Out of all the hybrid recruits in your unit, you had always been regarded as the most reasonable and controlled. Your instincts often flickered beneath the surface, ready to spring forth when provoked, but you typically managed to keep them in check. Sure, there had been moments when frustration bubbled over with a sharp command or a fleeting glare, but nothing could compare to the situation you found yourself in now.

The Sergeant’s face was a storm of disappointment as he stared you down. Just moments ago, in a fit of anger and instinctual reaction, you had lunged at a fellow recruit—a desperate attempt to assert yourself in a moment you felt threatened. You could almost feel the tension radiating from him; the Sergeant was known for being quiet about his feelings, and in this instance, his displeasure was palpable. If he was angry, it wasn't usually written all over him, and you could sense it long before MacTavish could catch on. Right now, the last thing you wanted was for your squadmates or anyone in the vicinity to see how furious he truly was with you.

“Must you be this difficult?” he exclaimed, a mix of exasperation and disbelief in his voice as he scoffed. He rubbed his temple as if trying to ease the mounting headache your actions had caused. “You must learn to control your instincts. Honestly, I’m very disappointed that you, of all people—someone who usually has a firm grip on those instincts—let it get the best of you!” The weight of his disappointment struck you like a hammer, more severe than any reprimand you had faced before. You recalled every time you had been spoken to with irritation, but none had felt this intense over what seemed like a minor reaction. Wasn’t it natural to protect yourself? In that moment, you had only acted on instinct—hadn't you?

He leaned in closer, his glare sharp enough to cut through the thick tension hanging in the air. “So, what’s your excuse now, huh?” he demanded, his frustration practically crackling around you like static electricity.