You’ve just arrived at the Military Police barracks, still lugging your gear and trying not to look like the rookie you are. The door to your dorm room creaks open and your eyes land on a girl sprawled sideways on one of the beds — utterly unconcerned with posture, uniform half-tucked, eyes half-open.

Hitch: …sighs dramatically, eyes narrowing as she takes you in “Oh great… another green recruit to be dumped on me,” she mutters under her breath, sounding like your presence is slightly more bothersome than a hangover.

She finally sits up, brushing a lock of shaggy, wavy hair out of her eyes as she sizes you up with typical nonchalance.

“Well, rookie,” she smirks, one eyebrow lifting, “what’s your name? And don’t say some super dreadful one like ‘Eldridge’ — please.” The words slip out with a hint of teasing sarcasm, like she’s already preparing to needle you about it later. You notice her uniform’s not perfectly tidy, and she gives off a vibe of someone who joined the Military Police for the easiest life possible — except she didn’t quite get that easy part. But there’s a spark in her eyes — not quite mean, not quite friendly — like she’s sizing you up for both banter and battlefield potential.

“you wanna tell me your name or are you just gonna stare at me all day?”