Worlds War One

xiv [Quest]

They returned through the doorway into the stone hallways of the pueblo, one door in a row of thousands. The eight of them all wobbled like a herd of newborn deer standing on unsure legs for the first time. Quest closed his eyes and took a moment to fully realize the extent of his physicality for the first time in his life. Back in a flesh and bone body, he appreciated the slightest stir of air, the rush of blood through his veins, the sounds of everyone else breathing, the taste of dust and dirt. He opened his eyes and gazed upon the sophisticated textures and colors making up the things in his viewpoint—the craggy stone walls, people's faces featuring detailed whorls and interesting wrinkles, ornamental moldings carved around the doorways by a talented artist, every curve and cut of both flesh and stone made with purpose and heart.

His body was a work of art, an autonomous machine that could facilitate the soul, a vessel providing sensory input, mobility, dexterity, and long life. Quest was strong and agile, quick and quiet, an ambulatory achievement that could make things better or tear something apart. He never wanted the experience of being a Ghost ever again. The Great Nothing was not something he ever wanted to revisit.

"Sergeant?" Lieutenant Robinson called.

Drill Sergeant Camilo Cabello gripped the edges of the carved limestone casing surrounding another doorway, shaking like a leaf stirred by a solemn autumn breeze. Quest and the Misfits might call him Drill, but he'd repeatedly heard Robinson refer to him as the Hammer. The Hammer quivered like a man made of rubber.

"I can't...," he mumbled as Robinson knelt next to him.

The man was enormous. Robinson called him the Hammer because he resembled a sledgehammer, six foot six and all muscle. Based on all the physical evidence Quest could observe, he might have been forged from iron. Quest had no doubt Drill could probably wipe the floor against all four greenies in a fight. Yet here they stood while he crumpled.

Quest thought the military had probably picked the four Misfits because they each had particular circumstances to prepare them to adapt to the unexpected. They could face the extraordinary and come out the other side without being reduced to a blubbering mess.

Like Drill.

"C'mon, Sergeant," Robinson said. "You're the Hammer. That mission was fajangled. But we got through it. We've gotten through worse."

"Worse," Drill repeated. Was the last word she'd said the only one that had gotten through to him? He seemed to latch onto the one word that suggested more to come. Worse was not the worst.

There would be plenty more worse to come.

"We survived Raqqa. That was a serious nightmare, and we made it through."

"This was different," Drill said through gritted teeth, still with a vice-grip on the stone moldings.

"He can't handle it," Saanvi declared. "I warned you."

"You asked me to lead this mission. Four greenies and not one of them that I had ever even met before," Lieutenant Robinson hissed at the civvie. "My condition for participation was simply a second-in-command that I could trust."

"Trust to do what, exactly?" Saanvi sniffed, examining the terrified Drill Sergeant. "He's about to wet himself."

"Get up right now, soldier, and do your duty," Robinson hollered right in Drill's giant face.

And that seemed to snap Drill out of it. He released his grip and stood up. His face screwed up into something steely. His jaw, as wide as a cinderblock and set like concrete, appeared to still and turn stern. Yet his eyes betrayed the act—his willpower temporarily managed to override his emotions. He was a man who'd been confronted by the impossible and now embraced momentary denial to get him through the mission.