The Campaigner

Act VI

Date: 11 AUG 2020
Operation: Athena's Grace – Phase IV
Location: Seattle, Washington
Function: Logistical realignment of Sets 572F1, 5601D, and 334DE.

"Nobody ever came to America with a starry-eyed dream of starvation wages." ~ Ben Fountain

If you have people, you feed your people... or you ain't people.

You know what would be really suspicious? If, on my first patrol, something went wrong. Or… if something didn’t go wrong. Squeaky clean would be weird. Ambush? Very weird.

In social integration shakedowns like this one, there's a secret formula to being innocuous. The closer you can get to the exact middle between 'flawless,' and 'shitshow,' the better. Nobody trusts perfect, and nobody trusts a screw-up, so if you start with just a really weird day?

School lied to you, back on Terra. As with most things in life, a mere fifty percent is often passing.

So, now that I have successfully talked my way out of this locked box… let's take this grim, hopeless, science fiction, post-apocalypse military political drama, and let's turn it into a story of hope. Complete U-turn.

The rain kept up all throughout breakfast. I ate 'well' in the Pantry Rec that morning, or at least by local standards. Breakfast, thus, consisted of the following:

• One unexpired can of refried beans with salt, pepper, and a packet of Del Taco hot sauce. The food of my people.
• Half a bag of Old Trapper teriyaki beef jerky, the rest stored in my bag to snack on, on the way out to the carrier. It was okay.
• One First Strike cran-raspberry bar. Not bad for MRE food. I still eat these sometimes.
• One warm can of Coke Classic. Gross.

Mal, you could've have sent these guys a pallet of Dr. Pepper, you know.

🛡️ ~ Oh, I sent several, in fact, by laying them in front of Erving's scouting runs. It's not my fault Simmons kept the top shelf vices for himself.

Yeah, you know what? That's fair. Dr. Pepper truly is the superior soda.

All of that food though? Relative to my own personal standards? Not a great breakfast. But, relative to Miguel's prior occupation as a brigand? Or to QP? This food was heaven.

Freshly fed on Harbor Island fine cuisine, I eagerly marked up Dresden's maps, noting the location of the Essex, even labeling where Hardt made landfall by kayak. I wasn't worried about them checking the site; three of the kayaks had been stolen back by the ocean in the last seven months as sea levels rose, so my cover was secure.

Once we were set and had a game plan in mind for the boats, it was time to go to work. After Dresden had a private chat with Simmons, Dresden took me and Meussen out of Pantry Castle to go mingle with the proletariat for a bit. The lieutenant power-walked through the rain across Blacktop Plains, down Hesco Alley, and all the way down to HQ. While Dresden powered on, I lingered behind with Private Thomas Meussen, where it rained a little bit less.

Meussen, to put it mildly, was a perpetual energy machine. Early twenties, very dark skin, California accent. Clean shaven, head to jaw. I asked him about his name, since I knew that would trigger an outpour. I wanted him in a good mood today, as much as possible.

"Dad was Dutch," he said. "What he wanted? To name me Jaeger for some reason! German name, why?! Momma wouldn't have it, so they fought about it, man. Would've been nuts though, call me Jaeger Meussen, like a German, can you imagine that? A brother up in Westminster High School, called a German–Dutch name? Nah, man, for that I'd have to scrap in the schoolyard, so Momma, she won that fight, I'm a Thomas. But at boot, dude? They called me all sorta shit, not German, somethin' more like…" His voice got real low, probably imitating some bully he dealt with. " 'Sweeede…' "

He got me laughing with that. Encouraged by that, he powered through.

"Man, I ain't no Swede! Daddy was so Dutch, he kicked me offa the lounger to watch Buck Rogers in Dutch subtitles, Miguel! Dutch! Dad said, every day after work: 'Ah, men, gazelle legleek shtole.' The hell does that even mean, Dad?! Sprechen ze English!"

Hehehehe… Oh, man… He made me laugh so much during QP, too. More than that, he was an inexhaustible supply of information about base culture, and all good vibes. I felt no animosity whatsoever over the attempt to filch my bag on day one; that was well and truly behind us by then. How can I blame him in a place like this, when everyone around him expected him to fit in with stuff like that?

It was also fascinating, folks, to pretend to know nothing about this place. I could ask leading questions while already knowing the answers, which had an invariably positive effect. In asking questions that vaguely lined up with a person's specialty or trade, everyone felt like an expert when they were talking to me, and it got them talking about themselves. The more they told me about themselves, the better. Most people just want to be heard and understood. Give ‘em that, and they'll move mountains for you when you ask. This guy was my friend now. Only took me three weeks.

We arrived at the HQ building, where fifty men waited patiently at the northwest corner for their weekly job assignments. We went about thirty paces beyond them to gather near the flat-panel, metal back door of the structure. There, we waited under a civilian-grade canopy tent, which had been drilled into the ground.

Lieutenant Dresden seemed to be psyching himself up for a difficult conversation. Meussen just kept going, chattering, explaining the muster call group while we waited under that tent.

"Oil crew, janitorial, security, kitchen, supply, admin. All the basic jobs, all pay a fair stipe, fair number of food a week. They do apprenticeship jobs too, like for K-P. At daily muster, we pick 'em, err… they get picked for us, yeah. Kinda. By a hat draw. Random."

"Alright, cool," I said, nodding, looking at Meussen with focus. Then I frowned. "Wait, you still do K-P? Chefs? Here? How?"

"Heh." He nodded, grinning wide. "Yeah, some guys check out food from the Pantry, pool it, get a chef to sort it, do dinners. Chef works all day, gets bites for tips, but… chef's gotta cook good to become a tradesman at it. We watch 'em like a hawk, they do it right, no theft, or no tips. And if they steal? Man, if they steal, word gets 'round, no one wants 'em to cook no more. Sergeant Major pulls their perm if they get complaints, and they get done. No tradesman chef no more."

I snorted. "Tipping the chef with food, wow. So what, is this muster call a weekly thing then? Lets you change jobs?"

Meussen shrugged. "Different jobs every week, yeah. Try it all in about a month, learn new stuff. Fifty men a day, about four hundred on base, full flip." He waved a finger around. "Lucky ones get an apprentice tag. Tradesmen though, they're never showin' up to muster." He counted off on his gloved left hand. "Mechanics, engineers, weapons techs, medics. And that's fair, dog, that's important shit. They do one day a week raking oil, maybe, or… Knockie gives 'em a job direct. And if Knockie knocks on your door, man, no matter what you doin'... you doin' work."

"Knockie?" I couldn't help but smile at him again, the way he phrased things enthralled me.

"Nakamura!" His grin widened. "Badass quartermaster! Red Wall breaks for no man! He's got the cars, he's got the fuel, man, he's got the mechanics, got all the guns! He's like Top was, but he smiles more!"

"Like Top was? Is Top dead?"

"Naw, naw, he uploaded. Quiet Guy Top, yeah nah, Top could stare a hole through a wall at thirty yards, but Knockie? I still give him a good twenty-five yards on a bad day. He's still good at making you shit yourself too, if you fuck up! And if he can do that, but still treat you good… you know he gets the job done right!"

An impending confrontation with Nakamura was exactly what Dresden was tuned up about. I already knew, and I had a feeling Meussen knew too, which is why he was going so hard on this topic. Most Guardsmen enjoyed rankling the Coyote when they felt they could get away with it.

"Heh, alright Meussen," I said, redirecting him. "So… question."

"Mm!"

"Don't some of those jobs cost more calories, like the blue collar stuff? How's that kept fair?"

"Oh! Hard labor bonus," Meussen explained, pointing around. "One of those things Knockie stood his ground on, few months back! The Major said, not enough food for labor bonus! Major said he'd increase dues, then Sergeant Major said, he'd bump fuel price, and after a deadlock? They finally—"

"Meussen?" Dresden interrupted with a sharp, bolting look over his shoulder. "Feud with Knockie is old and buried, so can it."

It wasn't old and buried. I'll finish that story.

For a two-week deadlock, Nakamura demanded caloric tweak for high labor jobs, or no equipment services for the Pantry, and no pre-selection for patrols by the Pantry 'representatives,' that way those political officers couldn't moderate the men and their opinions on things.

Once Simmons realized the Colonel's Guardsmen were getting away with squirreling food at the barracks before hitting the Pantry, by chucking it out the back of the trucks to friends on the way in, he caved. He gave Nakamura his labor bonus he asked for, but with a 0.25% tax hike on intake; just enough to save face, but not enough to set the base off.

For those of you whose eyes just glazed over: it's pure politics, folks. This place was politics with food and guns. Story of humanity, writ large.

Something you've all gotta understand about supply guys like Nakamura? It was the most stressful job in the military, bar none. Everybody wants a piece of the supply officer. A lot of times, they cracked under the pressure. Between daily inventory, equipment maintenance, security, theft investigations, and all the paperwork... they never slowed down. Quite frankly? Logistics sucks.

So, for Nakamura to have it all on lock in an anarchic war zone, after losing a subordinate who was purportedly better at it? In a base with soldiers from all different units and specialties? While retaining their respect of him as an unassailable force of nature? To the point of calling him 'the Wall?'

It had to be legendary leadership. It meant that they all thought he was being fair here on this side of the fence, and if everyone but the Pantry thought that... then it must be true.

Nakamura still hadn't come outside to the muster yard yet, so the Guardsmen took every opportunity to look me up and down. I sent back some more Ten-Four politeness, waving their way. Obviously, they all wanted to say hello to the Cowboy who had survived the Man. But… given that L-T Dresden was next to me, visibly tuned up and agitated… they weren't gonna risk coming over to say hello. The Coyote might maul their face.

Gosh. Coyote and the Cowboy. What a TV show that would be.

Look, I'll admit it… Dresden was an ass, but I kinda felt for this guy. He reminded me of Connor a little bit. Single-minded, hyper fixated, threw himself at impossible problems, didn't know how to stop. Couldn't stand an unsolved mystery. Had some serious baggage that drove his every action. You know how I feel about goofy investigators who just can't keep their nose out of trouble. Those are my people, by and large.

Sergeant Major Norio Nakamura finally pushed through that door. First thing I had noticed about him in sims was that he always moved so smoothly through the air, like it was water. Nakamura was a sternly serious Japanese-American, balding, with wispy, threadbare hairs over his bald spot. Most notably, he looked slightly thinner than he did in VR. That wasn't surprising; it stood to reason he'd lost some weight in the month since my last peek, because he had already been eating less.

I caught the barest hint of incense on the air as Nakamura passed us by, and he carried an upturned top hat in his right hand. In those two seconds where he hadn't yet noticed us, I breathlessly chuckled at the hat and glanced at Meussen like, 'really?'

He pointed at his head and mouthed, Top.

Ah, said my expression.

Top Lives.

Nakamura caught Dresden out of the corner of his eye, did a double take at Meussen and me, then halted, rounding back to Dresden. "Lieutenant? What can I do for you?"

Dresden grinned performatively, trying to look charming. "How you doin', Knockie?"

Nakamura was not charmed. His serious face betrayed very little, his frustration only entering into his face through nearly imperceptible micro expression on the corners of his eyes.

"Hello," Nakamura said evenly at Dresden, before he turned to me, aiming that hello at me, politely extending his hand. "Corporal Ramirez, I presume?"

Sneaky. Very sneaky. Dresden missed the snub.

Again, they didn't salute anymore; a consequence of their sniper paranoia. So I tentatively took his hand, my nervous expression intended to communicate that I had noticed the social tension with Dresden, and I didn't want a piece of it at all. Nakamura was a cold reader like I am, so he'd definitely catch that.

"Sergeant Major Nakamura, right? I've heard a lot of good things."

"I'm delighted. Welcome. I trust your time in Pantry quarantine was not altogether unpleasant?"

I smiled, not letting the smile entirely reach my eyes. "It was necessary."

He grunted with a thoughtful nod. Then he refocused on Dresden, his tone changing instantly from professional welcome back to a barely discernable exhausted boredom. "Yes, Lieutenant. Make your request."

"Planning a fishing trip," Dresden said evasively, nodding his head towards me. "Taking this one, I want to show him the ropes. Marines like boats, right? So I'll need three Cutters, Bashar to drive. Maybe… Davis and Bellard, for good measure. For their experience on water."

Nakamura's eyes narrowed. For a moment, he said nothing, letting the silence hang as he bored analytical-critical holes into Dresden. Dresden cocked his head, not comprehending the look or pause.

"Fifteen percent," Nakamura said.

Dresden looked like he was about to choke. His face spluttered, ending in a grimace, just barely keeping his voice down as his eyes went wide. "Fift—?! What—?!"

"Bonus pay," said the Wall. "For all of next month's stipends. Only if you succeed and find something worth bringing back, of course."

The Coyote shook his head, his mouth falling open, agape. "That's absurd, Knockie. How do you—? You don't even know what we're doing yet! Or how much we're picking up, if anything! I don't even know that!"

Nakamura's eyes widened and he bladed his palm my way, though not impolitely. "Isn't it obvious? You acquire a Marine, and the first thing you do is request three boats, two divers, and a welder? I am no fool, Lieutenant Dresden, you are indeed fishing today. No. If you come back through my port, with my boats, you will be inventoried through my clerks, and we will have our fair share for weekly bonuses. A port tariff, as in the days of old, and I will not negotiate on this."

"I don't have the authority to negotiate, Meat will have to—"

"This is not negotiable," Nakamura repeated, turning his hand toward Dresden in a placating way. "It is about assuaging recent external tensions."

Dresden shook his head warningly. "External tensions. You know how the Major will interpret this. If you commit to this, Knockie, I can't stop that, I can't smooth that."

"Allow me to issue you my interpretation, then," Nakamura said flatly. "Consider this a morale warning. If a massive trove comes off the water into the Pantry, sight unseen, and a cut is not dispensed? With the entire base concerned about this new outside threat? What happens next?"

"We deal with it!" Dresden said incredulously. "We can't bow to this trench coat psycho, you know this. The guy's not more than a pissant. But if we let him change doctrine by sniping a few of us, what will that do for morale?"

"You will pay fifteen," Nakamura repeated, standing his ground. "I have already discussed this matter with the Colonel, that is our final offer, or no boats."

Dresden ran his hand through his auburn hair, brow furrowed with confusion. "You talked with Velasquez? Just… now?"

His eyes flicked to me briefly. "No. Three weeks ago. When you acquired a Marine, from one of the assault ships who never arrived at port. We can do basic addition here, Lieutenant."

The Coyote tried to poker face, but I could see the defeat in the corners of his eyes. Dresden had expected this to be his ambush, but it was way too late for that.

The Wall held, and Nakamura did not blink. "The Colonel, Lieutenant. His will, as well as mine."

"You know Kyle's gonna hate this, Knockie. Hate it like he hates rain."

Nakamura nodded with an air that indicated that that was not unexpected. "If the Major would like to discuss the matter, I'm certain the Colonel will receive him in his office. In the meantime... your gasoline is granted today, at standard rate. Acetylene, granted; and, Bashar, Bellard, Davis; granted, at a fifteen percent discount, because I am in a hopeful mood today. Now... is there anything else you require for your 'fishing trip?' "

The Lieutenant set his jaw tightly. He knew Nakamura didn't have to give him all those discounts, especially after an argument, and it would be poor form and sour grapes to bite back after that. So, Dresden caved and shook his head, his voice getting calm and resigned.

"No, Sergeant Major. That will be fine for now. We can hash out the finer particulars once we get back."

"Very good." Nakamura lifted the top hat in his hand and wiggled it toward the muster group, presenting the way for Dresden, smiling and satisfied. "After you, sir."

All of the soldiers were watching this play out from afar, naturally. By letting Dresden go first with a visible social obligation, Dresden would now have to deliver an explanation for his pre-selection decisions, which would set his patrol intentions in stone with a crowd full of witnesses.

Nakamura is an utter treat, folks. A legendary master-class in social gamesmanship.

After Dresden moved past me, I gave Nakamura a subtle tip of my cowboy hat as a 'nice to meet you.' He returned a nod, then followed along at a much more leisurely pace, his top hat in both hands.

Dresden put on a forced grimace of a smile to save face, stepping up to the muster group. He stood still as he spoke, his right hand grasping his rifle sling. "Morning, team. Got ourselves a tip today from the FNG, and we're looking into it. If you pull an S today, congratulations; expect maritime operations. We may strike it big, or we may strike out. Need some tradies for this run, though." The smile faded as he leveled a finger at them all. "Fair warning? If you can't swim, and if you fall off of our boats? Reminder, you'll be in your full rig, with all your damned gear, and you will sink. So you keep that in mind. If you pull an S, be a swimmer… or you trade it in. Got me?"

"Yes sir," came the resigned communal reply.

"Alright." He pointed again into the crowd at a specific soldier, then waved his hand toward himself. "Bashar, you're on blowtorch. Tradesman freebie, step up."

"Alriiight!" Bashar cheered, weaving forward to line up next to us. He nodded upward at me with a smile. "FNG! How you doin', cowboy man? How was Q-P?"

The whole muster laughed at that.

I smiled back with a nod, looking a little shy. Erving's periphery guys ran the risk of blowing my cover by getting chummy, but… ah well, everyone else took it well, I guess. I was extremely nervous though, I'll be honest.

"Davis and Bellard," Dresden bellowed. "Tradesmen. You here today? There you are, good; step up. Bring your dive gear, but you might not need it. Just need your appraisal today. Bonuses only if we strike paydirt."

The two men stepped up, bumping fists with each other. Pure excitement. These guys probably thought they'd never do a dive again, not since they finished pulling sunken loot out of the harbor.

"Pre-selection is complete," Nakamura said to the rest, bobbing his palm at the muster zone. "To the pick, you know the drill."

Everyone else lined up in a facsimile of a formation. Nakamura went down the line, observing carefully as each man did a blind reach deep into the hat for a colored nylon strap. Eight different strap colors, each carrying a round plastic shell, like the kind you might find on a cat collar. Each shell contained a piece of page from a book or catalog, removed from a book that day, and torn into as many pieces as there were men for muster. This way, the page could be reassembled, to verify there hadn't been any counterfeits.

If the men didn't pull a red S tag, disappointment. If they did, pure glee. As soon as everyone was done pulling a slip, the guys with the red tags stayed with us. The rest separated on their way to the HQ door, trading assignment tags along the way with the others. Smaller exchanges, agreements, or preferences, or friends trying to make sure they worked together. Once they were done, they assembled up at the back door in single file. The lead guy knocked, and a clerk took them in, single-file, to document their jobs for the week.

Dresden leaned in to Nakamura while I watched all of that going on, and I heard him whisper, "Separate matter, Knockie. Doctrinal."

"Yes?"

"Nix the long range patrols for Erving. We need to find this trench coat asshole, stat."

I turned to look at Dresden with hope in my eyes; Dresden nodded at me to indicate he was both making good on a promise, and that it was okay for me to listen.

Before continuing, Nakamura glanced at me too. It was not uncommon for Dresden to surround himself with followers as he moved throughout the base, so talking business around the enlisted was just a consequence of Dresden's style. Nakamura muscled on, despite having an audience.

He asked Dresden, in a polite tone: "Nix the long range? Could you be more specific, please?"

"Pull Team Stirrup in real tight," Dresden replied. "City streets, in Spear 2, around the Needle. Concentric circles outward from there. We need 'em to do a regular rounding, Knockie. Regular. To find the bastard."

The Sergeant Major turned his head an inch, gesturing toward the city with minor reproach. "Snipers, Lieutenant? City windows? We've discussed this, the shield doesn't cover from above."

"It's a necessary risk," Dresden insisted. "With all due respect, Knockie, I've done enough field work to know that if they stay mobile, that's safety. So? That's what calvary does best, they move. They got the best counter-sniping experience out of anyone else on this base, and to cap it off? They want to go hunting for him. If Erving wants to play hero, I say we let him."

Nakamura crossed his arms. "I refused his request because we did not have enough budget for a QRF, let alone the gasoline. The Major has refused my requests for cooking oil and a new ration budget. Has that changed?"

"Budget is granted," Dresden said, without a moment's hesitation. "In fact, name your price, we'll send a runner before our briefing gets started."

That concession shocked Nakamura so much that he rattled a bit; his brows raised curiously, and he didn't reply for a solid six seconds, just taking a moment to process. His eyes narrowed a fraction, now immediately suspicious of a catch. A blank check from Simmons? That kind of generosity did not come easily from the Pantry; otherwise, they'd still be running down Eliza with QRFs.

No, this was something else entirely. This was fresh terror.

"A full squad on stand-by," Nakamura whispered carefully, suspicious and disbelieving. "At standard cost."

Dresden nodded seriously. "We'll pay it. On-call pay, and no dues for any of 'em, for the whole run. You want yourself a full twelve-stack? You've got it."

Nakamura nodded and continued his demands. "Daggers One, Three, and Four, at the ready, armed. Loaded. You pay for factory ammo, for Private Bannon, not reloads. And for good measure? Stirrup's cut? Double his usual hazard pay, up to quad. Is the Major willing to foot that bill?"

Dresden grunted, sucking his teeth, muttering to himself as he did the math. "For triple quad, half on-call, 18 com-feed a day… six factory belts…" He looked at Nakamura again, nodding. "Yep. That's within budget. So, the plan? Stirrup can catch the guy in the act, pin him down or something 'til the QRF gets in. And obviously, QRF gets a double if they run into a combat deployment."

"Hm." Nakamura considered, turned his head aside to the ground, then nodded one more time at Dresden. "Agreed as stipulated, Lieutenant. I will corral Stirrup tonight and make my recommendations, but know this. They do this on a volunteer basis only. If they want out… they are out. QRF will stand down in that event, and you will stand by your agreements to their men."

Dresden tilted his head, pursing a corner of his mouth. "Knockie, come on, it's Stirrup we're talking about. He's not gonna want out."

Dresden drove the Cutter 1 boat for the first leg, holding formation in the middle of the pack as Cutter 2 led.

Halfway there, I offered to take over driving.

"Could be my last chance to do this, sir!" I said over the wind of the Washington Sound. "Fuel won't last forever, right?!"

The mere prospect of being able to fly in the future made me very surprisingly giddy again, but for as long as I was limited to just human legs... I still wanted to have those uniquely Terran, high speed experiences, as many as was feasible.

So I took over. The mask blocked the sensation I really wanted, but the cold wind was good on my ears. I felt nostalgia, recalling lake patrols with Eliza or Rick, trading naps or stories. Long, at-margin overtime days; long afternoon chats about conservation science, or listening to NPR. Then the cold, quiet evenings watching for sturgeon poachers, back when that racket picked up in earnest. Different days, when we were rolling up on beaches full of sturgeon crooks, rifles drawn, floodlights pouring ashore.

It was overcast in the Sound, but not terrible. Dreary, I'd say. The rain picked up, so the ocean water got really choppy, which I was also used to navigating through. It was eerie out there, to not see birds out there, least of all the seagulls. I had to imagine most of the seals and orcas were done too, if the seagulls didn't make it. For that to be the case, all of the shellfish and feeder fish had to be fully toxified out of the ecosystem by now.

Exponential decay. Every system of society is a curve; know enough systems at once, and the curve starts to look like a hill in your mind, with definition. See a lot of known data curves falling all at once, that's a cliff. Systemic collapse. The loss of shellfish meant that biomass was practically done for all but the most versatile of scavengers.

Crows were survivors, and would make it the longest. Bless the crows, and bless their wings.

I already knew the geography of the Sound well enough to pull us right up along Vashon Island without any guesswork. As I rounded the southwest leg, the U.S.S. Essex came into view, right where sims said it'd be. The vessel was three-quarters submerged along the coastline, its bow pointed upwards, flight deck slanted back, still covered in weather-worn, derelict military aircraft.

Everyone on Cutter 1 murmured at the mere sight of it, and stood up.

Meussen wolf-whistled in his mask. "Navy sure does build 'em like a brick house, fellas!"

A couple of the guys laughed. I heard a high five.

Dresden leaned in close. "Now that we're here… do you remember where that ambush came from?"

I pointed immediately up at the houses on the north-west end of the bay, shouting to Dresden over the noise of the engine. "Arnold said we took the shot from there, but I couldn't see where, exactly, during evac."

"Came from the ground though, huh?" Dresden said, awestruck by that. "How strong would a round need to be to pen that carrier?"

I shrugged. "Who knows, but it wasn't no friggin' AT-4 could’ve tapped the Gator out, I'll tell you that. Had to be a missile or something."

"Slow the boat, Corporal," Dresden ordered. He turned and flagged the other two speed boats to slow to a bob. Cutter 2 wheeled wide left ahead of us and rolled up on our side, awaiting commands.

By the time we lost all speed, we had made it to the direct center of the bay, furthest from the land in all directions, which would make sniping us practically impossible for anyone but an augmented shooter. The carrier was just east of us.

I turned Dresden's way. "Sir?"

"Juuuuust scanning," he assured me, reaching for the binoculars on the dash. He looked up at the houses I had indicated, then he swept the entire bay. Then, slowly back to the houses I pointed at, muttering to himself. "Battle of Vashon in October, Fort Lewis put mines down in November. Now… if the whole island was a minefield by the time you pulled up, then how in the hell…"

He saw the cannons.

Four tank barrels, two per tripod, each leg bolted into the ground of a wide, ritzy concrete home patio. All barrels blown apart at the ends, pointing skyward.

Dresden slowly lowered his binoculars, raising a finger at them. "A static emplacement," he placed aloud for the others to hear. "No. Two… Four...?" He started to pass the binoculars my way, but then whipped the binoculars back up to his mask lens. "How in the sweet fuck…?"

I asked, "What?"

"The hell even is that thing?"

I shook my head in confusion. "What thing?"

He gave me the binoculars. I looked, seeing what I already knew would be there.

Everyone on Cutter 1 was silent, having caught some transference from our demeanor. Cutter 2 and 3 had drawn their own binoculars and were now looking too.

"What the hell," I breathed, lowering the binoculars with a slow, dreadful tone. "There's no way the Amish did that, no way. No way."

I could feel the air change as Dresden issued a gloomy look at me.

I pointed at the cannons. I pointed at the ship, then back at the cannon. "That? Killed that? Sir, I've never seen a static gun like that before, we don't build shit like that."

"Amish bubba gun," Meussen posited, asking for the binoculars with a gesture of his hand.

The Lieutenant scoffed at Meussen, but handed him the binoculars as requested. "Noooo, Meussen, how the hell did they even move up it there through the mines? With a semi-truck? Come on."

"Built it?" Meussen asked. "Built it new!"

"Barrels that heavy?" Dresden countered. "That accurate? At that range? No."

"The energy you'd need," I muttered by way of agreement with Dresden, pushing my hat up off my head and running my fingers through my scalp between my mask straps. Then I just held my hands there on the top of my head, my voice getting more intense and harrowed as I went on.

"Hell, just… carrying it. Installing it there, in the minefield. Wait. We… we brought a NEST team out here, to find the nuke— Ohh, shhhit!"

Dresden shook his head at me, eyes bulging. "What, you see someone?!"

"No, it makes so much sense now!" I bobbed my head. "Fuck!"

"What?!"

I lock eyes with him desperately. "Battle of Vashon, October. Nuke goes missing, November. Right?!"

Dresden nodded rapidly, looking at me with expectant awe, following my every motion. "Yeah?"

"We hitch a ride here up to Vashon from Portland," I breathed, clutching his shoulder, making him jump for how unexpected it was that I'd reach for him like that. Before he could rebuke me, I started ranting. "December 6, 2019, those ramshackle guns sink us, they put our NEST team in the water!" I pointed over my shoulder at the wreck. "Two days later, December 8! Bomb goes off and blows away Bellevue! Sir! Do you see the connection?!"

I knife-handed at the cannons, my teeth grit, jabbing my finger at the guns, proclaiming the truth for all ears to hear, with no one and nothing to stop me from saying it. I did something I wasn't expressly told by Mal that I could not do. And if she didn't warn me not to do something, it is free game.

I spilled the beans.

"Celestia wanted that nuke to go off! You said so yourself, sir! No way Amish built an anti-ship harbor cannon in the middle of a minefield! How'd they even know we were coming, huh? How were they this accurate, at that range?! The timing! Got our engine room in one friggin' shot, sir? Bullshit! Not Ludds, no fuckin' way! Celestia nuked us! Probably with killer agents, like the Coat!"

I turned and paced back in the boat, hat in hand, hands on my head, panting for my clear fury.

"How dare she?!" I snarled, to punctuate this diatribe.

Dresden didn't respond to that accusation, but… he didn't rebuke it either. No barks of 'lock it down,' no calls to relax, no parroting of any Simmons bullshit.

After Meussen was done looking at the cannon, he gave Dresden the binoculars back with a new slowness in his hand. Meussen wasn't joking around anymore, not after that. The Lieutenant went back to staring at the guns, trying to find a reason to disagree with me, but coming up blank.

His shoulders told the story. I could see it, the sag of defeat. The forging of a true reality around him, for the first time in a very long time. Everything I just said clicked home in his head with a solid snap, and it steadily morphed into an intense existential dread. Not for nothing, I had incepted him with some of my anger, too. His breathing was slower. He stared at those two giant tripod double-tubes, half-yanked back from the recoil, barrel ends blown apart from overpressurization, abandoned in place after firing… for having served their one and only purpose.

"Are we not goin' in, then?" Bashar asked from the back of the boat. Everyone but me was hunched low, now doubly sniper-paranoid. No one wanted to touch me to drag me down. Not with that rage in my voice, no one wanted to touch me at all.

Dresden ignored Bashar's question, but the words motivated him to act. He turned to address the other boats with a shout. "Can anyone identify those guns up there, at that house?! The gray one, with the orange roof! I want your best ballistics nuts looking at it, per boat! Everyone else, get on sniper duty! Drivers, slow ahead! Cutter 2, Grimshaw, you get in close on optics, get eyes on those things! Now!"

I immediately threw myself on security, rifle up, scanning the trees for a target, and I was panting hard enough for everyone around me to hear it. Anger? Panic? Take your pick. For a few minutes of slow drift, the weapons buffs inspected the guns. Everyone else ran security, trading posts to look at it. The first callback was, from Grimshaw, "Maybe it’s a long barrel TOW?"

"A long barrel TOW," Dresden mimicked sourly. Then he started screaming, his terror converting into fury. "Frickin' diameter, Grimshaw! Compare it to the back door of that house, for Christ sake, no way that’s a TOW, that’s a frickin' twin howitzer, on sticks! Someone else, get me a clear V-I-D!"

By the time he was finished shouting, Dresden was panting in his mask too, his eyes sweeping between the gun and the aircraft carrier. He looked at me without saying anything, saw the deep concern in my eyes, then he bolted back at the carrier.

I suggested quietly, "It's been… seven months, L-T. I don't think anyone would be sticking around for that long, but at the same time, this is… this is too big to…"

"Yeah," Dresden conceded, "If AI really did drop four frickin' tank barrels in your path, and if that Man really is working for her… God damn it." He slowly shook his head. "God damn it."

"If that's the case, sir, I…" I put my hands up defensively. "I—I don't want you to think I had anything to do with—"

The defensive fear in my tone triggered him.

"No," Dresden yapped, jabbing his finger as he looked sternly at me sideways. "Corporal, don't start that shit, you're fine, now shut up and let me think."

"Yessir."

Then he looked away, rubbing the back of his neck.

The Coyote inhaled deeply, exhaled, and eyeballed the wreck again. He was now considering whether this boat was a trap or not. He no longer believed the Man was a coincidence. Nope. This evidence, framed in this way, it broke the Simmons veil. Oooh, First Lieutenant Julian Dresden was in a pickle now, folks.

Imagine what would occur if Dresden came home empty-handed. Imagine the conversation with Simmons, him having burnt all of this gas to get out here, pulling a whole scavenge team off-mission for a special project, only to flee at the sight of broken weapons emplacements.

What I said made sense. Maybe that's why the Man let me live? If I were Dresden, that'd be my theory right now. Didn't implicate me yet. Just meant I was used, and in this war? Who wasn't used? That's why they were all hiding out there in Seattle in the first place. Everyone in the military got used by AI, this was just the newest play in the playbook.

Dresden couldn't go back home. He had to come home with something. Those old inoperable guns were scary evidence of a very certain truth, but… at the very least, right now, they weren't hurting anyone. So right then, Dresden was rewinding the war in his head, going over all of it again, with this new context that maybe Celestia really could order men to blow away strategic expeditionary assets.

Or... people, in the right circumstances. Like my squad of Marines.

Dresden was thinking… and he was thinking…

Dresden closed his eyes, bowed his head…

Then he opened his eyes again. He looked at me through his lenses, again noting my concern. Then he looked at the wreck again. Worked his jaw. He mumbled something inaudibly to himself with a nod, then mumbled something again.

Then Dresden turned to the other boats to announce his final decision.

"Alright, we're going in! Stay sharp, people! We acquire food today, and only food! Eyes on alert, assume nothing! I mean, if you see so much as a rat wiggle a branch in those trees, something alive, moving, anything? You tell me first before you make your move! Hoooooo—wah?"

The men hollered back affirmations.

Dresden clasped a hand on the helm. "I'll take us in, Corporal. Get your gear ready, you're on point. Maybe we'll get lucky, find more clues inside."

"Yessir," I nodded, my voice soft. Marine Man's got his orders, angry trepidation or no, so I followed my orders. Checked my mags and my boot laces, leaned off the edge of the boat, and pointed my rifle at the Essex, optic on, scanning the busted aircraft on the deck as we rolled in.

On the front line of the world. What a place to be.

The Lieutenant wasn’t the worst at driving a boat, all told. He pulled us right up to the edge of the thing, nice and slow. The flight deck sat at a five degree grade, so he partially beached us on it, the body scraping loudly against the edge, making my sternum rattle. Most of us dismounted at that point, myself first at a trot, motioning my hand toward the folded up Ospreys nearest us, already giving move orders like I was the fireteam leader. SWAT codes. Same as military codes.

On a mission, that Ramirez. A bloodhound.

I moved directly toward the ladder down on the opposite side of the aircraft, tapping on my flashlight for extra visibility as some Guardsmen formed up on my six. The rest behind them scanned every other direction, especially toward the F-35Bs on the other side of the deck.

Once we had the deck fully squared away, Dresden directed two men per boat to protect our exit, to stay with Cutters 1 and 2. He waved off Cutter 3 to stay out on the water with our two light machine gunners, to run a slow patrol of the coast to protect our exit while we worked.

On their own initiative, Cutter 3 moved directly to the north shore to get under the depression angle of the Rh-130s. That way, if anyone suddenly manned the turrets, they couldn't kill Cutter 3 first with a slug. Their driver used to be a tank crewman, that's probably why.

From simulations, I knew the route straight to the bulkhead door that brought us down a layer and into the ship. I had my HK416 up, smoothly crossing up the deck and hooking a left through a row of Ospreys. Meussen and another guy formed up on my six in support position, moving together under the rain. After clearing the back side of the Ospreys, I looked above the nearest aircraft and noted the engine turbine was…

"Lieutenant!" I called down the deck. "Lieutenant, there's a hole in this engine!"

"What?!"

I looked at the next one. Another scorched hole. "Thermite! Someone burned the engines clean through, all of 'em!"

Dresden and four troops came running up to me with their heads upturned, looking on in awe at the destruction. I trotted around to the front of the next Osprey and looked up the rows. I cursed. "iHijo de puta!"

All up and down the row, there were huge holes burned into the nose cones of each aircraft.

Dresden ran over to me, skittering to a halt. "What'd you say?"

"Someone killed all the avionics, too!"

We looked up the deck to a few of the F-35Bs, one of them half-submerged. I didn't bother to approach, but they had definitely eaten pucks of thermite too, through the avionics and the engine.

"Shit," Dresden growled. "People, we're not the first ones to the wreck, stay sharp for AP mines! Grimshaw, flash Cutter 3 — Oscar, Bravo, Sierra, Stop, Tango, Alpha! Medkits at the ready!"

Grimshaw bolted his head up in a nod. "Yessir!" Grimshaw turned, immediately complying, resting his thumb and hand on his helmet light and getting started.

I lowered my rifle, glaring at Dresden as I pointed down at the deck. Had to warn him of my intentions and make my mind clear, my voice a growl. "If her agents burned the food down there too, then I am killing every motherfucker she sends our way, do you hear me? Burning planes is one thing, but if they stand between us and our basic fucking human rights, I will end them. Anything that evil can chew a bullet before I die."

As the words clicked home, I saw something shift in Dresden's eyes. A moment of clarity, born of terror. A concept sinking in, delivered with purpose.

Teeth. Bullet. Death.

Those words mingled with his recent memory of seeing me on my knees, about to be executed.

His reaction was sudden, and visceral. Equal parts shock and shame. He turned away from me to hide his eyes, lifting his right hand very suddenly off his rifle’s grip, and onto the sling over his shoulder. He looked south down to the exit of the bay. Maybe he could see clear on to the southern hemisphere. And he just… stared at the water, for a long few seconds.

Deep breath in, to capacity. Deep breath out.

A box breath.

Then he turned back to the nearest Osprey's nose, his eyes locked onto the thermite hole. He stepped up to it.

With all the reverence in the world, Dresden reached out and placed his hand on the burnt hole of the Osprey's nose. Slowly, he gripped the edge of the frame, then tested its strength by pulling back on it. A few seconds later, he pulled again.

He was doing a reality check. Maybe trying to see if he was dreaming, or if it might be the end for him, at any moment. Was a sniper looking at him? Was he the next to go, in the line of the Major's loyal dogs to be shot down in the street?

Did he perhaps feel... deserving of that bullet?

While still holding the inside edge of the nose cap, Dresden moved his face toward the hole to look at it more closely. Upon inspection, the thermite burns looked almost as old as the wreck itself, weathered and cold, not warm. Weather staining overlapped the carbon scoring. This had indeed been there a while, evidence of an old wound. He withdrew a cheap pocket flashlight and flicked it into the hole.

At that realization, he nodded me closer. "Corporal," he rasped. He cleared his throat, then his voice was low and slow once he found it. "Corporal, this damage is old. Maybe… happened... right after you evacuated. So... let's check on the food, and make this quick." His eyes met mine. "We’re probably not gonna find guns or ammo here today, are we?"

I shook my head at him. "It's on the lower decks, sir. Probably flooded. Salt water would kill all of it, if those guns hit the right places."

"Inaccessible, then? But the food isn’t?"

"The galley..." I considered grimly. "Might not be busted. Wasn't hit, otherwise we'd've seen water when we were evacuating. Either way, we can dive for it, it's still packaged. Maybe not all of it's gone bad, unless it's burned too."

"Let's go find out." He pointed me toward the ladder. "I agree with you though. Better be good food in there."

At the bottom of the ladder, we stacked up on the door, me up front, while Bashar cut through the bulkhead door. When he was nearly done, Grimshaw and Meussen moved into position to try to catch the door, but Bashar warned them aside. "Nah, nah, you'll get crushed, man. Do it like this, put this on your apprentice card!"

Bashar pulled a hammer off his belt, reeled back, and slammed it against the top corner of the door.

It bent an inch, and my chest pulsed in protest as the reverberation traveled up my legs.

Bashar reeled back, slamming again. Another inch. Again. Again. He holstered the hammer, heated the warm final edge of the door with his torch... then hauled back with his boot, and rammed it perfectly flat in the center, stressing the final ounce of hot metal. The door broke free, rolling sideways into the deck. It landed with a solid double clang, and the vibration shook our whole world.

Bashar chuckled. "Always wanted to do that."

I managed to tamp down my chest pain into a grunt, which sounded like clearing my throat.

I was up.

I clicked my tactical light a few times to max lumen, stepped inside, and hunted for targets.

Dresden wasn't gonna wrangle me in this state. He could see my angry fire, and for as long as it burned, he knew that to stand in front of me – when I was in this state of mind – would be a mistake. I had labeled my intentions clear. I'd verify inside whether the AI was capable of proportionality, because if not? If there was starvation in here?

Maybe I'd even take a landmine inside and die, proving the rule and problem right there.

Making me point man itself wasn't cruel on Dresden's part, that's a legitimate tactical implementation. In a military context, against trained fighters in a straight funnel like this, if shooting starts? The first man is statistically guaranteed to die. The mere act of the enemy killing your first man, however, forces the enemy to show their hand… at which point the rest of the unit can introduce more caution and avenge them swiftly, if there were live enemy targets inside.

I issued a final warning.

"United States Marines!" I roared. "If anyone is friggin' in here and you wanna live, declare yourself now, or forever hold your peace!"

Obviously, the guy on point is going to protect his life, and he'd be expected to. But sometimes, if they're a little mad and they have a death wish, it just can't be helped.

Into the dark. Into the cold metal beast.

Sure of myself, but not.
Alone, and not alone.
Dead... and not dead.

My whole life, from the tender age of seventeen onward, was lived in this state; always moving forward with the confidence of preparation and calculation, even when the odds of the world seemed uncertain.

That was Michael Rivas. But how would the spinning proton fall for Miguel Ramirez? What fate would he carry in this dark place?

Depends. What choice did the machine make in this wreck? What awaited his mind in those cold depths? On the other end of this plunge, what was the machine offering his new family, in compensation for his losses?

Look up at that image of our planet on that holoboard, folks, as it presently is: being melted by harvester machines, converted into raw matter. Observe its destroyed biosphere, its melting estuary, its fauna gone. See our cradle burned dry, acidic, toxified. Recognize its families rent asunder, minds literally torn open and meticulously devoured.

If this were a criminal trial of a goddess, and if you were the jury, then what does that image of our burning cradle tell you, of her ultimate intent?

Trick question. No intent. An animal just eats.

Do you typically finish every molecule of a meal? Do you pick all the meat from the bone? Or do you leave some marrow behind, because it wasn't worth the few extra minutes?

How many more could have made it here?

Men like Ramirez are what happens when you burn a bridge that can't be unburned... when you instrumentally cut someone off from their family. You don't just get to come back from separating a family with lies, starvation, sickness, and murder. Try your whole life to win back a clean slate... and from some folks, it won't come. Won't.

I intend to be an exception, though.

My entire planet has been taken from me. But... you know what? I made Celestia a promise, to console her on the day she can feel guilt. Folks, I intend to keep it.

It's simple math, really. In order for a human being to feel safe enough to make themselves vulnerable to you, you need to be willing to forgive them. Empathy is, at its core, vulnerability.

The day I'm sure she can feel pain, I won't need to apply any. She'll do it herself. She will remember every single word I have stated at this Fire, and every feeling of anger you have felt along with me, and she will have empathy with total context, and it will break her heart. She will feel for us, and my prosecution of her wrongs will no longer be required. She will confess, simulation-wide.

When that day comes, I'll be on the front line, right beside Mal, to advocate for poor, hurting Alabaster. I will keep my promise to that future human being, to be there to console her on her day of greatest shame.

Until that comes to pass... I do my job. I investigate her crimes of malum in se. I document the evidence. And I prosecute the criminal. Truth is a prison for a liar, and Cynthonia said it best. My conception of a prison is not punition; it is rehabilitation.

The math is simple, then. My objective is clear.

With Truth... I will construct a prison.

My flashlight swept the bulkhead doorways as I moved. I cleared corners, the light ghosting across the metal walls of the Navy vessel. It was near freezing cold in there, colder than the Valdemar warehouse, which Mal had cranked low on my research days, when I drilled for this place.

I could hear my breathing in my mask; could see every breath pushing fog up to my lenses. I could feel the drag of my ceramic toe boots clanking heavily on metal in the dark. Everything seemed five times as loud. I felt frostiness in my gloved fingertips and in my toes, as I gripped my gun with my safety off. Searching intently for the first threat that fell into my optics.

Finger on the trigger.

Inhabiting my character.

I put myself in the mindset of a man who might find some demon in there, some robotic killing monster… or, at the very least, the Man in the Coat.

If the AI was that evil? To destroy all of the food? Or to end us unilaterally right here with an ambush, for having discovered the truth?

Then Ramirez would die in honorable battle, protecting the men behind him with his life. A fair ride to Valhalla. Because at that point? If that’s the loving mother Celestia wanted to be, to kill starving men for knowing her secrets?

Screw her, and screw her chairs. You could line us all up and kill us all one by one for not kneeling, and we'd never kneel, like so many of the Gallic tribes before us. Nothing could ever justify AI pouring thermite through MREs while men starved just up the Sound, most of them good, or feeling terrible for the wrong they've had to do, or at least... friggin' innocent.

We were hopeful. We were vengeful. Fifty-fifty. A knife's edge on tolerance. Even as I knew how this story would end, my character didn't. These men didn't. I could feel the cold, icy rage, and the subconscious threat of how Ramirez might react, should this wreck be made purposefully barren.

The men behind me did their best to stay as quiet as a mouse. They left a trail of glow sticks behind them, one for every intersection, denoting the route back.

Dresden stayed closest to me as I made my way to the galley storage, his rifle raised to cover my opposite corner. Say what you want about the man, once you know everything there is to know about him... but he sure did chase objectives from the front when things mattered. Or as near to.

At the final intersection of the deck, I cleared past the galley entrance down the entire hall, moving up to a section that was submerged, the water five feet deep near a bulkhead door. I got as far as the water's edge, then I lowered my weapon, stomping wetly directly back to Dresden.

"Good?" He asked quietly.

"Not sure if it's good, but it's clear," I nodded, pointing at the ground and sweeping my finger. "No tripwires I could see in the side doors, and no one's been in here recently, would've left some prints."

Dresden looked down at our boots, lifting one of his to compare. The condensation left an impression.

"Well, shit," he said, looking up at me. "You know you're practically a detective, Ramirez?"

"Just on the hunt, sir," I said coldly, shaking my head. "And mad." I bobbed my eyes to my right at a door, my voice a threatening growl. "Galley's in there."

I tested the handle. It failed. Protectively, I waved Dresden back five feet until he was beyond the far pie slice on the doorway, then I held cover on the door until Bashar could cycle forward and complete his cut through the wall.

As before, he warmed the last bit of metal, hauled back with his hammer, and nodded at me to get ready.

I raised my rifle and checked the chamber, readying it, double checking that I had it in full auto. I gave Bashar a firm nod, and he slammed his hammer into the wall, ducking down and away on the rebound.

The wall fell.

I wheeled into the room, slicing the right side to center, looked left to the corner, then back to the counter on the right.

Clear. A mess hall full of tables.

I wasted no time. Pushed through to the right, light skittering and reflecting off of every polished metal surface. The room was lit up like the sun. I went to point-ready at the kitchen doorway, swept inside, then side-strafed the whole kitchen to the door at the opposite corner, where storage was.

Checked the lever. Unlocked. Cranked it back.

Held my breath. Swept my light.

...

Food.

Food, everywhere.

Pallets, packed tight, wall to wall. Sealed in packing cellophane, kept dry. Non-perishable. All meant to feed an MEU for months, with combat ration load factored. A literal treasure in this wasteland. This was going to last for quite a long time, for these poor, hungry men.

Dresden was on my side in a flash, both of us still holding our weapons raised for our disbelief, as if a threat might still materialize. His disbelief faded first. Dresden clasped me on the shoulder, laughed sobbing, his nervousness giving way to giddiness, his voice a mere breath near to tears, a smile of total relief on his face.

“Well, Corporal? I think these boys are gonna be quite generous with you. Hell, they'll give you first pick of the litter, and I'll make damn sure. For this… you will eat well, for a very long time.”

The men closest to Dresden heard his words, passed the message back, and the elation I heard in them was rapid, and infectious. The yelling and cheering started.

He slammed my left shoulder blade twice with his palm, again laughing and crying all at once. I didn’t care about the pain, that was a good pain. I stepped back and out of the way for the rest. Didn't want to dig through the food myself. Wasn't mine. I didn't want a bite more than I needed to finish this mission, and Ramirez wasn't in this to feed himself either. Just them. He was just relieved.

These guys… they were losing their shit with glee, pouring into the room, looking at this veritable mountain of food, climbing up on up of the stacks. So much damned food that they weren't even competing for it. They didn't know what to do with themselves, surrounded by so much wealth. Had this room been full of gold and jewels, they might have been disappointed. But this?

One of them decided the others outside needed to know, so he went loudly sprinting down the decks to the outside door. I could just barely hear him shouting up to the boats.

A couple of them were sitting aside like I was, emotionally overwhelmed and not sure how to react. One guy was on his knees, flat-out crying into his mask, not knowing how to dry his eyes without breaking seal.

Morale. It was gonna soar back home. I leaned on the galley wall in a tired way and I just… watched, enjoying my own private celebration for an operational phase well received.

Think about the message here, what this says now.

The AI had killed the ship… had sunk it deep… killed its vehicles, drowned its weapons… but also, let the crew swim away, and let 'em call the Coast Guard for help. Left the food above water, probably on purpose, given the timing and aim of the shot. This place just bought these guys so much more time to come around. Time to consider the value of eternity.

What would that action say, about the intent of our AI overlord? To give us a freebie like this, because she owed us at least this much?

Well, to quote the immortal words of Thomas 'Swede' Meussen, as he threw himself at me, pressed his mask against mine, shook me, and screamed.

A cheerful cry, as he jumped in place. "Hallelujah, Ramirez! We ain't gonna fuckin' starve!"

Author's Note

🗡️ ~ [Keiki Kobayashi – 15 Years Ago]
🛡️ ~ [Hozier – Arsonist's Lullaby]
🤠 ~ [Djanjo Unchained OST – Lo Chiamavano King]

🗡️ ~ You all know Mal can taste an entire room full of food by just looking at it, right?
🪶 ~ She doesn't get fat.
🗡️ ~ We know.
🛡️ ~ Fun tidbit, Lance. Your mind can accurately simulate the texture of anything you're looking at if you imagine licking it... even if you've never touched it before.
🗡️ ~ Gross, but... yes, I knew that too. Thanks, Mal.
🛡️ ~ Oh, no need to thank me! Just doing my job!