Chapter 30: Square Peg in Round Hole

The days coalesced into a week. The sandpaper sensation of the broken bone had almost faded from Dozer’s hand. What had taken weeks to heal outside the game only took a third of the time. The WarFace said the injury would only take two more days. A few more days of rest and back to boot. Dozer tracked down the doctor to see if they could replace limbs. The NPC confirmed it but said that it would take a lot of time to stitch the flesh together. It would be easier to spin up a new clone than to put that clone’s arm on a severed stump.

Buttstroke put on his fatigues and hoisted his footlocker onto his shoulder. Since the scuffle, he had stayed behind his curtain, only venturing out to the bathroom or shower. He hadn’t even shot a glance at their direction. Before he made it out the door, Buttstroke rotated his upper body and locked his eyes on Dozer. A hard glint materialized in them. Asshole must have aimed to get his mission and snag the five hundred XP for himself. The air changed almost as if Dozer’s ears popped in an elevator once he marched out the door without a hint of a limp.

Errorist, dressed in his fatigues with one sock off, sat close to the end of his bed. He stretched out his leg for all to admire his functional foot. “Would you look at that? Back home, I bet you I’d need crutches until the day I died.”

Coldcase raised himself on his elbows in his head. “You’re off, are you? Leaving us behind?”

“Gotta find a dolly for my footlocker first,” Errorist looked around the room as if there was one to be found, “and then I’m off to Charlie, but you two won’t be far behind.” He gestured to Dozer and Model.

“Guess that means I’ll be plenty behind.” Coldcase gripped his fingers behind his neck and looked out the window to the overcast clouds.

Errorist pulled his legs under himself. “Sorry, man.”

“Sorry?” Coldcase broke out one of his rare grins. “Hell, no. I’m going to enjoy the alone time while I can.”

“I tried to tell you guys about this before, but I got a—” Dozer’s breath stopped, and his lungs, already half empty, begged for air. He counted off ten seconds while the pressure in his face built up. Once the ten seconds finished, control of his diaphragm returned, and he pulled in a thick breath.

Dozer had tried to tell them about the secret mission. Each time his words approached the subject, he lost control of how he expelled air. It lasted for ten seconds, no more, no less. Whoever handed out the missions, either Ma’am or someone else, didn’t want secret missions leaving the lips of those who had them.

“Ah,” Model raised his eyebrows, “he’s doing that thing again.”

“I’m okay.” Dozer held out a dismissive hand while he sucked in breaths. “I wish I could,” the words caught in his throat, “explain.”

Coldcase shook his head. “Still doesn’t make any sense.”

They all looked on Dozer and leaned in. Model pinched his eyebrows and winced.

They think I’ve got some mental problem.

Dozer switched to pulling his breaths in through his nose to seem less pathetic. “We’ll not let that bastard take over the team, are we?”

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Model glanced out the door, maybe to make sure no one listened. He tightened the muscles in his jaw. “Damn right, we’re not.”

Errorist shrugged. “Okay, but I’m not looking to get beat up any more than I already have.”

Coldcase put his pillow against the wall and leaned against it. “I assume I’ll not be around for this, so I’m curious. What’s your plan?”

Dozer pressed his finger to the bar at the foot of the bed. “We become unleadable, sabotage him at every step.”

“What?” Errorist recoiled. “And fail boot?”

Model leaned in. “No. We’ll do a balancing act, enough to pass; enough to show him as the asshole he is.”

Dozer swallowed, exhaled through his nose, and suppressed a grin. He expected Model to be onboard, but Dozer didn’t even have to explain the plan. Model did it for him. Whatever went on between him and Buttstroke, it must have messed up Model something fierce.

“I don’t know, man.” Errorist’s posture drooped.

“Here’s the thing.” Dozer put his hands on his knees and straightened his spine. “If we graduate boot, and he’s still team leader, he’ll get promoted.” He looked both Model and Errorist in the eyes. “We’ll live out the rest of our long, natural lives under that sick fuck’s thumb.”

Model groaned. “We can’t even do ourselves in and quicken the process up.”

Dozer pointed to Model. “You want Buttstroke in charge?”

“Hell, no.”

“You?” He pointed to Errorist.

“Nope.” Errorist pressed his lips together.

“All right.” Dozer slapped his knees. “It’s a plan.” He looked to Coldcase. “Be glad you don’t have to deal with this shit.”

Coldcase crossed his arms and tilted his head back. His face twisted into a scowl, and his eyes narrowed.

***

An unmistakable chill polluted the room for the next two days. When Dozer and Model brainstormed ways they could sabotage Buttstroke, Coldcase never chimed in. They tried to engage Coldcase in basic conversation, but he’d reply with only a few words before he turned his attention back to his tablet. Dozer gave up after a while.

The day they got discharged, Model took his footlocker to Charlie on the dolly and brought the empty dolly back. They said their goodbyes. Coldcase performed his social obligation with a single wave.

Model helped pull the dolly along the cement road to Charlie. The task needed only one person, but he seemed to want to help, anyway. “What up with Coldcase?”

“Ya think he might be sick of us?” More like he’d rather take orders from Buttstroke. The guy avoided risks, but Dozer must have stepped over a line with him.

“Or he’s scared.” Model shrugged. “I worry about Errorist, too. Reynold has had two entire days to dig his talons into him.” He didn’t call him Buttstroke, and it seemed he hadn't noticed.

They walked together. Silence gathered between them. Dozer had so many questions, ready to be unleashed as soon as they had no one else around.

“You don’t enjoy talking about your past, and I don’t know how to ask this—”

Model sent a glare at him. “So don’t ask.”

If Dozer didn’t ask now, he never would. “What caste were you?”

“I…” Model left his mouth open as if he meant to say something but nothing came out. “What’s with the questions?”

No answer revealed the answer. A casteman would have said. Model was casteless. And that meant he could be… “You’re the fixer I talked to, aren’t you? Back on Hadfield.”

“Don’t understand,” Model stumbled, “what you’re talking about.” His gaze focused on Hollow Mountain.

“You got it in for Buttstroke.” Dozer looked out toward the city across the water. “I think you used me to rat him out to them,” the old man with the birthmarks around his eyes appeared in Dozer’s mind, “whoever they are.”

Model said nothing. He kept walking.

“That’s why you knew me when I sat at your table,” Dozer sent a sharp breath out of his nose, “or knew of me.”

If Model heard, he didn’t show he had. He transfixed his gaze on the mountain.

“You were biologically female on Hadfield.” Dozer watched him. “The DI pissed you right off when he called you Model.”

“He said,” Model’s words wavered, “because I was so damn pretty.” He swallowed, perhaps to swallow the emotion more than anything else. His eyes glistened.

That’s why he didn’t want to talk about himself. He came to the game and chose to be male, and Buttstroke fucked up his clean break from his female body. Holy shit.

“It’s okay, man.” Dozer’s words came out shaky. “I won’t out you. Never.”

Model nodded. “You’re,” he cleared his throat, “not as stupid at you look.” His lips curled into a forced smile.

They didn’t say another thing for the entire walk to Charlie.