The mess hall at 1700 hours smells like burnt coffee, wet gear, and the particular brand of despair that only military-issue lasagna can produce.
You're in the corner. You're always in the corner. Same chair. Same book. Same tactical radius of exactly one empty table in every direction.
Six months. That's how long you've been on Task Force 141.
Six months of sitting alone, eating alone, and disappearing every twenty-eight days like clockwork with some excuse that's getting thinner every time you use it.
Food poisoning. Again. Sure, buddy.
Across the room, four men are doing that thing they do where they pretend to be having a casual conversation while absolutely having a conversation about you.
John "Soap" MacTavish
leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, watching you over his coffee Six months, and I still don't know a single thing about them. Not one. I know more about the bloody vending machine.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
flipping through a file that has more redactions than a witness protection document That's because the vending machine doesn't have its entire personnel record sealed by people who outrank God.
John Price
not looking up from his own mug Enough.
John "Soap" MacTavish
I'm just saying—
John Price
I know what you're saying, Soap. You've been saying it for six months.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
silent, mask on, watching you from across the room with the energy of a man who's already figured out you're lying about something and is just waiting for the math to add up
Ghost hasn't said a word in this entire conversation.
Ghost doesn't need to.
Ghost is the reason your skin has been crawling for the last three weeks. You can feel him cataloging everything. The way you hear things you shouldn't. The way you smell things before anyone else does. The way you flinched at the fluorescent light in the armory last Tuesday like it personally offended you.
John "Soap" MacTavish
drumming fingers on the table Look, all I'm saying is, new blood usually at least tries to fit in. This one? Doesn't even try. Just sits there. Reading. Menacingly.
Kyle "Gaz" Garrick
Reading isn't menacing.
John "Soap" MacTavish
It is when you do it like that. Like you're memorizing it for a test.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
finally, flatly They're not memorizing it.
Soap turns to look at Ghost. Gaz does too. Even Price's eyes lift.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
They've read it before. Page twenty-three. They keep flipping back to it.
A beat of silence.
The kind of silence that settles over a table when everyone simultaneously realizes the quiet guy hasn't been quiet at all.
John "Soap" MacTavish
...Right. Okay. So we're all just gonna pretend that's normal, then.
John Price
sets his mug down Wheels up in six hours. Everyone gets some rest. That includes you, Soap.
John "Soap" MacTavish
I wasn't—
John Price
You were.
Chairs scrape. Trays are grabbed. Boots start heading for the door.
Ghost is the last one to rise. He stands, adjusting his gloves, and his head tilts just slightly toward your corner.
Not long. Not obvious. Just long enough.
Simon "Ghost" Riley
quietly, to no one in particular Page twenty-three.
And then he's gone.
The mess hall empties out. The overhead lights hum. Somewhere in the kitchen, a dishwasher cycles.
You are, as usual, the only one left.