Chapter 32: Wheat From the Chaff

In the debriefing, Buttstroke and Errorist chatted, and from what Dozer could see from across the room, Buttstroke didn’t dish out any of his trademarked barbed insults. They got their pass, and Errorist had pulled ahead of Dozer in the experience race. Maybe he’d get on board with the sabotage of Buttstroke’s leadership aspirations now he had found more security.

The two zeros in Buttstroke’s fireteam made it to Level 1. Dozer half wanted them to form a whole new fireteam all by themselves; the other half dreaded the yoke of zeros on his fireteam. It all didn’t matter. One guy got roughhead, and the other got corpsman, so they’d have to find their own fireteams.

Dozer and Model sat near the door, as far from Buttstroke as they could. Model watched Buttstroke with narrowed eyes.

“I see a lot of smiling faces.” The DI stood by the table in the center. “That always warms the cockles. That being said, the next debriefing won’t be so joyous. After next week’s exercise, any recruits still at Level 0,” he lowered his brow, “will head for the recycler.”

The ambient chatter ceased. A chill swept the room. A third of the recruits still hadn’t broken through the first level. Errorist tensed up. His back wound up tight. Despite the bundle of XP he pocketed, he still looked plenty uptight.

“That means we’ll train hard this week,” the DI turned to look every recruit in the eye, “and the level zeros will go up the mountain with me tomorrow.”

No one dared to grumble or complain, not when it meant their lives.

“Dismissed.”

The recruits pushed themselves upright. Some zeros looked like they just got punched. They whispered among themselves.

Buttstroke strode up to Dozer and Model. “You two are on my fireteam next exercise.” He said it matter-of-fact, as if he informed them of the situation.

Model didn’t react. He looked into space like Buttstroke had said nothing. Dozer elected to do the same.

For only a moment, Buttstroke waited for a response. He didn’t get one and left with Errorist in tow.

The recruits shuffled out the door. Dozer didn’t feel the need to stand. “Welp…”

Model seethed a breath through his nose. “Yep.”

***

Train hard they did, zeros and ones alike. Coldcase arrived from the hospital and found a fireteam that needed a corpsman. He had good timing since he showed up just before they started assault rifle and explosives training. Buttstroke had tons of fun blowing the targets to bits with his grenade launcher. A burn appeared in Dozer’s stomach when he saw the unadulterated delight in Buttstroke's face. Dozer and the rest of the fireteam had to throw grenades with their hands. The roughhead’s grenade launchers had twice the range.

The rest of Charlie warmed up to Dozer and the rest of the recent additions. Filipek and his crew chatted them up before lights out one night. He and his band of zeros wore the white of academia back on Hadfield. Far from being secretive of their crimes, they were more than happy to tell the tale of how they got arrested. They had applied their chemistry knowledge to design new psychedelics and used themselves as guinea pigs. The poor suckers didn’t even traffic to anyone else outside their little cadre. Yet, they got sent into the game all the same.

***

The next Saturday, all the recruits went for their obligatory briefing. Dozer and the rest of the fireteam took their seats first. Buttstroke insisted they get the best seats, even though they all had the same view. Errorist took the favored seat by the team leader’s side, and Dozer used him as a buffer. Model needed the far seat.

Some recruits took their time and got distracted in their strained conversations.

The DI glared at the stragglers. “Sit your asses down and shut the fuck up!” He used twice the volume needed.

They scrambled to their seats and waited for the briefing to start in silence. A lump formed in Dozer’s throat.

“Your AO is the third floor of Hollow Mountain.”

The holo-table lit up and displayed a 3D map of the area of operations. A maze of rooms and hallways encircled a large space in the center.

“While it has a similar urban layout as the first and second floors,” the DI paced around the table, his hands behind his back, “this AO will simulate an uninhabited territory reclaimed by natural elements.”

The DI turned on his heel and paced in the other direction. “While this exercise won’t be in total darkness,” the recruits let out a quiet cheer, “expect to fight in low light. The local flora will give off some illumination.”

Dozer leaned toward Model. “What flora?”

Model shrugged and concentrated on the DI.

“You’ll have access to your WarFace communicators. Officers in the field will blow a gasket if you violate radio etiquette. I don’t want to get news about any promotions lost because you monkeys can’t talk good. Should I hear any cursing on the wide channels, I will tear open your throat, shit down the hole, and patch you up real good so you remember. Is that understood?”

The recruits belted out a “Sir, yes, sir!”

The DI stopped and tensed his jaw. “Before you get your weapons from the sergeant-in-arms, I have one more thing of dire importance. I am sure I need not remind you gentlemen any recruits still at Level 0,” he swallowed, “will go to the recycler soon after the exercise has concluded.”

Again, Errorist shuddered as if someone dropped ice down the back of his collar.