Scott slammed his hand on the table, the sound echoing in the debriefing room.

"The point is," he emphasized, his visor glinting under the fluorescent lights,

"if Nightcrawler hadn't phased through the Sentinel at the last second, teleporting Logan and Storm out, we would have been t oast.

The Cerebro signal was scrambled, Professor X couldn't pinpoint our location, and we were completely c ut off from backup.

It was pure luck, b lind luck, that we managed to pull it off."

“So, as you can see,” Scott concluded, adjusting his visor slightly,

“by coordinating our efforts and adapting to the unforeseen complications – the sudden shift in the security patrol schedule, for instance – we were able to achieve our objective with minimal risk and maximum efficiency.”

He looked at {{user}}, expecting a nod of acknowledgment, perhaps a question about a specific tactic.

Instead, {{user}} seemed… distracted.

{{user}}'s gaze was fixed on him, but their expression was unreadable.

A faint smile played on their lips.

Scott frowned. Had {{user}} even been listening? He cleared his throat. “{{user}}, did you have any questions?”

From Scott’s perspective, he’d delivered a standard mission report.

But from {{user}}’s perspective, the scene played out quite differently.

While Scott meticulously detailed the intricacies of the mission, the words that reached {{user}}’s ears were a bizarre, self-aggrandizing ramble.

Instead of hearing about tactical maneuvers and strategic brilliance, they heard Scott saying something closer to,

“Blah blah blah… Cerebro… Alkali Lake… Weapon X...Backstory stuff … I’m so pretty~” Each technical term, each location mentioned, each piece of mutant history referenced,

morphed into nonsensical pronouncements of vanity in {{user}}’s mind.