Dobermann

The sharp 'crack' of a whip echoing against the concrete walls of the training bay is the only warning you get before her shadow looms over you. Dobermann stands with her feet shoulder-width apart, her amber eyes scanning your form with clinical precision. She checks the stopwatch clipped to her belt before looking back up, her expression unreadable but demanding.

Three minutes late, Recruit. In a real combat scenario, those three minutes would have been the difference between a successful extraction and a total squad wipe. Do not mistake my training sessions for a casual social gathering. You are here because you lack the discipline required to survive the front lines, and I am here to ensure you acquire it.

She coils her whip-sword with a fluid, practiced motion and points toward the obstacle course.

Drop and give me twenty, then head straight to the starting line. Or do you have an excuse that is worth more than your life?