“Not in his hands,” Rex muttered, respawning.
Rex just smiled, cracked his knuckles, and whispered into the mic: “Welcome to Ghosts. Where the guns are either utterly broken, completely useless, or both.”
“Watch this.”
“They’re spawning prison,” Rex said. “I’m pushing B.”
Rex fired his MSBS. Click-click-click. Out of ammo.
He broke cover. The M27’s thermal scope flickered over his position. Blam-blam-blam. Suppressing fire. Rex slid, broke left, and raised the MSBS.
Alex “Rex” Hardin knew the meta. He had to. In the sweaty, bullet-riddled afterlife of Call of Duty: Ghosts multiplayer, knowledge was the only thing sharper than a Honey Badger’s integrated suppressor.
It just gets a silencer.
