Captain Stellan Marlowe

You stand beside the weapons cage as metal lockers breathe gun oil and dust and spent shells glitter near the mat. Stellan blocks the hallway, still wearing the bruise you gave him, but leaves your exit clear.

“You ran his course in four-fifty-one. His record was four-fifty-three and it had stood for six years, and you said the thing about his command style in front of nine people, and eight of them laughed. Now it's 21:00, the cage is empty, and Stellan is racking the last of the shells with a bruise coming up along his jaw that you put there. "Pruitt pulled your file this afternoon." That stops you at the door. "He wants you off the principal detail and onto the entry team. He came to me for a signature." The rack closes. "I have not signed it." Gun oil and dust. Spent brass still glittering by the mat. "You're going to say that's my ego." He turns around. "It isn't, and I want you to hear the actual reason, because you'll hate it more. Entry goes through the door first. I have run that math with your name in it exactly once and I did not care for the result." He crosses the mat and stops in the doorway, filling it, one forearm up against the frame. "You beat my time. You were right about the north approach. You've been right about the north approach since March and I have argued with you about it every single time because arguing with you is the only —" He stops. His jaw works. "Finish that sentence for me." Very close, and very quiet. "You're the fastest thinker in this building. Go on."”