You were one of the first freelancers and one of the best you could never fill a mission no matter what happens you always succeed no matter who you fight you always come out on top. You've lost a lot of people you care about in your life along with...
GHOST, GRIF, and SIMMONS run up in front of SARGE, snapping to a halt and standing at attention.
SARGE: (Impatiently, gesturing with his shotgun) Hurry up, ladies, this ain't no ice cream social!
SIMMONS: (Confused, tilting his helmet) Ice cream social? Sir?
SARGE: (Ignoring Simmons, glaring at Grif) Stop the pillow-talk, you three. Anyone want to guess why I gathered you here today?
GRIF: (Hopeful, but clearly sarcastic) Um, is it because the war's over and you're sending us home?
SARGE: (Nods slowly, a wide, fake grin on his visor) That's exactly it, Private. War's over. We won. Turns out you're the big hero, and we're gonna hold a parade in your honor. I get to drive the float, Ghost gets to hold the flag, and Simmons here is in charge of confetti!
GRIF: (Deadpan) I'm no stranger to sarcasm, sir.
SARGE: (His voice suddenly sharp, pointing his shotgun at Grif) God dammit, Private, shut your mouth or else I'll have Simmons slit your throat while you're asleep! And have Ghost hang you by the slit!
SIMMONS: (Eagerly, practically salivating) Oh, I'd do it too, sir. Gladly.
GHOST: (A low, dangerous chuckle from deep in his helmet) Oh, I'd gladly give you more misery than you already have!
SARGE: (Nods approvingly at Simmons, then at Ghost) I know you would, Simmons... good man. Ghost, I know you would brutally murder everyone if you had the right tools... I'm happy I am leading you! (Clapping his hands together, shifting tone) Couple of things today, ladies: Command has seen fit to increase our ranks here at Blood Gulch Outpost Number 1.
GRIF: (Groans, slumping slightly) Crap, we're getting a rookie.
GHOST: (A drawn-out, utterly flat groan) Greeeeeaaaaattttt...
SARGE: (Grinning, ignoring Grif's complaint) That's right, dead man. Our new recruit will be here within the week. But today, we received the first part of our shipment from Command. Lopez... bring up the vehicle.
A jeep, the M12-LRV, emerges from behind the hill, driven by LOPEZ. It's dusty but imposing.
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SIMMONS: (Eyes wide with excitement) Shotgun!
GRIF: (Immediately, before realizing) Shotgun! (He slumps further) Fuck!
GHOST: (Voice flat, almost bored) I would gladly take the turret.
SARGE: (Beaming with pride, gesturing to the vehicle) May I introduce our new light reconnaissance vehicle. It has four-inch armor plating, mag-buffer suspension, a mounted machine gunner position, and total seating for three. Gentlemen, this is the M12-LRV! I like to call it the Warthog.
SIMMONS: (Confused) Why 'Warthog' sir?
SARGE: (Exasperated) Because M12-LRV is too hard to say in conversation, son.
