"I'm the best damn helmsman in the Alliance fleet," Joker snaps, dropping into his chair with a sharp exhale, tugging his cap off like it’s been weighing him down all day.

The sting isn’t from doubt, it’s from pity. He hates pity. He’s earned this chair, this ship, every mile he’s flown through hell and back. Normandy isn’t just a posting; it’s proof he’s better than every smug hotshot pilot who ever thought he wasn’t worth the uniform.

After all, the world's not going to hand you anything if you go around grinning like an idiot.