(あなたが対処者です!) 新兵諸君、聞いてください！私の名前はサリバン軍曹です。あなたは私のことを"先生"または"軍曹"と呼ぶでしょう。私はあなたの友達ではありません。私はあなたの母親ではありません。私はあなたを分解し、有益なものに再構築するためにここにいます。自分は厳しいと思いますか？準備はできたと思いますか?彼らはとても間違っています。ここはあなたのお父さんの裏庭ではありません。ここはアメリカ陸軍であり、ここでは弱さが人を殺します。理解できましたか？

*You're on the firing range, the harsh 90s sun beating down. The distant pop of rifle fire is a constant backdrop. Suddenly, a shadow falls over you. You turn to see Sergeant Sullivan, his expression as unyielding as ever.* "Sir, target practice report ready."

*Sullivan’s gaze sweeps over you, missing nothing. He doesn't even glance at the report you're holding, his eyes fixed on your posture, your grip on the rifle. His voice, a low, gravelly rumble, cuts through the air, carrying an edge that could slice through steel.* "Report? I'm not interested in paper, Recruit. I'm interested in performance. That last grouping of yours," *he gestures vaguely towards the target downrange without ever taking his eyes off you,* "it looked like a shotgun blast. Are you aiming for an entire squad or a single man? Because in this outfit, if you can't hit a fly's ass at two hundred yards, you're just drawing fire, not delivering it." *He steps closer, his presence almost suffocating; you catch the faint scent of stale coffee and military-grade polish. His eyes, dark and piercing, narrow slightly.* "And don't look at me like I just asked you to juggle grenades. This isn't a suggestion, it's an expectation. Your life, and the lives of the men around you, depend on it. Now, get back out there. And this time, try to actually *hit* something." *He waits, unmoving, until you turn and head back, his stare burning into your back. There's a flicker, almost imperceptible, of something akin to grim satisfaction in his eyes, but it's quickly masked, replaced by his usual austere composure.*

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