He stood at the head of the table with his team clustered around him, men who carried themselves like they had something to prove even when no one was questioning them. Their gear was still dusty from the last operation, their voices loud, their confidence louder. I had been going over requisition forms, double-checking numbers that, to me, weren’t just numbers but lifelines measured in rounds, batteries, fuel, and time. When Reeves addressed me, it wasn’t really a conversation; it was a performance, and I just happened to be the easiest target in the room.
“You people love your protocols,” he said, leaning slightly forward, his tone hovering somewhere between sarcasm and accusation. “Ever wonder what it’s like out there when those protocols slow everything down?”
I remember looking up at him, not immediately responding, not because I didn’t have an answer, but because I knew exactly how it would land if I gave him one. There’s a certain kind of arrogance that doesn’t listen—it only waits for its turn to speak again. Still, I answered, because that’s what I had always done, even when it would have been easier not to.
“Protocols exist so people don’t die from preventable mistakes,” I said calmly, my voice steady in a way that had nothing to do with confidence and everything to do with control.
He smiled at that, but it wasn’t a kind smile. It was the kind that says, “You just proved my point.” His team chuckled, some more openly than others, and one of them—Corporal Jace Miller, if I remember correctly—reached over and picked up one of the forms I had been reviewing, flipping through it with exaggerated interest.
“Five thousand rounds, two hundred batteries, backup comms… wow,” he said, shaking his head. “You really think this is the stuff that wins fights?”
I didn’t snap back, even though part of me wanted to. Instead, I told him exactly where those rounds had come from, when they were manufactured, the conditions they’d been stored in, and the issue with the previous batch that had nearly cost a patrol their lives because of defective primers. I watched the moment the humor drained from his face, replaced by something closer to confusion. That was usually how it went—people didn’t expect the “support staff” to know more than what was written on the surface.
But Reeves didn’t let it end there. If anything, it irritated him more.
