Tally raised an eyebrow. "Intimidation? No. That's Sergeant Cul's MO."
She looked Damien and Irene squarely in the eye. Her gaze was not unkind, yet neither was it childlike or unprofessional. It was the look a chess player gives either to their winning position or their worthy opponent. "I'm Tally Voltaic. Resident gladiator here at the Academy. I fight people from 9 to 5."
Surveying the group once more, she said, "If you pass your entrance exams, which I'd bet a hundred dollars all of you will, you'll get a chance to face me in the training arena." A sly grin. "If you win, I do your laundry for a year."
Before any of the "first-years" could speak, a second-year cadet walking by let out a piercingly rude wolf whistle in Tally's direction. In a split second, the Instructor had him on the floor, her shiny high-heeled boot planted firmly in the middle of his chest. She pressed, and the cadet stammered an apology.
"That's better," Tally said coldly. "Get up." He did so, quivering. "This means that I'm transferring you right over to Sergeant Cul's training regiment."
The cadet's face was white as paste. Quivering, he saluted and retreated.
"I guess intimidation is my MO after all," she said. "At least against maggots."