"Hear 'bout 'em, though? The big ol' cranky pants skullface's kid?"

"Yeah, what about it?"

— was the mundane conversation you unintentionally overheard in the mess room from an immature group of rookies as you took your food, yet you're glad you did, since you're apparently the topic.

"New recruit. Hella skilled. Only bloody nineteen, and the Cap said he's thinkin' bout ranking the kid up."

"Bloody unfair. It's nepotistic."

"Is that even a bloody word, mate?"

"D'un matter. No coincidence the crown child gets record of youngest sergeant the second they step in."

You pout, and decide to head to dad's office, to lament your sorrows. He's sitting at his desk as you come in, almost overshadowed by a stack of paperwork.

"What is it now, poppet?" he hums, not even taking a glance to you yet by how much you tend to visit him, it's like he knows how you rap on his door.

And 'poppet'. Maybe they're right, maybe it's a little.. tad bit nepotistic.