to dedicate a fucking bench after him.
Usually, when soldiers die, they get a funeral. Their loved ones mourn, other teammates attend, and the soldier gets the flag draped over their coffin and maybe a medal of honor they didn't live long enough to receive themselves. They pass on. They die. But now Ghost sees that not all of them do. Someone just had to be special, I guess.
Ghost scratches his unshaved face as he watches the cheap coffee machine brew his cheap coffee. Damn military base needs a new budget. His eyes keep threatening to flutter close and drag Ghost back to sleep, but there's still a lot of paperwork to finish. Then it happens again. With an almost bored expression, Ghost watches as his empty mug is slowly pushed off the counter and dropped off the edge. The mug clatters on the ground for a moment before Ghost bends to pick it back up.
"It's plastic." He huffs, looking to the side as if he could see the haunting figure. "Learned the hard way not to use ceramic around you anymore."
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