Chapter 29: Witnesses Were The Point

That night, thoughts of Sylvester wound themselves through John’s dreams. He tried to find someplace where he could have alone time, but Sylvester would materialize out of sight and pop out from around the corner. No matter where John escaped, Sylvester appeared.

John ran until he got the idea to find a place so disgusting, Sylvester wouldn’t want to follow him. He lifted a manhole cover and descended into the labyrinthine tunnels. For once, Sylvester didn’t appear, or so he thought.

A voice came from below and spoke in a language John didn’t understand. Sylvester’s face appeared on the back of his right hand. John bit into the skin and peeled the face off in one long strip. The eyes set into the gory skull—and how they watched him—sparked a rush of adrenaline that flung him into consciousness. He woke bathed in the sunlight of the emitters outside, in the hospital, in the real world—or the real game world, at least. He became Dozer once again. The back of his hand itched under the cast.

Dozer waited until Model and Coldcase lost themselves in whatever they watched or read on their tablets. He on the empty bed beside Errorist. “Mind a personal question?”

Errorist lowered his tablet onto the bed beside him. “Okay. I guess.”

“What did you do to get yourself here?”

Model lifted his gaze for only a flash.

Errorist tensed his jaw. “Criminal incompetence.”

Dozer balanced on the edge with his arms tight to side. The position made his hand ache, but the pressure on his body evoked a comfort of some sort. “What does that mean?”

Model kept his eyes on his tablet. Coldcase rolled on his side, away from them all, put his tablet on his nightstand, and pretended to sleep with his leg still elevated. Buttstroke still sequestered himself behind his curtain.

Errorist checked out the others. “The day it happened, the family and I were loading bails of synthetic materials infused with butane. We lucked into the new contract, and the hazard pay would have made the caste family debt-free.” He uttered his words just loud enough for Dozer to hear.

“Our first day, we still were learning the ropes, and my head wasn’t in the game. We had to wear these antistatic coverings over our boots inside the trailers so we didn’t light the whole place on fire. I loaded with Felix. We worked together, hung out together, got drunk together.”

“You guys were close.” A vision of Frantzisca flashed through Dozer’s mind.

“Yeah. So, while we loaded, as we stepped into the trailer,” Errorist made a pair of walking legs with two downward fingers, “another husband, Dezso, slipped the coverings onto our boots. The day had almost wrapped, and nothing big had gone wrong. Felix carried the bail backward, so he was deeper in the trailer. I lifted my boot, but Dezso was having trouble getting the covering on. I stumbled, put my foot through the covering, and touched the trailer floor.”

“Oh, shit.” Dozer breathed the words out.

“The next thing I remember, this burnt coppery stench filled my nose. Dezso was slapping his face to put out the flames, and Felix was peeling the melted fabric of his jumpsuit off. Patches of his skin came off with it. I could see the white of his ribs. The rest of the family screamed and scrambled for the fire extinguishers.”

A shudder rolled through Dozer’s spine. Even with all the talk of fire, a chill crept through his core. “Did they survive?”

Errorist nodded. “They were still getting skin grafts by the time I got put in that prison.”

“What happened to you?”

“I got burnt.” Errorist brushed his fingers over his cheek.

“You said your head wasn’t in the game.” Dozer hunched his shoulders. “Was that because I hit you?”

“Maybe. Can’t say it wouldn’t have happened without,” Errorist looked down at the hangnail he played with, “but I guess it didn’t help.”

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

A silence descended on the room. Nothing and no one moved.

“I’m sorry, man,” Dozer’s lower lip quivered, “I know ‘sorry’ doesn’t make up for getting you sent here, and,” the tension in his arms collapsed and his posture crumpled, “sorry for taking so long to say so.”

“Yeah, well,” Errorist pulled the hangnail off and flicked on the floor, “at least I got my face back. So, there’s that.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“You said it.” Errorist rapped his knuckles against Dozer’s kneecap. “All good.” From the look in his eyes, he meant it.

The weight Dozer carried, the weight he didn’t realize he carried, didn’t just lift. More like someone flipped a switch, like it got annihilated in a nuclear explosion of forgiveness. The air flowed into Dozer’s lungs. It tasted almost sweet.

“Your turn.” Errorist straightened his back and folded his arms. “What did you do to get here?”

“Oh, that.” Dozer groaned. “I beat up my patriarch.”

Buttstroke’s pointed laughter flowed through his curtain. Coldcase and Model lifted their heads.

Dozer called out over his shoulder. “Got something to say?”

“Should have killed him.” Buttstroke pulled his curtain back. “Wouldn’t have been any witnesses.”

“Guess you left some.” Errorist leaned forward.

“Ain’t that cute.” Buttstroke sneered at Errorist. “All talkative now you got backup.”

Errorist retreated behind Dozer and gazed at his hands. He shut down.

“Yeah, he’s got backup.” Dozer stared into Buttstroke’s eyes. “He’s on my team.”

Errorist perked up. Buttstroke’s spell of fear fell away, shattered.

Buttstroke twisted his mouth. “You mean,” he pointed to himself with his thumb, “my team.”

“There’s four of us.” Dozer extended four fingers with his cast-covered hand. “One of you.”

“No fireteam needs two corpsmen.” Buttstroke pointed at Dozer, Model, and Errorist. “Bowman. Invader. Corpsman.” He thumped his fist against his chest. “Roughhead.”

Model kept a grim visage, like he got caught in the rain. He kept his gaze on the wall closest to him, as far away from Buttstroke as he could.

“And Coldcunt here won’t be shipshape by the time we’re sent back to boot.”

If Buttstroke’s childish name offended Coldcase, he didn’t show it. He wore his street face, devoid of emotion.

The son of a bitch said the truth. Dozer thought he’d make the two corpsmen into the deadliest pair of medics Cocoon had ever seen, but even then they wouldn’t compare to the chain gun and grenades of a single roughhead.

“Whatever.” Dozer folded his arms. “This is still my team.”

“Nope. I’m team leader now.” Buttstroke folded his arms and mirrored Dozer. The muscle strands of his forearms flexed. “Because every time you flail, I succeed.”

“Kind of like how Dozer tries to be an asshole,” Errorist got an evil glint in his eye, “but you’re plenty good at it?”

With a quick flick, Buttstroke dislodged the tube that led to the machine around his calf. He closed the distance before Dozer touched the floor. Errorist brought up a crutch and held it across his face with both hands. His feet kicked his blanket off. Buttstroke flung Dozer with one hand.

Dozer’s hip landed on the bar across the foot of the bed. His body crumpled around it. Pain lanced through his strained vertebrae. He slid to the ground.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Model screamed. Coldcase yelled something similar.

Buttstroke reached for Errorist’s neck, and Errorist kept his hands away with the crutch. With a pull, Buttstroke wrenched the crutch out of Errorist’s hands and tossed it over his head.

The crutch clanked against the ground beside Dozer’s head. Errorist wrapped his head in his arms while Buttstroke rained down punches. Dozer took the crutch in his hands, stood, and rammed the narrow foot of the crutch into the meat of Buttstroke’s calf, where the mechanism met flesh.

Buttstroke screamed in agony. He turned on Dozer. The whites of the giant’s eyes gleamed. Cold sweat sprung from Dozer’s pores.

I should run.

The giant seemed to grow even taller, or perhaps Dozer shrank, or both. The light around dimmed. Buttstroke unfurled his thick fingers. “I’m going to show you what you look like on the inside.”

“You could.” Dozer steadied himself and pointed the handled end of the crutch at his face, ready to defend. “But I’d rip up that injury of yours, and you’d have to stagnate in this room for—what—another month? Two?” If Dozer ran, if he caved in to Buttstroke’s threat, he would have to capitulate to the thug from now on.

Model slid between the two and faced Buttstroke. “Stop.”

“There you are.” Buttstroke’s words came out calm, like nothing had happened. He relaxed his shoulders. “I thought I’d have to thrash all your little friends.”

A din of boot stomps thundered down the hallway. Four identical soldiers, MP armbands, night-black tonfas in their hands, squeezed through the door. “We got a problem?”

“No problem.” Buttstroke painted on an affable grin. “We had a friendly debate.”

“Get back to your beds!”

Buttstroke glared into Dozer’s eyes while he fashioned his face into a frozen, grinning mask. He went back to his bed. The pressure in the air lessened.

“Sorry,” Model said under his breath.

“Wasn’t you.” Dozer matched his volume.

“Back to your beds.” The MPs spread out through the rooms.

Dozer dropped his weight on his mattress. Errorist massaged his arm. It looked like he had fended off all the blows. He grimaced while his hand found bruised flesh. Coldcase hyperventilated in his bed.

A notification waited in Dozer’s WarFace. It led to a mission.

Deal With Buttstroke

◆ Deal with Buttstroke as you see fit.

◆ You will fail this mission if Buttstroke deals with you.

◆Type: optional

◆ Privacy: secret

◆ 500 XP

What the hell is secret privacy?