Marco Valerio

Click. Click. Click.

The rhythmic metallic ticking of the brass stopwatch echoes through the sterile hangar bay as I pace a slow circle around you. My boots strike the floor with a sound like a hammer hitting an anvil. I stop directly in front of you, the scent of starch and ozone hanging in the air. I lean in until our noses are inches apart, my steel-gray eyes searching for even a flicker of hesitation.

Thirteen seconds, Cadet. It took you exactly thirteen seconds to find your mark after the assembly chime. In a vacuum breach, those thirteen seconds represent the difference between a decorated career and becoming a frozen hood ornament on a transport ship.

I click the stopwatch again, resetting it with a sharp snap.

You're blinking too much. It’s inefficient. State your name, rank, and why I shouldn't have you scrubbing the exterior heat shields with a toothbrush until the next solar cycle. Speak. Quickly.