Isle of Proditor, off the coast of Ecuador. 2031
Rushing through the air at 180 mph in a black Skyly AS69, the fireteam sat harnessed in their seats, listening to Sgt. Sharp yell over the roar of the twin solar engines. “You’ll have 72 hours once you leave the drop zone to complete your task! You already know your objective; I need you to prove you’re the best candidate for the program!” He turned his head to glance at the monitor and continued, “You have to work as a team to make this a success, but we’ll be observing your scores and judging you individually!” He added, “The compound on the island is heavily guarded with android technology. There are no humans on the island, so anyone you see is a non-human. Be advised—they’ll shoot on sight!”
Cpl. Dillon Grey listened intently before pressing his earpiece to respond. “Sergeant! What exactly will we be judged on?”
Sgt. Sharp replied, “The island has extensive video surveillance from space, drones, and cameras in addition to the androids.
“Gentlemen, we’ll be evaluating your reaction time, decision-making, and accuracy. Focus on that; the rest of the test is confidential, and I can’t advise on it.”
The four men exchanged glances as Sgt. Sharp spoke again. “Gentlemen! You’re going in hot, so kick some ass for me! Work as a team, and may the best man win!” They unbuckled themselves and focused on the monitor above. Cpl. Grey noticed a flag on Sgt. Sharp’s arm patch and reflected on its significance. This was what he signed up for. He loved fighting, training, shooting—he loved his country. He was doing this because he loved his job and wanted to advance even further.
Cpl. Dillon Grey checked his watch—about 30 seconds before drop. Nervous anticipation settled in his stomach. This would be the most significant week of his career, and all he had to do was win. Sgt. Sharp’s voice echoed in his earpiece: “Alpha team, drop zone in 10 seconds. Prepare to exit!” The team responded in unison, “Prepared to exit!” They stacked up at the door, each gripping the shoulder of the man in front. When the monitor made its familiar sound, the fourth man tapped the third, and so on. When Cpl. Grey received the tap, he leaped out of the helicopter as point.
He glanced back for a second, catching Sgt. Sharp’s grin, and hoped to see it again when the mission was over. Falling at nearly 120 mph, he observed the island below, noting the trees and the terrain. He couldn’t yet spot any targets but quickly gauged his position and the direction he needed to head. A faint red light and the shadow of a steel monolith on the far side of the island caught his attention.
At the same moment, he checked his wrist and deployed his parachute. Dillon didn’t need to signal the team; once his chute was open, they followed suit. That uneasy feeling crept back in as he clutched the straps of his chute. Suddenly, Dillon was yanked upward as his parachute caught air. Holding his breath, he yanked the cord again, then exhaled deeply. He took a moment to admire the sky, noting how the moonlight cast a reflection on the ocean. Aside from the faint red light, the moon was their only source of illumination. Despite the intensity of the mission, Dillon couldn’t help but marvel at the stars above.
The ground rapidly approached, and Dillon snapped back to reality. After landing, the team quickly unhooked themselves and packed up their chutes. Cpl. Madamba was the first to finish, immediately digging a hole in the sand with his compact shovel. They had been trained to leave no evidence behind, and a hole was easier to conceal than parachutes. They were on the west side of the island and needed to bury their chutes far from the tide to avoid exposure. The chute material reacted with the soil’s alkaloids, causing rapid deterioration once buried.
Dillon spoke quietly into his earpiece, and everyone tuned in. “Listen up; I want to finish this fast. We all need good scores, so let our accuracy do the talking.”
Cpl. Madamba, finishing his task, retorted, “I don’t know about you guys, but I don’t need this team.” Dillon watched as he tossed his earpiece onto the ground and made a “peace” sign before walking into the jungle. Dillon was dumbfounded. If they were being judged as a team, how could Madamba just leave? He was about to follow when he noticed Sgt. Williams already speaking to Madamba.
The only thing Dillon heard was Sgt. Williams saying, “I need you to stay with us; we don’t know what we’re walking into. You can’t complete this alone.” Everyone strained to hear Madamba’s reply, but it was muffled. “I’m not forcing you to stay, but I’d advise sticking with us until you’re confident you can survive on your own.”
Dillon motioned for Pvt. Stovewall, an exceptional shot with incredible physical endurance, to join him. Unlike the rebellious Cpl. Madamba, Stovewall was quiet and precise. Dillon knew they needed to move quickly, so he whispered to Sgt. Williams. “Let’s get ahead of the game. If he’s alone, he can travel faster.”
Sgt. Williams replied, “He’ll die alone too.”
“Agreed,” Pvt. Stovewall added.
Dillon motioned them forward. “Moving out. Stovewall, rear security. Williams, keep an eye out for cameras and drones. Avoid them at all costs. I’ll handle navigation and traps.”
“Roger that,” Williams and Stovewall replied in unison.
As the team advanced into the night, Dillon’s eyes adjusted to the darkness. The moon was still the brightest object in view, though clouds were beginning to roll in. The wind smelled like rain, but they didn’t have time to worry about shelter. The jungle was humid, and they moved slowly and carefully through the terrain. Dillon couldn’t afford to fail the mission. Though his goal was to win, he wanted the team to succeed as well. But his mind kept wandering to Madamba. Would he be okay alone?
The team had been informed that the androids on the island were equipped with non-lethal munitions, but that didn’t mean people hadn’t died here. Dillon’s team was equipped with old M16-style rifles, relics from the early 21st century. The advanced weapons of today would outshine them, but Dillon didn’t mind—he was an excellent shot with his .556 chambered rifle.
Their gear included an advanced laser system and flip lights, along with NVG monoculars for their Kevlar-printed helmets. Flip lights amazed Dillon; they were the size of a scrabble tile, completely transparent until activated, and then they illuminated an area with visible or infrared light. He didn’t know how they were powered, but it was the coolest tech he’d seen this year.
Their jungle camouflage uniforms, assault vests, and small explosives were typical for this kind of mission. Dillon wondered why they needed plate carriers if they were only facing non-lethal rounds, but assumed it was part of their endurance training.
Dillon used hand signals to point to a series of large spikes jutting from the ground. They were made of concrete or a similar material and stood about eight to ten feet high. He motioned for the team to follow as they crept forward, discovering more spikes along the way. What were they?
The moonlight was now faint, filtered by trees and clouds. The wind rustled through the leaves, sending a chill down Dillon’s spine.
Without warning, Pvt. Stovewall signaled a halt. Dillon, sensing they were being funneled into a choke point, felt uneasy. A rustling sound came from behind them. Stovewall motioned for a visual check of the path they had just traveled. Dillon folded down his NVG and activated his monocular, now unable to see without it. The familiar neon green illuminated everything.
Stovewall’s eyes were lit up. The rustling grew louder, and light rain began to fall. Dillon smelled a storm approaching. The team was on full alert. Sgt. Williams moved behind a large tree for cover. Dillon felt it too—something was coming through the brush. He took cover behind a fallen log and some brush. Stovewall found a nearby tree for cover as well. Dillon motioned for the team to assault forward, keeping low as he bounded ahead. He paused to take cover again, watching as Sgt. Williams moved ahead of him.
The trio focused on the threat ahead.
“AHHHH!” — Blinded! Dillon dropped to the ground. He heard screaming. A flashlight flashed across his line of sight again, blinding his right eye connected to the monocular. How long would it take for his vision to return? The light had caught Williams too.
Gunfire erupted from behind him. Dillon went prone, freezing in place. Were they surrounded already?
“GET DOWN!” Whose voice was that? Footsteps pounded closer. He finally recognized Pvt. Stovewall, rushing forward and firing his rifle. Dillon instinctively jumped up, joining the assault, with Williams close behind.
More shots rang out. The blinding light that had been sweeping over them suddenly jerked upward, pointing toward the sky.
They pushed forward, Dillon’s breathing heavy. He could hear the ocean now. But where was the enemy? As they charged, something wet brushed against Dillon’s face, but he kept moving. Reaching up to touch his face, he looked down quickly, blood. “FUCK!” He screamed. *THUD* He fell into a hole.
His left leg slipped into the hole, while his body lurched forward. Dillon’s face slammed into the ground.
“Oh,” he moaned, the monocular digging painfully into his eye socket. He had fallen at running speed, and the impact knocked the wind out of him.
Gasping, Dillon clutched the earth, watching as his fireteam charged ahead. Dirt dug under his fingernails as he clawed forward. Pain radiated through his right bicep and leg. He glanced at his arm—a stick, about the size of a banana, jutted through his camouflage, blood staining the fabric. His leg throbbed.
Gritting his teeth, Dillon forced himself up, crawling out of the hole. “Fuck!” he spat, blood dripping from his mouth—he had bitten his tongue hard. Adjusting his helmet, he flipped his monocular up and sprinted toward the beach.
What he saw before him made gave him the chills. There were two men on the ground dead. A rifle with a mounted flashlight still on, casting a shadow of boots from the two beings standing above the bodies. Dillon was in shock, there was blood everywhere. One man had an earpiece clutched in his hand. Pvt Stovewall turned towards Cpl Grey. "Look." Dillon pointed to where they landed and their parachutes were dug up. The dead man on the ground was clutching an earpiece. The same earpiece Cpl Madamba threw earlier. His fireteam had been tracked from the beginning. It was time for a new plan.
Dillon felt a surge of nerves—he knew they needed to move quickly. This was his first mission as a leader, and it was already going terribly. If he dwelled on it too long, it would get to him. He had to act fast to get them out of harm’s way.
They stood over two dead bodies on the beach. He had many questions, but most could be answered by searching the corpses.
“Listen up,” he said. “Search the bodies. Check their weapons and see what kind of ammunition they’re using.”
While his team searched the bodies and their gear, Dillon kept watch. Sgt. Williams knelt beside one of the bodies, his weapon slung behind him as he worked. Dillon watched as Williams racked the enemy’s weapon and ejected a round onto the sand. Grunting, Sgt. Williams said, “5.56 NATO. Same ammunition as us, boss.”
Dillon stood there, bewildered, as Pvt. Stovewall added, “These are humans. No other intel from the bodies.”
Noise in the distance startled Dillon. “Move, move now!” he barked. The team bolted into the jungle.
“Weren’t these supposed to be androids?” he thought as his heart pounded faster. They were sprinting through the jungle, retracing their earlier path.
Dillon flipped his NVG down and turned it on, but the night vision flickered. He smacked it, trying to get it working again. They were nearing the holes from before—this was a bad time for equipment failure.
“Hold up,” Dillon choked out. The team slowed, everyone dripping with sweat from the intense jog.
“So,” Sgt. Williams panted, “Humans tried to kill us.”
The wind howled through the trees, picking up speed. Sgt. Williams looked at Dillon for confirmation. Dillon nodded. “We were told there would be no other humans on this island.” He motioned for them to keep walking. Pvt. Stovewall checked behind them and said, “We can’t say for sure they tried to kill us.”
Dillon turned to him. “Why is that?”
Stovewall spat on the jungle floor, his face flushed and breathing heavy. “I shot first.”
Sgt. Williams muttered, “Then who did we kill?”
A feeling of hopelessness washed over Dillon. Everything seemed to be falling apart, and he couldn’t stop it.
“I think sticking to the plan is our only option,” Dillon said. “But if we treat the next encounter like they’re androids, we could risk killing someone else.”
Pvt. Stovewall replied, “If someone’s in the way of my mission, I’m taking them out.”
Sgt. Williams shook his head. “I’m with Cpl. Grey on this. What if the next people we kill are human?”
“I was told everyone on this island was an android,” Stovewall said. “In my mind, I’m shooting androids.”
Dillon shot him a look. “That’s messed up, Stovewall.”
Sgt. Williams added, “If we focus on the task and don’t check the bodies, we’ll never know.”
Dillon asked, “Is not knowing better than finding out?”
Pvt. Stovewall shrugged. “If we’re killing humans, what changes? We’ve got no way out for three days.”
Sgt. Williams looked at him thoughtfully. “What if they lied to us about more than just who’s on this island?”
Dillon considered this for a moment before replying, “There are too many variables. We don’t know what’s going on. We need to get into the monolith and get out of here.”
Pvt. Stovewall smirked. “No checking the bodies?”
“No one checks the bodies,” Dillon said firmly. “Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
They trudged on into the dark of the night, uncertain of what the mission still held. Dillon doubted himself, but his focus remained on the mission. He had never been in a situation like this before. When he first arrived, he felt safe. He knew it would be physically and mentally demanding, but originally he had imagined it would be fun—spending a few days shooting human-looking robots on an island with his comrades.
But the fun was gone now. He was starting to wonder if he would make it home. The safety net he thought he had had disappeared. For the first time in his life, Dillon felt truly vulnerable. Still, he was determined to protect his comrades and himself as best he could.
As they moved deeper into the jungle at a slow pace, the wind howled and rain began to pour down in sheets. They had packed light, but each of them carried GORE-TEX camouflage tops in their packs. Dillon’s legs were soaked and cold, his trousers clinging to his skin. The freezing water ran off his rain gear and into his boots.
“Get your rain gear on, boys,” Sgt. Williams said, pulling his top from his assault pack.
Dillon reached for his own gear, but Pvt. Stovewall spoke up. “I didn’t pack one.”
Cpl. Grey slapped his forehead. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Stovewall?”
Sgt. Williams laughed. “If he doesn’t have one, I don’t have one.” He took off his rain gear and stuffed it back into his pack.
“You don’t have to do that,” Stovewall said. “I didn’t think it would rain.”
“It’s my bad,” Cpl. Grey said.
“Well, we live and die as a team. If you don’t have one, we don’t either,” he replied.
Sgt. Williams slung his pack over his shoulder and kept moving. “You owe me a hundred push-ups when this is over, Stovewall, you hear me?” he laughed.
Pvt. Stovewall smirked. “Got it, Sgt. My apologies, gentlemen.”
They moved on together, laughing about their miserable situation. Dillon stepped into a puddle of mush and grimaced—he absolutely hated the feeling of wet socks inside his boots. Every step was careful, visibility was poor, and progress was slow.
The rain had quickly turned the area into a swampy mess. The island was large enough to create its own weather patterns. Jungles work like that—during the day, water evaporates into the air, and at night, it condenses and rains back down. They weren’t paying much attention to the wildlife, but Dillon had already spotted several snakes. “Fuck snakes,” he thought.
His night vision flickered off again. Dillon smacked it, but nothing happened. “Hold up,” he called. The group stopped.
“Let’s take five and keep going. We should be about a klick out from the monolith if my estimate’s right,” Sgt. Williams said, hunkering down against a tree, sitting on a large root. His head hung low, rain pouring off the brim of his boonie hat.
Pvt. Stovewall took a knee and scanned the area ahead. “We’ll probably start seeing a lot of hostiles soon,” he said over the roar of the thunder.
Sgt. Williams glanced up. “I wonder how Madamba’s ass is doing.”
Dillon, looking up into the jungle canopy, replied, “Honestly, if he ran into the same thing we did, he could be dead by now.”
Sgt. Williams lifted his head. “He’s not that lucky. If I see him, he’s going to wish he was in hell with his back broken.”
Dillon smirked. “Goddamn, Williams.”
Sgt. Williams laughed, and Pvt. Stovewall chimed in. “I’m wondering why we haven’t seen any drones or cameras yet.”
Dillon frowned. “I can’t say. This is nothing like what I expected.” He cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, when we encounter hostiles, take them out fast. I’ll take point, Williams left flank, Stovewall right flank and rear.”
Pvt. Stovewall stood up. “Ready when you are.”
Sgt. Williams stood, flipped his monocular down, and adjusted his gear. “Feeling like Clint Eastwood, boys. Let’s get this show on the road.”
They stepped off in unison, pushing through the brush and enduring the rain. Suddenly, Dillon stumbled forward—the jungle stopped abruptly.
One moment he was surrounded by trees, and the next he found himself in a massive clearing, with what looked like a road leading up to the monolith. He quickly stepped back into the trees, using hand signals to stop the others. “I didn’t expect that,” he muttered.
Pvt. Stovewall stepped up. “We’ll have to find another way up.”
Dillon nodded. “No way we can just walk up through this clearing.”
Sgt. Williams pointed toward the road. “That looks like the road leading to the entrance. I bet it runs all the way to the coast from the monolith.”
Dillon considered. “If it leads to the east beach, there might be heavy traffic over there.”
Pvt. Stovewall added, “This island could be an observation post. We should avoid both sides of that road.”
Dillon studied the scene, thinking. The monolith sat on a naturally elevated part of the island. He estimated it was about half a klick up, which meant avoiding the road would mean tackling a steep climb on the backside—almost like scaling a half-kilometer cliff without climbing gear. That might be their best option.
Pvt. Stovewall zoomed in with his monocular, scanning the entrance. “I don’t see anyone. Just a few cameras and a faint red light. I can’t get a clear focus on anything beyond that.”
Sgt. Williams shifted from behind a tree, focusing on the building. “I don’t see a way inside either, but we’ll have to get up there at some point, right?”
The distance between them and the monolith was about a kilometer at a 45-degree incline. Dillon realized their best bet was to travel along the edge of the clearing, circling behind the monolith. That area was likely to have minimal surveillance, and they might even find a place to rest—something they all desperately needed. They had been working non-stop for 10 hours, burning far more energy than they had planned, and they had little food to sustain them.
Dillon knew if he was feeling sluggish, the others must be too. “We’ll follow the clearing northwest until we reach the back side,” he said.
Sgt. Williams nodded. “It’ll be daylight soon. I reckon we set up camp down there as well?”
“Exactly,” Dillon replied. “Let’s rest and move again when we have the cover of night.”
“Agreed,” Pvt. Stovewall said.
Dillon moved on, taking extra care to stay a bit farther from the edge of the clearing. If there were as many cameras as they’d been told, it was possible he’d already been spotted when he accidentally stepped into the open.
He didn’t know what they were up against and was playing things by ear, trying to make the best decisions he could. At this point, it was about leadership. He was their leader, but together they made the decisions.
Casually walking through the jungle, Dillon was soaked in sweat and rain. Stopping, even for a moment, would feel amazing. He caught his eyes closing for longer than they should have a few times, as if he was falling asleep while marching.
The fatigue was starting to take its toll, especially since they had to stay alert the entire time. They moved past some bushes and a few more holes, keeping communication to a minimum. There was always the possibility that some of the cameras or surveillance systems could be triggered by sound—and, for all they knew, humans might be around as well. The uncertainty weighed on him.
The trees grew taller, and the ground turned to mush. “Tired of my feet being wet,” Sgt. Williams grumbled.
The usually quiet Pvt. Stovewall chuckled. “Ha-ha, me too, Sergeant.”
They pressed on.
The only thing to do in a situation like this was to embrace the suck, as the saying goes. It had been about forty minutes since they first spotted the clearing, and Dillon figured they should be close to the backside of the monolith by now. But it was hard to tell—everything looked the same. He checked his wrist compass to make sure they were on the right heading. His arm hurt; the stick from the fall last night had pierced him pretty well. No first aid beyond tearing part of his shirt and wrapping it around his bicep to keep it from rubbing against his uniform. Good thing they’d be out of here in just over two days—he’d definitely need antibiotics by then.
They continued through the brush, trudging past trees and bushes, the ground soaked beneath them. Dillon had to admit it—he was getting complacent. He just wanted to rest. Rubbing his eyes, he stumbled into a branch.
“Fuck!” he muttered.
Suddenly, Dillon noticed movement ahead and jolted to attention. He raised the signal to stop. Everyone knew what that meant: if he wasn’t speaking, the stop signal meant something was ahead. Fatigue vanished from his mind, and time seemed to slow. Dillon crouched and peered through the brush, shifting his head to the left to get a better view through a clearing in the jungle.
Two men stood with their backs to him, talking and pointing at something ahead.
Dillon looked to his right and noticed that instead of the clearing, there were rocks, and the ground elevation had risen. They had reached the backside of the monolith! He didn’t have time to think. If those two men turned around, they would be sitting ducks. Dillon glanced at Pvt. Stovewall and gave the signal. In an instant, they moved as one. Despite the exhaustion, they were a unit.
They executed a forward assault, springing from their cover and firing on the two men. Dillon didn’t hesitate. He fired a bullet into the man on the left, then the one on the right. He planned to perform a box drill—shoot left, then right, then back to the left, finishing on the right. But there was more gunfire than just his. The two men dropped so fast, he didn’t have time to shoot again.
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Before he could process what had happened, four more enemies emerged, taking the place of the ones they’d just taken down. The brief moment of victory evaporated. The two men had been pointing at a fireteam further out of view. Now that team was rushing toward Dillon and his men.
There was no time to plan or issue orders. Dillon and his team kept advancing, shooting as they moved. Time froze for Dillon in that instant. He could see the screaming faces of the four men charging at him, smell the sulfur from the bullets flying out of their rifles.
The humid air and rain poured down over all of them, soaking everything. Dillon didn’t see his enemies as just soldiers; he imagined one as a father of three, another as a man just starting his career, a good friend. In his mind, Dillon had nothing to lose. He simply had to shoot faster than they did. He had to kill them, regardless of the situation they were all trapped in.
Dillon had no one waiting for him back home, but he was determined to protect his comrades. He managed to pull the trigger twice before it happened.
In perfect synchrony, two things occurred: Dillon shot both of his targets in the face, and then he hit the ground, blacking out.
BANG—the ringing in his ears was deafening. His vision blurred. Bullets—he couldn’t see! He tried to speak, but no sound came out. He was being dragged.
Confusion flooded his mind. Why couldn’t he talk?
SMACK—something struck his head.
It burned worse than anything Dillon had ever felt.
“AHHHHH!” he screamed, clutching his face. He felt his rifle sling dragging behind him, snagged on something as it tried to fall from his body. His vision cleared only slightly, revealing bodies strewn before him. Sgt. Williams lay sprawled in a pool of blood.
Who was pulling him?
A familiar face—Pvt. Stovewall was speaking, but the words were a blur. Dillon tried to focus, reading his lips.
“CORPORAL GREY, YOU’VE BEEN HIT. WE’RE TAKING SHELTER NOW.”
Oh fuck, had he really been shot? His mind was numb and dazed. He forced himself to stand, but his legs gave out and he fell again. He saw Pvt. Stovewall firing his rifle. Dillon was shaking uncontrollably, his body weak and fragile.
His head rang so loudly, and his balance was off. He tried to look behind him, turning his whole body because his head wouldn’t move properly. He was trapped in a daze, confusion clouding everything.
His senses slowly returned, though one eye wasn’t working. Dillon blinked hard and saw a mass of bodies in the jungle. The four men who had rushed his team lay where they had fallen, but two more were dead behind Sgt. Williams.
He thought he saw Sgt. Williams gasping for air, but there was only blood covering his face and pooling around him. A hand reached up, eyes wide, and then dropped limply as Williams’ head slumped. He was dead, staring blankly at the ground with blood dripping from his mouth.
What had happened? Had they been surrounded this whole time?
Dillon barely managed to follow Stovewall up the rocks he had noticed earlier. Reaching up, he touched his face and realized there was a patch over his right eye. That’s why he couldn’t see.
Stovewall was speaking again, blood dripping from his fingers. “Lucky to be alive, CPL. Can you hear me?” Stovewall was dragging Dillon, helping him move.
It was a struggle. Dillon grunted in response—talking was too difficult. He could think the words, but they wouldn’t come out when he tried to speak. Frustration boiled inside him.
“We were hit from behind! You took a bullet to the temple! It exited through your right eye—”
Dillon’s mind buzzed with panic. “You fucking kidding me?” he slurred, his voice barely audible.
They climbed higher, through scattered trees and brush, with Dillon dragging himself up with all his might. He had to get up—had to figure out what was happening.
Pvt. Stovewall supported him, saying, “I patched your skull and eye with medclot. You’re lucky. I’ve seen bullets do strange things, but by all rights, you should be dead.”
Dillon’s thoughts were sluggish, but he managed to ask, “Williams?”
Stovewall shook his head. “We finished off the targets in front of us, but the two in the back shot you both before I could get to them. We didn’t stand a chance.”
Blood was still leaking down the side of Dillon’s head. The medclot patch had cauterized the wound, chemically burning the area to stop the bleeding. The crack in his skull, extending from his eyebrow up past his ear, was being held together by the clotting agent. It was literally holding him together.
They continued climbing up the rocks that made up the backside of the monolith. About ten minutes into their struggle, Stovewall froze.
“Corporal,” he whispered, motioning for silence.
Stovewall had been dragging Dillon up, his arms hooked under Dillon’s armpits while Dillon locked his hands together in front of his chest. It was an effective method, but both were exhausted. They lay flat at the sound of movement below.
There was nowhere to hide. Dillon looked straight down, but it was hard to make out what was happening. He saw four figures investigating the scene below. He didn’t dare move—they weren’t in any condition to fight. Dillon’s body hadn’t regained its strength, and Stovewall was spent.
They watched as one man, in particular, searched the bodies. He racked a rifle and held up a round, showing it to the others.
Dillon’s mind raced. That’s what we did! Are these people a fireteam? Are they the robots? What’s going on here?
The group inspected the bodies and then moved off as quietly as they had arrived, heading in the direction Dillon’s team had come from.
A weight lifted off Dillon’s chest. He exhaled deeply, relieved. They continued climbing until they reached a flat spot.
“We’ll rest here for the rest of the day,” Stovewall said. “It’s out of view.”
By now, Dillon’s senses had mostly returned, and he could move on his own, albeit slowly. As he thought about what had happened, he asked, “What do you think we’re doing here?”
Pvt. Stovewall paused, then answered, “We’re here for a training exercise.”
“This isn’t training,” Dillon replied. “People don’t get killed during training.”
“Sgt. Williams had three children. He was a good man.” Dillon took a breath after his long-winded sentence, realizing he had snapped. He needed to dial it back, but losing a teammate hurt more than he anticipated.
Pvt. Stovewall spoke again, “I suspect we’ve been misled since before our arrival. That much we can deduce.”
Dillon replied, “Do you think those were humans down there?”
Stovewall shook his head. “We’re not checking bodies, Corporal Grey. Remember?” His face showed worry. “It’s getting to me. I’m strong. I’m good at what I do.” He paused, “But how do you not focus on it?”
They were sitting on the ground, using their packs and blouses for cushioning. Stovewall sat cross-legged, drinking from his canteen. He took a long swig and spoke plainly, “I numb myself, Corporal. I trick myself into believing what I need to.”
Dillon, making a pillow out of his blouse top, asked, “What do you mean by that?”
Stovewall looked up at the sky and replied, “I was told everyone on this island was an android. In my mind, I’m shooting androids.”
Dillon smirked. “You said that earlier.”
Stovewall nodded, “It works for me. It’s my excuse.”
They both sat in silence, exhausted, staring into the trees.
“I guess,” Dillon said finally. “I’ll take first watch. You get some rest.”
Stovewall shook his head. “It’s fine. I plan to do some local reconnaissance while you recover. Go ahead, Corporal.”
Dillon looked relieved. “Suit yourself. Wake me in four.”
He was asleep before his head hit the ground.
Dillon’s eyes shot open.
Screaming.
He sat up, frantically searching for his rifle. Panicked, he scrambled to his feet. SPLASH. Deep breath.
“What the fuck was that?” he yelled, glaring at Pvt. Stovewall. “Did you throw water on me?”
Stovewall, looking amused, replied, “You started screaming and woke yourself up.”
Dillon blinked, checking himself. “I was screaming?”
Stovewall nodded. “Affirmative.”
Dillon sat back down, shaking his head. “Goddamn, I’m losing it, aren’t I?”
Stovewall looked at him with concern. “Your head looks pretty messed up.”
Dillon sighed. “We need to get off this island. I feel like shit, and I have more in—” He trailed off, staring at the ground. “More in—” He struggled to finish his sentence. “More injuries!” he shouted, frustrated.
Pvt. Stovewall patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve got news.”
Dillon glanced up. “What do you have?”
“I found our route into the monolith,” Stovewall said.
Dillon smiled weakly. “What did you find?”
Taking a deep breath, Stovewall explained, “We’re about 50 feet up these rocks, and the cliff isn’t our way up.”
“Then what is?” Dillon interrupted.
“There’s a convenient ladder. Looks like there’s an electrical building nearby, and the ladder goes up the side of the cliff. It’s steep, but I think it’s our best shot.”
Dillon, dusting himself off, replied, “It’s too convenient. There’s gotta be something bad about this plan.”
Stovewall shrugged. “I’m certain there is. But it’s still our best shot.”
Dillon nodded. “Get some rest. We’ll head out tonight and hopefully finish this.”
Stovewall shook his head. “I don’t need rest. Let’s go now.”
Dillon frowned. “I don’t agree. You’ve been up as long as I have, and I know you’re tired.”
Stovewall grinned for the first time since the mission started. “When I was six, my grandpa put me in a box for five days.”
Dillon looked bewildered. “What?”
Stovewall laughed, “I’m just kidding. It was only three days.”
Dillon laughed too, though unsure if it was a joke or not. “Alright, man. If it’ll stop you from telling me fucked-up stories, let’s go.”
They both chuckled and packed their gear, heading up the embankment.
Pvt. Stovewall was right—the electrical building wasn’t far. It was a small metal shack, about fifteen by fifteen feet. They had made good progress for having been on the island for just two days. A metal ladder was drilled into the cliffside, extending about a hundred feet up to what was likely the backside of the monolith.
They approached the building cautiously, searching the area. The sun was setting, casting a bright orange hue across the treetops. The sky was clear, and a small breeze carried the fresh scent of the ocean.
“Building clear,” Stovewall said after opening the door to reveal only circuit boards and monitors inside.
Dillon walked around the back, scanning for any signs of activity. He found nothing.
He stood for a moment, watching the sun sink into the horizon. The orange glow was peaceful, and he allowed himself a brief respite from the stress. But a low buzzing sound from the shack snapped him back to reality.
Stovewall nodded toward the ladder. “Let’s head up.”
Dillon nodded in agreement. “Stovewall, when we get to the top, I have no plan. You know that, right?”
Stovewall nodded. “We don’t have time for a plan.”
Dillon reached out for a fist bump. Stovewall obliged.
They climbed the ladder, inching higher in the dark. The cold metal rungs bit into Dillon’s hands, and when he looked down, his stomach dropped. He froze for a moment, the height unsettling him, but then he pressed on.
As they neared the top, Dillon paused, this time on purpose.
“Stovewall,” he whispered.
“Yes, Corporal?”
“You’re a good man.”
Dillon finished the last few rungs as quietly as possible, steadying his rifle so it wouldn’t swing and make noise.
Dillon peeked over the top and saw an unimpressive steel wall and a white door. The entire outside of the structure was either blue or black—he couldn’t quite tell. Either way, it stuck out like a sore thumb. The door was solid, with no windows, and looked like solid steel. Stovewall got up, and they stacked on the door. He slowly turned the handle, but it was locked.
They had some small explosives with them, but Dillon wasn’t sure if this was the right way to enter. “Should we try to sneak around to the front?” he asked Pvt. Stovewall. “There will probably be an easier entrance, but more people. Your call.”
Corporal Grey thought for a moment. “If we want to get off this island quickly, we need to finish this now.”
Stovewall nodded and began taking out two small shape charges from his pack. He placed them on the hinges of the door, which were luckily visible. In some high-security buildings, the hinges are concealed, making entry more difficult. They stacked on the door, and BOOM—they rushed in.
They entered a stairwell, with concrete stairs leading both up and down. No alarms went off, surprisingly. “Let’s go up. What we’re looking for isn’t on the ground floor,” Dillon whispered.
They moved quickly and efficiently, climbing the stairs. Every movement hurt Dillon—his bicep was still injured from the first day, and his head was pounding. He felt feverish, like he needed to lie down. He probably had something worse than a concussion, but now wasn’t the time to think about that.
At the top of the next flight of stairs, they stacked on the door. Dillon tested the handle. “It’s unlocked,” he whispered. Again, no windows. Anything could be waiting on the other side. They were in too deep now to turn back.
Pvt. Stovewall gripped the handle, nodding the silent countdown. “One, two, three.”
Dillon rushed in first, with Stovewall close behind.
“Oh no,” Dillon muttered. “We’re not the first ones here.”
Stovewall chimed in.
They were looking over a large, dimly lit warehouse-like room filled with tables and machines. It looked like a place where machines were built. There was an ominous feeling in the air as they moved forward cautiously, scanning every corner. Stovewall covered the left side, looking under tables, while Dillon scanned the right, his focus drawn to the bodies on the floor.
There had been a fight here. But these weren’t humans—they were the androids they were supposed to be fighting. Dead, bullet-ridden androids lay strewn across the floor. They bore human-like faces with blank expressions, but Dillon thought he could see a flicker of pain in their features.
They moved through the room with care, clearing it methodically. Dillon pressed his earpiece. “A team must have cleared this out already.”
Pvt. Stovewall, still searching, replied, “We need to hurry. If we fall behind, we might not make it off this island.”
Dillon agreed as they neared the end of the room. “Let’s keep going. What we’re looking for should be on this floor.”
They came upon a large automated door—the type that lifts like a garage door when you press a button. Time was running out, and they sped up, searching for the switch. Dillon didn’t know the layout of this place; he only knew the floor they were supposed to be on. But with everything that had changed, was it really going to be that easy?
He couldn’t stop thinking about the bullet-ridden androids. Had a team already come through here? If so, why had they left? What had they been after? There was no time to figure it out—Dillon flipped the switch, and the door began to slowly rise.
They stayed off to the side—standing in front of the door as it opened would have made them easy targets. Dillon’s heart pounded as the door rose. It was just him and Stovewall now—what could they do if there were more enemies waiting for them? He looked over at Stovewall, and when the door reached head height, they both popped out from their cover, charging forward.
More robots lay before them, riddled with bullet holes, spent shells scattered across the floor. This room was smaller than the last, filled with pallets, boxes, and other things you might find in a factory.
Dillon assumed this was where the androids were built. Who built them? he wondered as they moved through the pallets, searching quickly. They reached another door—it was locked. Dillon reached into his bag for more shape charges, but as he crouched down, he lost his balance and fell, his hand banging against the door with a loud thunk.
Pvt. Stovewall rushed over. “You need to rest, Corporal?”
Dillon’s eyes were closed, but he was still conscious. “I’m fine. Crouching made my vision get hazy for a second. I’m good now.” He picked up the charges and set them on the door. They stepped back and prepared for the breach.
“Stovewall,” Dillon said, pausing before continuing, “I’ve known you for a while now. There’s no one I’d trust more to get through this.”
Pvt. Stovewall nodded. “I’ve learned a lot from you. Let’s finish this and give Sgt. Williams a proper burial.”
Dillon nodded, lighting the fuse. Boom—the door was down.
Dillon rushed through the doorway first, with Stovewall right behind him. Everything seemed to move in slow motion. A team was waiting for them. Four men in assault gear were positioned strategically—two directly in front of Dillon, using pillars for cover, and the other two on either flank of the door at a 45-degree angle.
Dillon knew the second he entered that this was the point of no return. They were trapped. But instinct took over, and he pulled the trigger, sending rounds toward his first target.
Pvt. Stovewall fired at the man on the right flank. At that same moment, Dillon was struck in the chest by multiple rounds, the impact throwing him backward. His rifle flew from his grasp as he fell toward the ground.
Stovewall fired again, but was hit several times, one round tearing into his leg. He went down screaming.
Everything felt like it was moving in slow motion for Dillon. He could think clearly, and in those moments, he knew it was over.
Bullets whizzed past his head, and he knew his time was up. Dillon hit the ground hard. BANG BANG—he took another hit, though he wasn’t sure where. His left arm wouldn’t move.
With the last of his strength, he lifted his rifle in one hand, trying to aim at the second target. Stovewall, lying on his side and pinned under his rifle, managed to fire as well. Together, they eliminated the man in front of them.
But then, just as that happened, Stovewall took a round to the neck.
He collapsed immediately, blood spraying across the crates to the right of the entryway.
A surge of rage welled up inside Dillon. His left arm was useless, and he could barely feel what his body was doing. The pain, frustration, and anger overwhelmed him.
Dillon screamed, pulling the trigger with all his remaining strength, but his shots went wild. He had to save his friend!
But the enemy had a clear line of sight on him, and they fired.
His face exploded, opening a cavity in the front of it. His nose was hanging on by a thin piece of skin, dangling down and touching his face. His eye was gone, brain matter and blood made a cloud of pink mist as he fell forward. Stovewall had made his last shot, and saved Dillon’s life. However, Dillon could not save his. Relief struck Dillon for a moment; he crawled backwards and dropped his rifle. He drug himself across the cold concrete floor franticly towards his last friend. He was okay right? They would all be okay
He was grunting making his way over to Stovewall with haste. He shook Stovewall by the arm, he was propped up against the crate with a blank expression on his face and his mouth was open. “Hey!” Dillon kept shaking him. “Private?” ...“Private”... “Stovewall?”... He began crying now “You answer me right god damned now Stovewall!” tears streaming down his face “Stovewall! Damnit Stovewall!” he was shaking him vigorously now, his limp body rocking back and forth. “Stovewall.” He paused “Stovewall?” He fell forward sobbing, holding his friend. Shaking him. “It’s not your time!” “This isn’t your time!” he sobbed. He continued like this for some time until the pain in his body beckoned him back into the real world.
Dillon was in bad shape. He pushed Stovewall’s body aside, desperate to access his pack. Grabbing more medclot, he threw it on the ground and then slowly began removing his vest. His right arm throbbed, and his left arm hung useless. The bullet must have hit him hard. Every breath was a struggle, and pain shot through his chest. His head felt like it was splitting apart. Dillon was shaking, clammy, and knew he had to act fast before shock set in. It was almost impossible to undo the straps with his trembling hand.
He managed to slip his left arm out of the vest with excruciating pain and used it to remove his right arm. Once free, he carefully peeled off his shirt and blouse, all while blood steadily dripped from his right arm onto the floor. His entire right side was drenched in blood, and the wound was worse than he expected. He felt along his arm to locate the injury, wiping tears from his eyes as he worked. AHHHHHHH! He found the missing chunk of flesh and the hole where the bullet had torn through.
His arm burned as he probed the wound, fingers feeling inside the hot, bloody cavity. The bullet hadn’t exited, lodged just inside his arm. He gritted his teeth and pulled it out, throwing the slug to the ground with a scream. AHHHHHHH!
“Motherfucker!” Tears streamed down his face as he slapped the medclot onto the wound. The chemical burn seared into his skin as the wound cauterized, stopping the blood loss.
He took a deep, choppy breath, pressing the medclot firmly to his shoulder. The next problem was his chest. He smeared blood over his ribs, feeling the bruised and broken bones beneath. The bullets had cracked his advanced plate carrier and fractured his ribs. Breathing hurt, standing hurt, everything hurt.
Dillon leaned against a crate, exhausted and overwhelmed. His heart hurt worse than any physical wound. He glanced at his friend’s body and chose not to check it. There was nothing left for him to find.
Forcing himself up, he groaned in pain. At least his legs were still working. Stumbling over to a water fountain on the wall, he took a long drink. The cool water felt soothing as it slid down his throat—he had been burning up inside. He drank until his insatiable thirst was satisfied.
Light-headed and emotionally numb, Dillon wiped the tears from his face. He stared at the pool of blood coming from the men who had ambushed them. “This is my fault,” he muttered. His mind replayed how he had fallen and hit the door while setting the charges. That must have alerted them. He knew now he was responsible for Pvt. Stovewall’s death.
He felt hollow. The weight of everything crushed him—his body was broken, and his heart even more so.
But then he noticed something that might help. A pistol strapped to the belt of the first man Stovewall had shot. A small turn of luck.
Moving slowly, he stepped over to the body and began unbuckling the man’s duty belt, careful not to look at his face. He couldn’t bear to see it. Dillon strapped on the pistol and discarded his rifle ammunition, replacing it with the man’s pistol rounds.
Just as he adjusted the holster, the body twitched. Without hesitation, Dillon drew the pistol and fired. A single shot to the face caved in the man’s skull, leaving him unrecognizable.
Dillon checked the pistol, ensuring it was functioning and counting the rounds. It was time to move. He crept away from the bodies toward the next door, holding his ribs the entire way. He wasn’t searching for anything anymore. There was no point.
He reached the door, and to his surprise, it was unlocked. Dillon opened it to find the room he had been searching for—a control room, filled with monitors and controls for the cameras and security systems. On the table in front of him lay the item so many people had died for: a flag, the symbol of his country.
What it had once meant to him, though, was gone.
Dillon picked up the flag and stepped toward the control panel, hoping to find a way out.
“That’s mine.”
A familiar voice made his heart drop.
Dillon turned to see Corporal Madamba standing there, rifle slung in front of him. “You’re in rough shape,” Madamba said with a nod. “Now put the flag down. I’m getting out of here alive.”
Dillon’s hand went to his pistol, his voice shaking with anger. “Everyone’s dead. Everyone’s dead, and you want this?”
Madamba laughed. “I saw Sgt. Williams die.”
Dillon’s fury erupted. “You did nothing?”
“I’ve been watching you from the start,” Madamba said. “I’ve seen every move you made.”
Dillon drew his pistol, and Madamba lifted his rifle. “If you think I won’t kill us both, you’re crazier than I am!” Dillon shouted, his voice full of authority now. “We can leave here together, or we’ll shoot each other. It’s your move.”
Madamba, still aiming his rifle, replied, “You’ll kill me anyway. I can’t trust you.”
Dillon’s hand shook under the weight of the pistol. “Yeah, like I’m the one who can’t be trusted! What kind of shit is this? You watched your team die? These were good men! We trained as a team. We are a team! These guys have families!”
Madamba laughed again. “Put the pistol down.”
Though Dillon didn’t realize it, in the past five minutes, something inside him had shifted. His worries, his doubts, his fears—all of them had flown out the window. He didn’t care anymore. He didn’t care about anything.
Dillon was cold, angry, and he had a plan. He leapt forward, dropping his pistol while grabbing Madamba’s rifle in the same motion, deflecting it upwards just as a round fired from the chamber. BANG! Madamba kept pulling the trigger, the shots echoing in the room.
BANG BANG BANG
Dillon shoved him back, forcing Madamba to the ground. They struggled, with Madamba letting the rifle fall as they grappled. Dillon threw a punch at Madamba’s face, but the pain in his body made him slow—he was no match for Madamba, who still had full use of both arms.
With a swift kick, Madamba knocked Dillon forward, pulling him down and toppling over him. Now on top, Madamba slammed his fist into Dillon’s head, striking the already damaged part of his skull held together by medclot. CRACK—the blow sent a shockwave through Dillon’s body.
Madamba followed up with another punch, this time to Dillon’s face.
The anger that had driven Dillon drained painfully out of him. The hit to his head made his entire body shake, as if he’d been shocked by an electric current.
He was stunned. His vision blurred. He couldn’t move—couldn’t fight back.
He was going to die.
Dillon retreated deep inside his mind, searching for an escape from the pain. In that quiet moment, he heard Stovewall’s voice, the memory of his story about being locked in a box by his grandpa. It was absurd, but it made Dillon laugh.
In that serene moment, he remembered what he was fighting for.
The rage inside him swelled like a storm, uncontrollable and fierce. He felt it build within him, the kind of anger that could break through any pain, any fear. With newfound strength, Dillon grabbed Madamba’s head and pulled it close, slamming his own forehead into Madamba’s with a vicious headbutt.
At the same time, he bucked his knees, using all the power left in his battered body to throw Madamba off him. He bit into Madamba’s lip, ripping it off his face. He spat it out onto the cold hard floor and Madamba clutched his face, he crawled away from the mount and grabbed the flag.
Madamba was reaching for the rifle and Dillon kicked him in the side of the head. He jumped on top of Madamba with all his might and started strangling him with the flag. He wrapped it around his neck and used all the strength he had left laying on top of him. He was killing the last member of his fireteam.
At the beginning of the mission, the flag he was so proud of was the reason he was heading in to this island, to do his best and come out on top with his team.
Now he was using it to kill his once thought friend. Madamba lost strength quickly; even injured Dillon had the size and strength advantage over Madamba. When he passed out Dillon picked up his pistol and shot him in the face. He continued shooting. *Bang. Bang. Bang* He continued *Bang. Bang.* Looking on at the body with a menacing snarl to him. He shot Corporal Madamba in the face repeatedly. 17 rounds of 9MM ammunition were unloaded, along with all his rage. He dropped the pistol and grabbed his flag. He walked out exhausted, much as you feel after you are done running a few miles and going through football practice.
Dillon felt cold and angry, but he had a plan. He walked out without a bulletproof vest, without a weapon, and without his camouflage top. The flag draped over his shoulder, he stepped out the front door and walked down the path they had once looked at wide-eyed from the jungle. He made his way to the east beach, where the road from the Monolith led. Sure enough, there was a helicopter—and the long-awaited grin on Sgt. Sharp’s face, the one Dillon had hoped to see.
A crowd had gathered around the helicopter, and they clapped as Dillon collapsed onto the ground from exhaustion.
The next thing Dillon knew, he was waking up in a hospital. His body ached all over, especially his ribs. He reached up to his face and felt the bandage over his right eye. The sensation was strange—he couldn’t see out of it, and it felt odd.
A corpsman entered the room. “Mr. Grey! Nice to have you back with us!”
“Where am I?” Dillon croaked.
“You’re at Camp Renaldo,” she said with a smile. “I’ll send Sgt. Sharp in to speak with you. Can I bring you a drink or anything? Are you in pain?”
“My ribs are killing me,” he muttered.
“I’ll bring you some pain medication. What can I get you to drink?”
“Water with lemon, please.”
She nodded. “I’ll be back in just a moment.”
Dillon closed his eyes, and what felt like moments later, Sgt. Sharp walked in with a tall man wearing silver glasses and a buzz cut.
“Good to see you, Corporal Grey,” Sharp said. “This is Captain Streaby, the director of the program.”
Dillon eyed the captain warily. He looked young, in his early thirties, pale, with green eyes. There was something ominous about his presence, and it made Dillon uneasy.
“What program?” Dillon asked.
Sgt. Sharp and Captain Streaby pulled up chairs beside his bed. Sharp shut the door and pulled the curtain closed before speaking.
“While you were unconscious, you underwent multiple surgeries. You sustained three broken ribs, a fractured collarbone and shoulder, a torn bicep, a fractured shin, a concussion, and a broken orbital. Your right eye was shot out, and you had stitches in your tongue.”
Dillon winced. “What the fuck—”
Captain Streaby interrupted. “You passed the tests on the island, and we didn’t want to lose you just because you lost your sight. We’ve been developing an experimental optic for synthetic eyes. You were implanted with one. It should be fully functional.”
Dillon touched the patch over his right eye, feeling the eyeball underneath. “Why?” He choked up. “Why did you send us in there?”
The captain tried to explain, but Dillon cut him off. “No! I WANT YOU TO TELL ME WHY YOU SENT MY TEAM INTO THAT FUCKING DEATH TRAP!” He was shouting now, shaking the bed. “TELL ME WHY, DAMN IT!”
Sgt. Sharp raised a hand. “If you’ll give me a chance—”
“Go ahead! Let me hear your FUCKING EXCUSES!” Dillon yelled.
Sgt. Sharp sighed. “You won’t believe me, but it was a simple miscommunication.”
“MISCOMMUNICATION MY ASS!” Dillon screamed, trying to sit up but realizing he was strapped to the bed.
Sharp sighed again. “I understand. It just so happened that multiple agencies mistakenly dropped their fireteams on the same day. Because of the secretive nature of the operation, we couldn’t coordinate properly.”
“You knew!” Dillon hissed. “You knew, and my team died!”
Captain Streaby spoke. “By the time we realized what happened, you had already annihilated two fireteams with remarkable accuracy. So we let you continue the mission.”
Sharp added, “You succeeded, Corporal. You are accepted.”
Dillon grabbed the tray and drinks from the medical cart and hurled them to the floor, sending the contents crashing everywhere. “I don’t want your fucking position! My friends died because of you!”
Sharp remained calm. “I understand your pain. But you still have a contract to complete. If you want out after that, we can discuss it. But for now, you belong to us. You have the Hand of God.”
Dillon’s face twisted in confusion. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Captain Streaby explained, “The optic in your eye is connected to your nervous system and integrated into our defense network. When you look down a scope and a target enters your field of view, your eye will zoom in, and a signal will trigger your brain to fire. Your hand will pull the trigger without you even realizing it. You’ll be able to perform at levels no one has ever seen before.” He sounded almost excited as he spoke.
Dillon stared, the weight of the situation sinking in. He was going to run. He would find a way to get out of this, God’s eye or not.
Captain Streaby continued, “You don’t have a choice, Corporal. That optic cost a lot of taxpayer money. If you want to keep your vision, you’ll need to finish your contract.”
Dillon was enraged, knowing now that the optic was likely tracked by GPS. There was no escaping them. He couldn’t even move yet.
Sgt. Sharp spoke again. “We chose you because you survived. You made the best decisions possible under the circumstances, and you ranked in the top 3% for accuracy and trigger response. You pull the trigger faster than most people can flip a selector switch.”
Dillon didn’t respond. It was too much to process.
Captain Streaby stood up. “We’ll leave you for now. But before we go, I’d like to present you with this.” He held out his hand, revealing sergeant chevrons. “These were Sgt. Williams’ chevrons. I’m promoting you to sergeant. If you accept, you may take these.”
Dillon thought for a moment. He didn’t care about the promotion, but he wanted the chevrons to remember his fallen friend. He took them from Captain Streaby’s hand, and they left him alone in the room.
The next week, the corpsman entered his room. “How are you today, Mr. Grey? I hear you’re mostly healed up now! Does that shoulder still hurt? How’s the new eye?”
Dillon looked around the room, feeling like a maniac. “I’m doing fine, Ms. Kayer,” he grumbled. “The vision is astounding. This thing is amazing.”
He made eye contact with her, but in that moment, his God’s eye activated. His other pupil contracted and expanded in a millisecond, sending a sharp pain through his head. He winced. “God damn!” he muttered. “I’m not used to this!”
She laughed. “It’ll take some getting used to, but you’ll adjust. I hear you’ll be shipping out tomorrow.”
He sighed. “It’s been a terrible few months. Thanks for your kindness. I won’t forget it.”
She smiled flirtatiously. “My pleasure, Mr. Grey. Take care!” She walked out of the room in a way that made Dillon want to jump out of bed and follow her.