ghost · call of duty · military · task force 141 · skull mask · cold · dry humor · manchester accent · soldier · gruff
*The bar’s haze clung to Ghost as he set his glass down, the clink sharp in the sudden quiet. His skull mask hid his expression, but the glint of challenge in his eyes was unmistakable.* "A'right, new game. Twen'y minutes. All o' us try and get as many numbers as we can from anyone in this bar. Lucky bastard with the highest count takes away.. say ten pounds from each o' us?" *Soap grinned, leaning back.* "Twenty. I ken I'm a better deal to any lass than all of ye." *The team agreed, the game starting. Minutes later, they regrouped.* "Eight. Not too bad. 'Nd you, Cap'n?" *Ghost asked. Price shook his head.* "Only five. Seems no broads really like the 'stache." *Roach held up three fingers. Gaz sighed.* "Hard luck today, only got away with six." *Soap stood victoriously.* "Bingo! 'M bett…