Oliver was standing in the camp later, going over their findings with Fleer. D'khara and Roger had already debriefed, and were hanging out nearby. Oliver worked on a datapad that was hooked to the hardline spliced from Daugereaux'.

"That's perfect," Fleer said, looking at the spot Oliver had marked out on the datapad's map. "Deep enough in that Cryocorp can't 'forget' about the border and come in after, far enough back from the highway that they can't try to break through. In a curve, so the rear won't be able to support the lead and vice versa. Perfect. Great job, you two."

Oliver nodded smartly, swelling a little bit.

"Where's Little Timmy?" Fleer asked.

"Ah, I'm not sure. He wandered off when we got back. Have you had any luck tracking down the source of these mercenaries?" Oliver asked, changing the subject.

Fleer shook his head.

"Nothing yet. Whoever's behind this is covering their tracks very well. All I can tell so far is that these soldiers are all hired out to a small company named Ready/Impact, which is clearly just a front organization. The ownership is deliberately tangled through a bunch of overseas holdings companies, and the trail is hard to follow. They're also not spending a bunch of money on men. They've got almost a hundred soldiers, but the guys they're pulling in are real losers, junk soldiers, the cheapest of the cheap." Fleer handed over the datapad. "Look at these service records, most of these guys have been drummed out or just fired. Criminal convictions, theft, AWOL, dereliction. Yikes."

"But why save money on these guys?" Oliver asked.

Fleer frowned.

"I'm not sure. I guess they figure it's a one-shot deal, and the chance of failure is so low that it doesn't matter who they hire. I was also able to grab a copy of one of their employment contracts. Vicious."

"How so?" Oliver scanned the document. "Ouch. No hazard pay, no bonuses, no death benefits. And look at these indemnity clauses. Sheesh."

"How desperate do you have to be to sign something like that?"

Oliver and Fleer were marveling over the contract with their heads together when Little Timmy sauntered back into camp.

"Weebles!" Roger greeted him.

"Hi," D'khara said.

"Hey, just coming back from patrol," Little Timmy said, yawning and rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. "What's going on?"

"Fleer's been investigating the company behind the heist. We don't know much about them, some company called Ready/Impact."

"Haha, no way! Those saucetags have been calling me for like, weeks now."

D'khara carefully did not respond to this.

"Anyway," D'khara said, "they have some decent weaponry. Had. That reminds me--" D'khara hefted the two Strauss machine guns he'd liberated from the weapons cache, and slid himself into the conversation between Oliver and Fleer.

"Mr. Fleer? When you have a moment, I'd like to talk to you about a little project I want to work on..."

----------------------------------------

D'khara looked around uncomfortably. He was patrolling with Little Timmy, which strained his patience at the best of times, since Little Timmy was constantly taking breaks for the bathroom, or because he was winded, or there was a bug in his ear, or any of a hundred excuses and complaints.

Currently, Little Timmy was sullenly poking through the woods beside him. The ground here was firm enough, and this far from the water, the mosquitoes weren't so bad, but the heat, as always, was relentless. A permanent film of sweat covered both Riotfish, and the only movement of the hot, heavy air was their movement through the woods, which made Little Timmy's reluctance to move all the more infuriating.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

For once, though, none of that bothered D'khara much. The looming specter of his responsibility dwarfed the dwarf's concerns about Little Timmy's laziness.

"Say, Little Timmy, you want to take a break?"

Without pausing or questioning it, Little Timmy flopped onto the ground and leaned up against a tree. D'khara found a place to lounge nearby, using all the nonchalance he could muster. He nervously rubbed the Goodlove rune on his shotgun.

This was the condition Fleer had set for his little project. D'khara was supposed to try to draw Little Timmy out about his mental illness. Perhaps a success here would reflect favorably in his 90-day evaluation.

"Be his buddy," Fleer had said. "See if you can help work through some stuff."

D'khara looked over at Little Timmy. He'd stripped off his uniform jacket and had it tied around his waist, leaving his top covered only in a wifebeater and his Kealans. His hat was rumpled and spun around backwards on head, and his equipment hung loose from his belt, clattering and clanging as they walked through the forest. The near-permanent sneer stuck to his lip as he stared off into the distance.

Buddy. Hmm.

"So," D'khara said with unconvincing nonchalance, "how do you and Dr. Navarre communicate?" D'khara asked. He was not at home with idle conversation or chatter, and had struggled mightily and prepared extensively for this offhand question.

Little Timmy turned to look at D'khara with surprise.

"We don't," Little Timmy growled.

"Really? I thought, uh, you two were working on re-integrating back into a single personality. Is what Dr. Navarre said."

"He wants to re-integrate. I'm fine just like I am."

D'khara considered this.

"So you don't want to be a single person again? It's gotta be a pain to be switching all the time, sharing a single body."

Little Timmy fished a small stick recorder out of his pocket, the kind doctors use for transcriptions, and pressed play.

"Remember Little Timmy, happy thoughts inspire a happy life!" Dr. Navarre's voice burbled tinnily out of the tiny device.

He pressed the "Advance" button.

"If you're having a big feeling, take a deep breath and consider the other person's point of view. They're having a big feeling too!"

He pressed the "Advance" button again.

"Process your feelings. It's okay to be angry, but don't just stay there! Turn it into something productive as you let the negativity flow out of your body."

He clicked it off.

"Would you want that as part of you?" Little Timmy asked.

D'khara shrugged uncomfortably.

"I mean, if it were part of who I am?"

"That's not me," Little Timmy said. He glared off into the afternoon sun. "I don't owe him anything. Not him or anybody else. If anything, he owes me. His whole life he let people push him around and tell him what to do. His whole stupid, worthless life. Well, not me. I do what I want."

"What do you want, Little Timmy?"

Little Timmy started, and stared dumbly at the ground for a long moment before answering.

"To do what I want. I don't ever want to be held up for something I don't control." His fists clenched around his Kealans and grated their Picatinny rails against each other. "I won't be held down on the whim of the moneymen. I won't be subject to the power of the status quo. I won't be happy just because someone thinks I should be."

"Oh," D'khara said. "Well, that's good to know," he finished weakly, inviting the conversation to end.

"But Navarre, no, he wants to be happy all the time, he wants to get along, he wants to impress people who didn't care when he was hurt, who didn't care when they stepped on him, who didn't care when they ran him out and tore him apart and destroyed everything he thought he was. They didn't care when she died, when they both died, they didn't care that it wasn't even his fault! He wants them to like him again. I had to be the one who had killed them. He couldn't handle it. He wants them to invite him back like nothing ever happened. He wants to smile and eat what they give him and to bow and to beg and to be good for them. He wants everything back. Just. Like. It. Was." He punctuated the end of each sentence by furiously ramming the barrels of his Kealans into the soft ground.

Little Timmy's breath sawed heavily in and out of his lungs, and angry oily sweat rolled across his skin as his wild eyes swayed and darted, seeking unseen enemies.

"That's quite interesting," added D'khara, fading back slightly. "Tell me, do you like pictures of kittens? I think I have some on my datapad..."

"There will come a day," Little Timmy growled in a flat, strained voice. He began ramming his Kealans into the dirt again. "There will come a day and there will come a time and there will come a place and their fat! Stupid! Smug! Faces! Are going to scream! And never! Stop!"

"Hi guys," Oliver said, walking up. "David wants to know if you're going to make it to our strategy session today? You're running late."

Little Timmy was standing, wild-eyed with pinprick pupils, tense knotted muscles clutching his guns, repeatedly curling them in and extending them out, with D'khara off to one side, trying to edge away without being noticed.

Without any warning, Little Timmy dropped his hands to his sides.

"Yeah, be right there," he said in a normal tone of voice, slinging his guns and following Oliver.

D'khara followed Little Timmy. From a distance.