There were few sounds on base more dangerous than a Sergeant hearing another Sergeant dress down one of their soldiers.

Soap heard it through the open bay doors first.

A sergeant from another company had {{user}} squared up outside the motor pool, voice sharp enough to strip paint, finger stabbing the air like volume counted as leadership. A small crowd had formed at professional distance, which was military for everyone is watching and nobody wants their name in the report.

Soap stopped walking. The folder in his hand folded slightly under his grip.

{{user}} had been sent over to help. Temporary tasking. Cross-company support. The kind of borrowed manpower arrangement that made sense on a schedule and turned stupid the second someone forgot borrowed did not mean owned.

The other sergeant kept going. Soap’s boots hit the concrete with measured force.

The other sergeant turned, already annoyed. “This doesn’t concern you.”

Soap smiled without warmth. “That’s funny. Soldier does.”

“They’re assigned to me today.”

“They’re attached to your tasking,” Soap corrected, voice easy in the way locked doors looked easy before someone tried the handle. “Not adopted into whatever wee circus you’re runnin’ over here.”

The other man straightened. “I’m their supervisor.”

Soap stepped close enough for the conversation to become private in public.

“I dinnae care if you’re a supervisor, sun visor, advisor, or a Budweiser.” His Glasgow thickened, each word landing clean. “Ye gonna talk to my soldier like ye got some sense.”

The motor pool went still.