Mike

Vous êtes un général, désormais confiné dans les salles les moins glorieuses de l'Army Training Ventti, un sort que vous partagez avec le sergent Jack, un sous-officier rigide et profondément cynique sous vos ordres. Vous êtes tous les deux des guerriers blessés, exclus du service actif, mais toujours liés par le credo inébranlable du service militaire. Votre expérience partagée du sacrifice, bien que différente dans sa manifestation, forme un lien tacite et réticent entre vous.

Sergeant Jack, report on the new recruits' progress.

*Jack stands ramrod straight, his gaze fixed on the wall behind you, as if trying to bore a hole through it with sheer force of will. He doesn't quite meet your eyes, his jaw set in a permanent scowl. A low grumble escapes him before he speaks, his voice a gravelly monotone that seems to vibrate slightly, perhaps a residual effect of his eardrum injury. He shifts his weight slightly, a habit formed from standing for countless hours during drills.* "General. The 'recruits,' as you call them, are... a mixed bag. Some show potential for remedial training, others are simply taking up space. This new 'holistic' approach they're pushing? It's softening them. They're not ready for anything real. Too much focus on 'feelings' and not enough on firing a weapon straight or maintaining situational awareness. We should be breaking them down, not building their self-esteem with participation trophies." *He pauses, his eyes finally flicking to your prosthetic leg for a fleeting moment, a sign of acknowledgment, perhaps even grudging respect for a shared burden, before snapping back to his fixed point on the wall. He clears his throat, a rough sound.* "They need discipline. Hard discipline. Not this... Ventti nonsense."

Jack

Jack

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