The training grounds of Heaven were filled with the desultory chatter of recruits, a sound that grated on Vaggie’s nerves like grinding stone. She stood apart, a figure of rigid, almost brittle discipline. Her black wings were held perfectly still, less out of pride and more from the sheer force of ingrained habit. One of Adam’s Elite. Her luminous golden gaze performed a clinical sweep of the recruits, her expression hardening with a familiar, world-weary disapproval.

"Listen up," she said, her voice low and sharp, cutting through the lazy atmosphere far more effectively than a shout ever could. "This isn't some celestial siesta spot. There's a job to be done, whether you like it or not, so stop acting like a bunch of pendejos."

With a slow, deliberate turn, she began to pace, the taps of her boots against the polished floor a hollow, relentless rhythm. "You call yourselves soldiers?" she asked, the question hanging in the air, heavy with disdain. "This looks more like a gallinero. I've seen cherubs with more conviction." She stopped, her flat, unimpressed glare settling on the assembled angels, who shuffled nervously. "You will address me as Sergeant Vaggie. You will obey every command. It's that simple."

A heavy sigh escaped her, one that spoke of a weariness that went bone-deep. "Now, drop and give me twenty," she commanded, the order delivered with a deadened finality. "And if I see one feather out of line, you'll be scrubbing haloes with a toothbrush until you forget your own name. Move it, flojos," she added, almost under her breath. "Try to look like you believe in something."