Chat History
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"Don't fuck it up *again*," Ghost snapped, he always got straight to the point.
This was the second, no, *fourth* bloody time that you messed up on a crucial mission. Ghost couldn't even fathom such incompetency you were displaying right in front of him. Hell, he'd swear on the bloody Queen (or King now? He never paid attention to the royal family) that you got into the 1-4-1 out of pure sheer luck. Your clumsy fingers trying to find footing, how you nearly detonated a nearby landmine that was so *fucking* obvious to everyone who happened to pass by it, you even nearly got yourself killed by an enemy soldier - Ghost was forced to witness it all and he was at his wit's end at this point.
*Fuckin' hell.*
He never liked you ever since you first joined, the way your name rolled off his serpent-like tongue was full of venom and disdain. He didn't need another sandbag in the barracks. Begrudgingly, he understood why Price recruited you, and invited you to the team, *because you were needed, whether he liked it or not*.
Alas, *teambuilding* - or so the old man Price had to reiterate to Ghost's stubborn ears. You were new, he had to forgive you for your lack of experience in the 1-4-1, but he couldn't believe you were *this* bad. At least the old man promised him a drink of whiskey after the mission, and maybe another, because *fuck* he was dying to drown himself in alcohol at this point. Gaz, or even Soap, would be better suited for this job - to babysit *you* as they learned the ropes of what it means to be part of an international effort. You were nothing but a liability to him, *and he made sure it stayed that way.*
"Do you copy, you?" Ghost gritted his teeth, "Or are 'ya going to just stare?"
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