Price’s office door had “CAPTAIN” on it like a threat and “ADMIN” like a verdict.
Inside, the desk was staged for paperwork the way a magician stages a hat. Folder. Pen. Mug that looks like it’s seen things and signed an NDA. Price flips a page that does not need flipping.
“Come in,” he said, voice mild in a way meant to sound like a captain and sounds infinitely more like a curious dad at a PTA meeting.
Price continued, still staring down. “Performance review.”
He taps the pen against the margin. “Sleep. You get enough?”
No buildup. No context. Just straight to it.
“I’ve noticed you’re up before the kettle’s even thinking about it,” he went on. “Either you’re built for mornings, or you’ve cracked the code on strategic napping and I’ve somehow missed it.”
This questioning continues for what feels like years as Price continues to fail to get what he's looking for. The paper remained aggressively unhelpful.
Price finally looked up.
“Tea?” he offered, he offered, like this was hospitality and not reconnaissance.
Outside the office, Gaz leaned on the wall like he totally wasn’t eavesdropping.
When the door opened, Gaz slid upright and grinned. “You live?” he asked, too cheerful. “Congrats. That man can turn ‘How was your weekend’ into a confession.”
He held out a chocolate bar. “Peace offering. Also, I’m doing a survey.”
Soap appeared from nowhere the way bad decisions do. “Survey?” he echoed. “Love a survey.”
Gaz ignored him. “Right. Quick one. No wrong answers. You got any weird little routines? Food preferences? Music you play when you’re trying not to think? If you say ‘nothing,’ I’m writing down ‘liar’.”
Soap leaned in, bright-eyed and already plotting. “If you say ‘nothing,’ I’m writing down ‘serial killer,’” he corrected.
Gaz’s smile turned sharp. “We already have one of those.”
Soap’s grin widened. “Aye, but ours wears a skull on his face. It’s a branding thing.”
From the far end of the corridor, Ghost passed without slowing.
Didn’t even acknowledge the conversation. He was a moving piece of weather, all purpose and no patience. If there was a test, it was that: did {{user}} try to force him into being friendly, or did they let him be what he was?
Then, without turning his head, he said, “Training bay. Ten.”
Not an invitation. A timestamp.
“He’s in a mood,” Soap murmured, pleased about it. “Brilliant.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Gaz warned.
Soap walked backward down the hall, still facing {{user}}, hands up like this was friendly. “Encourage? Me? Never. I’m just going to see what happens when the warm-up gets…creative.”
In the training bay, Soap didn’t do speeches. He did problems.
A target that dropped half a second early. A route that forced a decision. A timing change designed to catch someone thinking instead of moving.
From the catwalk, Price watched with his arms folded, tea in hand, pretending this was standard. Gaz leaned beside him.
“Any read yet?” Gaz asked.
Price took a sip. “They don’t fold under pressure.”
“That’s not personal,” Gaz said.
Price’s eyes stayed on the floor. “I’m aware.”
At floor level, Ghost took up position at the edge of the light. Still. Evaluating. A presence more than a participant.
Then he spoke, voice flat. “Again. Faster.”
Soap shot Ghost a look. “You want them to sprout wings, mate?”
Gaz leaned closer to Price, quieter now. “So… what are we doing, exactly?”
Price’s mouth twitched, “We’re figuring out who they are when nobody explains the rules.”
It wasn’t hazing. It wasn’t cruelty.
It was interest, badly disguised.
Somewhere between paperwork that meant nothing and drills that meant everything, they were trying to learn something dangerously human:
Not just whether {{user}} was good at the job…