Edgar Johnston had a secret. That wasn’t too unusual for a guy in his senior year of high school, or for a guy who’d spent two years on juvie probation for nearly beating a classmate to death back in eighth grade. But the nature of his secret was pretty unusual, especially considering he was a member of Skadi’s Wolves, one of the highest ranked Hunter Strike Teams competing for the championship in the globally popular TransDimensional Hunter augmented reality game. He spent all his spare time—and some time he didn’t have to spare according to his grades—running around his hometown of Cedar Rapids with his four teammates, fighting augmented reality aliens invading the planet.

Not today, though. They had a few days taking it easy from endless grinding because one of their teammates needed to recover from a brief trip to the hospital. They’d decided to jump on the mesh web for a change of pace and play some high-stake matches in WarMonger2050, their favorite in virtual first-person shooter game they’d been playing since forever.

Edgar shifted to find a more comfortable position in the second-hand gaming chair that took up most of the space beside the bed in his tiny little bedroom. The back support was pretty much shot, so he got uncomfortable if he sat in it for more than an hour. It’d been so long since he’d gamed much in virtual he’d almost forgotten how crappy his chair was. On top of that, he used to do all his in virtual gaming with his school-issued AR glasses, which often gave him a headache—his mom wouldn’t allow wall-screens or smart paint in his room. But since Skadi’s Wolves had made Hunter Strike Team, part of the perks was getting outfitted by Tsunami entertainment with the latest and greatest AR gaming equipment, including top-of-the-line AR glasses. They worked great for in virtual gaming, and even better for augmented reality. When Edgar was in combat mode playing TD Hunter, the augmented graphics overlaying his surroundings were so good it was easy to forget the aliens weren’t real. The immersion factor drowned out the sound of occasional paparazzi drones that followed them around overhead like voyeuristic vultures. There were literally people all over the planet who knew his name, or at least his TD Hunter game handle, Maui_YoureWelcome.

Yeah, he knew it was cheesy, but he was half Samoan, so he got a kick out of it.

Keeping secrets when you were internationally famous and had your own stream channel would have been hard for most people, but not Edgar. He had lots of practice. In fact, he had not one, but three major secrets he’d been keeping for years.

“Okay Baconville Bashers, is everybody locked and loaded and ready to lay down the law?”

The voice of Ronnie Payne, Edgar’s friend and gaming buddy since sixth grade, sounded in his earbud. Edgar wondered what Ronnie would think if he ever discovered Edgar’s first secret: unlike his TD Hunter teammates Ronnie, Dan, Mack, and Lynn, Edgar didn’t want to be a professional gamer. He wanted to be a farmer.

Yep, totally lame, especially considering he’d lived in the city his whole life. But he couldn’t deny how relaxing farming sims were, and he genuinely delighted in the idea of growing things. Not that shooting the crap out of stuff wasn’t fun too. He liked big guns and bigger explosions just as much as the next guy. But his life hadn’t been easy, or stable, so the calm predictability of tending plants and animals was peaceful in a way he couldn’t get anywhere else in life. His grandparents owned a farm out in Utah, and he swore to himself he would move out there one day and start his own little homestead. Maybe even start a family, too . . .

“Ronnie, we gotta come up with a different group name in WarMonger,” Dan Nguyen whined. “You picked Baconville Bashers when we were, like, eight, right? Plus we’re pros now, we’ve got a reputation to keep.”

Dan was the second most obsessed gamer in their group after Ronnie—though at times they were equally insufferable. The two argued like an old married couple, and Edgar was glad they had each other. It left him free to keep his mouth shut and focus on the game, both things he preferred over arguing.

Though Dan had a point. Baconville Bashers was pretty dumb. He just didn’t care enough to complain about it.

“Baconville Bashers isn’t that bad,” Mack objected. “Everybody likes bacon, right?” Mack had always been the peacemaker in their group. Always anxious for everyone to fit in and feel supported. He had a good heart, Edgar couldn’t deny that. But sometimes he seemed too ready to forgive without addressing the original problem—something Edgar had learned the hard way never fixed anything. Edgar’s mom was that way too, and his dad took advantage of it whenever he’d been drinking too much.

It was a shame Lynn wasn’t playing with them. Lynn was wicked smart, strong, and brave, even if she forgot to believe in herself sometimes. She was also the best gamer in their group, despite Ronnie’s asinine belief that “girls got no game.”

“Baconville Bashers is a great name,” Ronnie said, sounding testy, “but . . . I guess it wouldn’t hurt to see what else we can come up with now that we’re pros.”

Edgar’s eyebrows rose. Wow. Ronnie actually sounded mature for once instead of arguing about everything like an idiot. Lynn would be so proud of him. Unfortunately, she wasn’t around to appreciate it firsthand. Predictably, Ronnie hadn’t invited her. For all Ronnie knew, Lynn had never touched WarMonger in her life and Ronnie didn’t want a noob pulling down their Baconville Bashers’ rank.

Which led to the second secret Edgar had a lot of practice keeping: his friend Lynn Raven, in addition to being a skilled TD Hunter player, was an internationally notorious Tier One WarMonger mercenary known as Larry Coughlin. She was regularly paid to win high-stake matches for people with more money than gaming skill, and unbeknownst to Mack, Dan, and Ronnie, she frequently crashed Baconville Basher matches to frag Ronnie again, and again, and again. Because Ronnie was a shit sometimes and needed to be taken down a peg or two. Or three or four.

At least, Edgar assumed that was why Lynn ruthlessly terrorized Ronnie in WarMonger any chance she got. Yeah, the rest of Baconville Bashers ate her lead sometimes too, but only when she was paid to do it. It was nothing personal.

She would have made the perfect team captain for Skadi’s Wolves, but the last thing she wanted was to be in the spotlight. So she’d held back and let Ronnie run the show until his pig-headed rashness had finally pushed her too far and she’d led a coup against him. That’d been a month and a half ago, and Skadi’s Wolves had managed with a stand-in, but their team had lost their mojo, and Mack, Dan, and Edgar had lost a friend. When Mack got sent to the hospital, though, Ronnie was there for him, no questions asked. So Mack the peacemaker had asked the guys to play WarMonger, no doubt hoping the act of gaming together would make everything go back to normal. Dan and Ronnie seemed to hope the same thing, because they’d readily agreed without a word about their unresolved Hunter Strike Team drama. Edgar, however, had too much experience with toxic relationships to simply forgive and forget. He couldn’t tell if Ronnie was truly sorry, or just sorry he got kicked off the team.

Only one way to find out.

“We can worry about our group name later,” Ronnie said briskly. “Right now we’ve got a match to win. WarMonger is doing a series of special event matches for December called Lethal Cheer. It’s hold-the-flag mode but with random Christmas-themed bogies on the map as well. Ten-man teams, points are based on flag hold time, each match lasts twenty minutes. There’s a sick bonus for wins by at least a twenty-percent margin that’ll really help get us back on the leaderboards. So, who’s ready to give out some lethal cheer?”

There was a collective groan over their group channel, and Edgar grinned to himself. Keeping secrets was a lot easier when his friends couldn’t see his face. He was pretty good at keeping his thoughts and emotions under wraps, but it was definitely more relaxing gaming in virtual than in the real—though in virtual gaming lacked the physical benefits of augmented reality gaming. He would always be grateful to Lynn for inspiring their whole group to go all in with TD Hunter and achieve Strike Team status. He was fit for the first time in his life, and his mental and emotional health had never been better.

Maybe one day he would even figure out how to express that gratitude to Lynn without sounding like a complete idiot . . .

“Great,” Ronnie said, ignoring everyone’s disparaging comments about his sense of humor. “We’ll be teamed up with six other randos, so we’ll keep to ourselves as usual and go straight for the flag. Same buddy pairs as always. Dan and Mack, you take overwatch and find us a good place to hide and hold once we have the flag. Edgar, you and me’ll strike forward, I’ll grab the flag, and we’ll retreat to our defensible position.”

“Got it,” Edgar said, then took a second to unwrap a stick of gum and pop it in his mouth. He’d programmed his mic to filter out the sounds of his slow, deliberate mastications so he could chew gum during battles without the entire team yelling at him to shut up.

Sometimes technology was awesome.

“Do we know what kind of terrain the map is yet?” Dan asked.

“I’ve heard it’s a random rotation of the usual categories,” Ronnie replied. “Won’t know exactly till we drop. Oh, but some of the bogies are wearing Christmas red, so they’ll pop against the winter background.”

“That’s a relief,” Mack said.

“Don’t get complacent,” Ronnie warned. “Winter-themed stuff includes yetis and abominable snowmen, they’ll blend right in. So if it moves, shoot it.”

“Roger, roger,” Dan quipped.

“Remember, speed is everything. We’ve got to get there first. Just like dodgeball in PE.”

“I hate that game,” Mack muttered dolefully.

“You hate it?” Edgar chuckled. “Bro, I’m twice your size and half as fast, I’m the definition of an easy target.”

“You’ve gotten a lot better,” Mack said encouragingly.

Edgar shrugged, though of course his friends couldn’t see him. “’Sokay. I’d rather soak damage than dodge it.”

“This isn’t TD Hunter,” Ronnie warned. “We go in with no stash. Resupply crates might be few and far between. So stay low, move fast, and don’t get killed.”

“Yessir.”

“Got it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Right, Bashers, I’m dropping our group into the queue.”

Because WarMonger was a variety of MMO—massive multiplayer online game—that meant who they played against depended on who was online at the same time they were. He’d heard that decades ago, before the mesh web, match selection had also depended on ping time, to ensure there wasn’t any lag between players and the server they were playing on. But ever since the mesh web had replaced the legacy internet, lag time was a thing of the past. They could be paired with anyone in the world, which made team balance much more even than previous generations of first-person shooter games. There was a complex algorithm called “the matchmaker” that sorted through the match queue and formed teams based on wait time, individual and group skill levels, leaderboard ranking, and hours logged in the game, among other factors. You could also form a “rivals group” in order to compete against specific players in the open matches.

Average time in the queue was about ten seconds, then the ten players assigned to a team appeared in a team lobby. Everyone had two minutes to form group channels and discuss strategy if they wanted to before the entire team was dumped into the match.

Edgar’s AR display flashed green and the queue screen was replaced by a view of the team lobby with a list of the ten player handles on the left side of his display and a two-minute countdown in flashing red numbers on the right.

“Kas per velnias?!” Ronnie cursed in Lithuanian, a sure sign their day was about to get interesting.

“Uh-oh,” came Mack’s voice, “what is he doing here?”

“Ohmygodohmygodohmygod Larry Coughlin is on our team???” Dan said in a high squeal that radiated barely contained glee.

A slow smile spread over Edgar’s face and kept growing and growing until his cheeks hurt.

Oh yeah. This was going to be epic. And tricky. He’d been wanting to play WarMonger with as opposed to against Larry Coughlin ever since he’d begun to suspect Larry was Lynn. Larry was an elite Tier One player, though, so they wouldn’t normally be paired up in matches. Plus, Ronnie loathed Larry to the depths of his soul, and would have an aneurysm if Edgar ever suggested teaming up with his tormenter.

The tricky part was that Lynn had no idea Edgar suspected her alter ego. Talk about friendship land mines. It was a good thing he’d had lots of practice keeping his mouth shut. Otherwise, he’d have blown it a long time ago.

It wasn’t Lynn’s fault he suspected her secret. Being hyper observant was a fun side effect of growing up with an alcoholic dad, and Edgar had never, ever for a single second bought into Ronnie’s stupid “girls got no game” mantra that even Mack had fallen for. You didn’t have to look hard to see how strong and determined Lynn was, even while she was being bullied. If Mack hadn’t insisted Ronnie let her hang with their gaming group way back when, Edgar would’ve found a way to make sure she was included. Once she started spending most of her time with their group, he couldn’t help noticing the phrases she let slip here and there. She was also suspiciously well informed about their WarMonger exploits, despite the fact that she claimed her gaming skills began and ended with Kim’s Diva Princess. Ronnie, Mack, and Dan were too oblivious or too blind to put two and two together.

“That’s it, we’re bailing,” Ronnie growled.

“Don’t be an idiot, Ronnie,” Edgar said. “We can’t quit a match with an elite Tier One on our team! Are you crazy? We’re almost guaranteed a win with Larry freaking Coughlin on our side!”

“I don’t care if he’s passing out bonuses like Halloween candy, I’m not playing on his team! He’s a psychopath! A shiknaskyle kalakutpisa!”

“I dunno,” Mack said. “It’d be pretty nice to watch him frag everybody else for a change.”

“If he’s on our team it means the other side has at least one elite, too,” Ronnie said. “I’ll bet the other players are rich Wall Street dweebs who hired mercs to give them an easy win.”

“Yeah,” Edgar said, “so why not take advantage of that and get an easy win ourselves?”

“Because that’s—that’s cheating!”

“No it isn’t,” Dan scoffed.

“I meant—

Text flashed across Edgar’s screen. Someone had posted a message in the lobby chat, and everyone got quiet for a moment while they read it.

Larry Coughlin: Baconville Bimbos, stay out of my way or I’ll cut off your balls and string ’em on my bandolier. Let the pros handle this.

Edgar barely muted his mic in time to cut off his guffaws of laughter. Classic Larry. And the mental image of Lynn typing it with an evil grin on her face just made it funnier.

Incoherent sounds of fury were coming from Ronnie’s feed, and by the time he was capable of speaking English again they only had fifteen seconds left before the match began.

“All right, that’s it,” Ronnie growled. “We’re gonna to show that nedatupetas we’re not clueless noobs he can push around. We’ve worked hard, we’ve put our time in, and we are going to get that flag first! Baconville Bashers, are you with me!?”

“Hell yeah!” Dan said.

“This is such a bad idea,” Mack moaned.

“Come on, Mack, it’ll be fun,” Edgar said. He grinned in anticipation, leaning forward in his chair and poising his fingers on his omnipolymer controller, ready to rock and roll.

LETHAL CHEER SPECIAL EVENT MATCH BEGINNING IN 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . 1

The lobby disappeared and the view switched to a bombed-out industrial building, the torn-away roof revealing a gray stormy sky above. Stray snowflakes drifted down to join the thin layer of snow covering the rubble, knocked-over metal cabinets and long rows of factory equipment around them.

A flash of movement in the corner of Edgar’s vision made him turn his avatar’s view to spot two figures in custom body armor and visored helmets moving at speed out of the building, rifles held in tactical carry with the handles “Larry Coughlin” and “FallujahSevenNiner” hovering above their avatars. A gaggle of four other avatars in more generic skins followed them, lagging behind.

“Go, go, go!” Ronnie yelled in their Baconville Bashers group channel, and Edgar sent his avatar dashing for the nearest exit as his attention focused on his overhead display.

They’d spawned in the top left corner of the map, which meant the opposing team had spawned in the bottom right. A flashing green flag icon hovered in the middle of the overhead map, showing their objective.

Edgar stuck close behind Ronnie, letting his teammate worry about leading them through the burned-out urban landscape and looming buildings. Edgar kept his eyes moving, his MAC-50 submachine gun up and ready for contact. It was a heavy beast and chewed through ammo like his friends chewed through taco pizza, but for close range it was the best weapon to make sure whatever he put down stayed down. Permanently. They likely wouldn’t run into the other team until the center of the map, but there were plenty of other bogies around ready to give them a bad day.

His eyes flicked to his overhead again and he saw that Dan and Mack were close behind them, no doubt scoping out the terrain as they went. Those two would peel off near the objective to find elevated ground for Dan to provide overwatch sniper fire while Mack guarded his back.

Edgar took a moment to pull up a side menu and scan the names of the opposing team. He thought he recognized a few of them like YodaMaster and NewCenturion from previous large-scale matches. They were probably the mercs the algorithm’s matchmaker protocol had paired off with Larry Coughlin and that other scary-looking dude with him, FallujahSevenNiner.

“Contact!” hollered Ronnie.

Edgar’s eyes snapped forward and he was firing center mass before he even registered what it was he was firing at. The giant, white-furred yeti that had come around the building corner in front of them roared in fury and charged. A double tap to the head from Ronnie plus the barrage of lead to the chest from Edgar dropped it before it got to them, and they rushed passed it without giving it a second glance.

“Keep an eye out for resupply crates,” Ronnie reminded their group, words clipped and focused.

Another glance at the overhead map showed they were neck and neck with the two blue dots that represented Lynn and that Fallujah guy. Or girl. You never knew who you were really playing, something Ronnie never seemed to grasp. Appearances were all he paid attention to, plus whatever preconceived notions he had.

Edgar hoped the last month and a half had taught him different, but he wouldn’t hold his breath.

“Pick up the pace, man!” Ronnie hollered. “They’re gonna beat us there.”

Edgar sped along after Ronnie, but had to dodge to the side when a pair of red-and-green-clothed elves jumped out from an alley, grenades in hand and pins between their teeth.

“Suicide elves!” Edgar yelled in warning to Mack and Dan before obliterating the bogies with point-blank machine-gun fire while keeping his avatar running backwards. He barely managed to get out of the blast range before the grenades exploded, incinerating the jolly remains of their holders.

“Get up here, Edgar,” Ronnie snapped. “I need cover fire.”

“I’m coming,” Edgar said. “Dan, Mack, you okay?”

“Yeah, we ducked into a side street and fragged some fire-breathing reindeer.” Dan sounded positively thrilled at the experience.

Edgar heard gunfire ahead of him, reminding him he was supposed to be covering Ronnie. He sent his avatar dashing forward, navigating around the burned-out husks of vehicles and over piles of snow-covered rubble. He leapt over the crumpled form of another yeti and caught up with Ronnie where the street opened out into a wide courtyard. Across it loomed some sort of chemical plant or oil refinery, all concrete and sheet metal, with pipes going everywhere and ladders climbing the sides of giant vats. Spindly catwalks ended in midair where parts of the facility had been bombed into chaos and ruin, and in the distance several massive smokestacks reached up toward the oppressive cloud cover like modern obelisks.

To the left, Edgar saw movement. A glance that way confirmed what the overhead map told him: Larry Coughlin and FallujahSevenNiner were frog-hopping across the open space using vehicles for cover.

“Come on!” Ronnie said. “If we hurry there won’t be anyone there to stop us!”

Before Edgar could protest or shout a warning, Ronnie’s avatar had dashed forward straight across the open ground without even an attempt at evasive maneuvers. It was stupid, but Ronnie was right that if they were fast enough there might not be any opposition set up yet to snipe them.

With a sigh, Edgar dashed off after him, trying to keep an eye on his overhead map and his surroundings at the same time, waiting for an ambush.

It came when they were both in the middle of the courtyard without a scrap of cover nearby. Edgar heard the high-pitched whine of an RPG and threw his avatar to the side a split second before it hit. Ronnie was far enough ahead he didn’t go down, but Edgar’s health plummeted.

Cursing Ronnie and not even trying to keep his voice down, Edgar threw a hand grenade over his shoulder as he dashed for the nearest cover. He dove behind a burned-out delivery truck with “Mountain Tiger Beer—The Berries Put the Zip Back” emblazoned on it barely visible beneath the soot. A methodical pop-pop-pop sounded behind him where Ronnie must have found cover as well and was now giving Edgar cover fire. Edgar popped his head up far enough to aim through the broken windows of the cab toward the roofline they’d left behind. He spotted the tip of a red Santa hat, then the ignition flash as another RPG zoomed through the air toward them.

Edgar didn’t have time to worry where it would hit. He centered his aiming reticule and launched three grenades in quick succession after the murderous Santa just as the RPG hit. Ronnie’s WarMonger handle didn’t pop up as killed, so Edgar jumped up and booked it for the chemical plant.

“You good, Ronnie?” he asked as his avatar raced across the last few yards.

“Caught some shrapnel but still half health. Come on, let’s get this thing.”

Ronnie’s avatar joined him as they raced between giant metal vats and Edgar let him take the lead again, finding them a path to their target while he kept his head on a swivel looking for more “Killer Christmas Crazies” as he’d dubbed them in his head.

Their path to the flag, though, was unnervingly quiet. Edgar could see two blue dots on the mini map that looked to be on the far side of the plant between the flag and the southeast corner where the opposing team would most likely enter. Hmm, what was Lynn up to? And why hadn’t she grabbed the flag yet?

Three more blue dots were approaching the plant from the northwest while a singular blue dot was back up in their spawn zone—looked like one of the Wall Street bros had bought it, maybe from suicide elves, maybe from fire-breathing reindeer. Mack and Dan’s dots were directly north of the plant, and Edgar could only assume they’d found high ground or were double-checking the defensive advantages of some building or other.

Edgar had no idea where Ronnie had come by his excellent sense of direction. Maybe he’d been gaming for so long he was just used to the layout logic used by the map-generating algorithm. However he managed it, he guided them unswervingly through the twisted maze of catwalks and ladders, ducking around and under gigantic pipes and dashing down long corridors.

They didn’t encounter a single bogie, and that made Edgar very, very nervous. There was no way Larry and Fallujah could have cleared out the whole building that fast. So when was the hammer going to drop?

“Yes!” Ronnie hissed in triumph.

Edgar followed him out of a close corridor onto a catwalk that ran along the inner walls of a large multistory room. Below them, factory equipment, crates, and other debris was scattered the floor, providing scant cover. Right in the center, though, hovered a glowing green flag with a large snowman face on it, carrot nose and all. It had a jolly brown pipe hanging from the corner of its leering mouth and the words “Lethal Cheer” framed it on top and bottom.

A few paces out from the flag, however, was a ring of a dozen colorful Christmas presents, all tied up with perfect silver bows that glittered innocently in the sickly florescent light.

“If that ain’t a trap, then pigs can fly and Mack’s Japanese bot girlfriend is real,” Edgar said around his chewing gum.

“Hey! I heard that!” Mack said. “Her name is Riko and she is real. When are you guys going to stop being jealous I have a girlfriend and you don’t?”

“When you realize cute girls from halfway around the world don’t randomly pick you to be their boyfriend,” Dan snickered.

“It wasn’t like that! We met on a TD Hunter forum. She said she’d watched my stream a couple times and liked my game analysis. I’m telling you, she’s real. She plays TD Hunter in Japan!”

Edgar ignored the byplay and scanned the room for bogies, but saw no movement. “How are we supposed to get down—”

“To whatever scuttling cockroaches are eyeing the flag, don’t touch it,” Larry’s growling voice interrupted him over their team channel. “We’ve got it handled.”

Edgar checked behind him reflexively, wondering for a split second if Larry was lurking in the shadows watching every move they made. But no, the two dots on the overhead map that he’d pegged as Larry and FallujahSevenNiner were camped out near the southeast corner of the building, probably laying an ambush to catch the slower opposing team as it approached. But would the entire opposing team be gullible enough to approach head on? What about that Yoda guy and NewCenturion? They were probably Tier One mercs too.

“Ronnie, I think we should—”

“Oh no you don’t!” Ronnie shouted in fury, probably forgetting they were still on the team channel. The next second Edgar realized Ronnie wasn’t talking to him, because a player avatar dressed from head to toe in winter camouflage appeared from a side corridor moving carefully but purposefully across the room toward the flag—and there was no accompanying blue dot on Edgar’s overhead map.

He started to raise his rifle to blow the schmuck’s head off, but several things happened in quick succession.

“Stand down! I repeat, stand down!” Larry’s voice, full of cold fury, ordered across the team channel.

The opposing merc took a knee and aimed right up at the catwalk where Ronnie and Edgar crouched, as if he had some secret tap into their team channel, though more likely he’d simply spotted Edgar raising his rifle.

Edgar pulled his trigger, hoping the hasty spray of bullets would force the merc to duck for cover instead of eliminating the two very tempting targets in plain view above him.

And Ronnie, dear old Ronnie, whipped out a hand grenade and dropped it right in the center of the shining circle of presents.

Was he insane? What in the flaming balls of fire was Ronnie thinking?

The clink of it hitting the deck was almost swallowed by the noise of Edgar’s wild firing as Edgar backed up toward the cover of the corridor they’d emerged from, his avatar methodically flashing red from the merc’s precise shots. Edgar was a sliver of health away from death when the grenade below them finally exploded and all hell broke loose.

The entire room shuddered with over a dozen secondary explosions, and Edgar’s view was swallowed up in fire.

NewCenturion has been terminated by RonnieDarko714.

RonnieDarko714 has achieved Punching Up: terminating a player ten tiers above your own.

“Ye-haw! Take that, stupid merc!”

Edgar had lost track of Ronnie, but his hoot of triumph indicated he was still alive somewhere. The corridor Edgar had backed into had shielded him from the flames, but he had to give his avatar time to re-gen some health before he dared stick his nose out again.

“Don’t touch—” Larry’s gravelly voice began, but Ronnie’s excited chatter drowned it out.

“I triggered the booby trap, guys! I’m getting the flag! Whoo-hoo-hoo!”

Ooh boy.

Edgar shook his head and sent his avatar dashing back out on the catwalk just in time to see Ronnie’s avatar vault over the railing and plummet to the floor. It was about a twelve-foot drop, so Edgar couldn’t immediately follow. The fall damage would be minimal but he was still dangerously low on health.

A moment later, the green flag icon on the overhead map disappeared.

“Edgar, get your ass down here! I’m a sitting duck!” Ronnie hollered, still on the team channel.

“Take your time, BigHero232,” said a baritone voice as cold and biting as a winter night. “Better yet, go find some Santas to frag. In about three seconds your friend will be too busy respawning to need your help.”

Ronnie’s gulp of trepidation was audible to the whole team.

“Hey, is that Larry?” Dan asked, sounding excited.

“Ooooh, man, we’re screwed,” Mack said.

“What’s going on? Have we got the flag yet?” asked a voice Edgar didn’t recognize, probably wondering why everyone was suddenly goofing around on the team channel.

A notification popped up telling Edgar that RonnieDarko714 had added Larry Coughlin to the Baconville Bashers group channel. Edgar wasn’t sure if he should be laughing at this point or quaking in his boots.

“H-hey man, you can’t kill me!” Ronnie said in their group channel. “That would damage our team score. And besides, friendly fire is turned off!”

“Ronnie, Ronnie, Ronnie,” came Larry’s chilling voice, saying Ronnie’s name in the sing-song sort of way you’d expect from a serial killer. “Where’s your imagination? There are more ways to kill a man than there are hairs on your head. I would know, I’ve used most of them.”

Larry’s avatar finally appeared striding out of the same corridor NewCenturion had come from, distinctive in his pockmarked Alice the Strange armor. He stalked purposefully toward Ronnie while a series of muffled explosions sounded behind him, prompting a rolling list of kills to scroll across the bottom of Edgar’s screen.

I_AM_FAUST has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

0BigStreetBoy0 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

KillerCroc_ has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

BenDover69 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

$$Loaded4U has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

SheWolf14 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

A list of bonuses and achievements followed, and Edgar’s eyebrows raised appreciatively. So that’s what Lynn had been busy with.

“I told you not to touch the flag, kid. Now you pay the price.”

Ronnie’s avatar backpedaled, the festive green and red flag clutched in both his hands. You couldn’t equip weapons while holding the flag, though you could attack someone using the flag like a bo staff. Edgar had heard of particularly skilled players killing opponents in melee combat during capture-the-flag, but he’d never seen it done in person.

“Okay, okay, just hold on a sec!” Ronnie protested. “I was doing what was best for the team! We got here first, and you were nowhere around! Then that other merc was about to get it. What was I supposed to do, let him?”

“I told you we had it handled. I’d already boobytrapped the room. You stole my Tier One kill, and now you’re holding my flag.”

Ronnie’s avatar stopped a safe distance from Larry and said hotly, “It doesn’t matter who holds the flag, man. Let’s just get out of here and win the match!”

“It matters when you’re a measly Tier Ten player. Our odds of winning by a twenty-percent margin triple if a Tier One is holding the flag.”

Gunfire broke out faintly in the distance.

RIP_Kostas has been terminated by FallujahSevenNiner.

WhyPahnerWhy has been terminated by FallujahSevenNiner.

“Look, dude,” Ronnie said, anger bubbling under his attempt at civility. “I’ve got my own guys, and we know what we’re doing. We’ve got a safe spot picked out. It looks like you and Fallujahwhatsit have the whole killing-everything-that-breathes handled, so we’ll just hunker down with the flag and you mercs can pile up the bodies. Everybody wins, okay?”

“No can do, kid. I’m not here for kicks and giggles, even if fragging your ass always makes my day. I’m getting paid to win, and win big, and I always fulfill my contracts. You and your little friends can stay out of my way or suffer an unfortunate mishap.”

Edgar knew what Lynn was doing and didn’t hold it against her. Like she’d said, she had a job to do, and it was Ronnie who had dragged Baconville Bashers into Larry’s line of fire. But at the same time, it would be pretty cool if they could manage to work together for once. If only Ronnie would get his head out of his ass and stop being a jerkwad, maybe Lynn would accept the olive branch. Hadn’t the last few months taught Ronnie anything?

Thinking quickly, Edgar pinged Ronnie, hoping to get in a private word before his friend opened his fat mouth again.

“Hey, my dude, I know you hate this guy and everything, but he’s a pro, and he couldn’t care less about a kid whining and mouthing off to him. If you don’t wanna get fragged, try being polite and professional for once and maybe he’ll give us a break.”

Edgar was pretty sure he could hear Ronnie’s teeth grinding in reply. Instead of responding to Edgar, though, Ronnie spoke in the Baconville Bashers channel.

“Okay, okay. I’m . . . sorry, uh, Mr. Coughlin. I wasn’t trying to screw with your plan, and I’d . . . appreciate it if you’d give us a chance to work . . . together.”

Edgar grinned and relaxed. Ronnie sounded like he was sucking on lemons and limes—he could imagine Ronnie’s words kicking and screaming in denial even as they were spoken. But Ronnie was trying, and that was something.

“My guys are no pushovers,” Ronnie continued. “We log serious hours and we work hard. We’ve been through . . . a lot lately, and my guys deserve to play this game just as much as you do. Personally, I think you’re a bully and full of yourself”—Edgar rolled his eyes, knowing Ronnie just couldn’t help himself—“but I’m asking you nicely to please let us do this as a group. You can call the shots, I don’t care. Just leave my guys alone and let’s get this done.”

Come on, Lynn, Edgar thought with all his might. He’s trying. Throw him a bone, yeah?

The silence on the channel was deafening. Edgar was pretty sure every one of his friends was holding their breath. It felt like the moment stretched into eternity, though it was probably only a few seconds.

“I must be getting soft in my old age,” came Larry’s voice finally, even more gravelly and gruff than usual. “But it’s Christmas, so maybe I’m just feeling generous. Otherwise I’d frag your ass and dance on your grave.”

There was an abrupt notification that Larry Coughlin had left Baconville Bashers channel, then he spoke on the team channel as his avatar started forward again toward Ronnie.

“New plan, ladies. This is now an escort mission. Bimbos 1 and 2”—Larry dropped friendly designators on Ronnie and Edgar, something visible only to teammates—“form up and head north toward Bimbos 3 and 4. You kids better have a good hold point picked out because if we lose, you will be paying the hiring fee of me and my colleague.”

“Roger that,” came a new voice, and FallujahSevenNiner’s avatar jogged up to join Larry in flanking Ronnie’s avatar. Edgar cocked his head, feeling strangely like he’d heard Fallujah’s voice somewhere before. But he dismissed the thought and hurried to vault over the railing down to the small group, his health now high enough to take the small amount of fall damage.

“Big guy,” Larry growled as Edgar approached the group, “you stick to your fearless leader like a starving tick. We’ll take care of the rest.”

Big guy, huh, Lynn? Edgar thought, grinning like an idiot and happy no one could see it. Avatars in WarMonger were a standard height, which made Larry’s comment sound a whole lot like a Freudian slip. I see you, girl. Even behind your masks, I see you. Wish you could see yourself from where I’m standin’ though . . . cuz it’s the most beautiful thing I ever saw.

That was his third secret, the one he’d take to his grave, if necessary:

He liked Lynn Raven. A lot.

He wasn’t stupid enough to use the “L” word. He didn’t deserve that. Not yet. Maybe not ever. See, he was pretty sure Lynn wasn’t interested, because she’d never given him even a second glance, at least not like that. So there was no way in hell he was going to ruin their friendship because he got greedy and wanted something that wasn’t there. Lynn needed friends, someone to watch her back, especially after the hell she’d gone through in middle school. He’d be damned if he ever made her feel unsafe. He would never be his father.

He couldn’t say that, though. Not any of it. So instead he said to Larry, “Got it, chief.”

“Watch it, kid. I’m no squid. Not a zoomie either. I like to get in close and dirty, which you’re about to enjoy firsthand if you don’t get your ass in gear.”

“Yessir,” Edgar said, grinning even wider and trying not to let it show in his voice. He sent his avatar jogging after Ronnie’s flag-toting figure while Fallujah took up a position on their left and Larry on their right. When they reached the corridor, Larry took point and Fallujah dropped to rear guard, while Edgar squeezed between Larry and Ronnie, fingers primed and ready to rain down fire on anything that moved.

“Ronnie, we found a great place,” Dan said in the team channel, sounding like an excited puppy on its first walk. “It’s a multilevel building, roof access, only one viable entry point, and multiple exterior escape routes jumping down rooftops. Mack’s holding the entry for us right now.”

Two yellow markers popped up on the mini map where Dan had marked himself and Mack’s locations for the entire team.

“Overwatch?” came Larry’s clipped question.

“Way ahead of you, sir. There’s one building higher and I’m already in it.”

“And what happens when the other guys have the same idea as you? Who’s watching your back?”

“Uhhh . . .” Dan sounded like he was in literature class and the teacher had just asked him to summarize Dante’s Inferno.

“Mr_Smith007, WilliamTheConqueror,” said Larry to two of the four other guys who had been grouped with him at the beginning, “head to DarkRider48’s location and guard his avenue of approach.”

“Hey,” Mr_Smith007 complained, “I hired you to win this match for me and win big. This sounds a lot like me doing your job for you.”

“You’re a battle asset, Smith, and I use all assets at my disposal to get the job done. Now move it, or I’ll return your fee and blackball you from my client list.”

While Mr_Smith007 grumbled and Larry gave orders to the remaining two members of their ten-person team, Edgar focused on sticking close to Larry’s avatar. They ducked through partially collapsed corridors full of rusted pipes leaking ominous trails of steam and navigated mazes of derelict processing equipment in high-ceilinged rooms that were crisscrossed by listing catwalks. Larry’s pockmarked and battle-worn armor was its own camouflage, blending in with the urban decay and destruction around them.

There was a twitch of motion in front of Edgar and he flinched as two shots rang out, only to realize it had been Larry shooting. He hurried to catch up because Larry’s avatar hadn’t even slowed. They passed a side corridor where two Santa’s elves lay, their chests each sporting a bloody hole the size of Edgar’s fist.

Whoa. He knew Lynn was good, but in her role as Larry Coughlin, she seemed nigh on clairvoyant.

And she kept on doing it. Edgar never got a chance to shoot even a single bogie. Lynn smoked every one before Edgar even knew they were there, her speed and efficiency keeping their group moving at a swift clip.

When they reached the north side of the complex, Larry’s avatar indicated a pause at a car-size hole blown in the wall of the plant. He checked their sight lines, then led them across the empty, snow-covered street into the alley beyond.

“Fallu, I’ll take it from here,” Larry said, all business. “Tossup whether Yoda comes for me or you. Keep your head on a swivel.”

“Roger. Happy hunting,” the other merc responded.

“I’ll be happy when they learn to drop out as soon as they see my name. This bunch is too new or too dumb to know any better.”

“I’ll be sure to tell Yoda that when I see him.”

“He already knows.”

There was a brief chuckle in the group channel, and by the time Edgar glanced back at Ronnie, FallujahSevenNiner was gone.

“Hey!” Ronnie exclaimed. “Where’s that other merc going? I’m the sitting duck here, shouldn’t we keep the professionals with the objective?”

“No,” Larry said flatly.

“Why—” Ronnie began, but Larry cut him off.

“Because I’m Tier One and you’re Tier Ten, Ronnie. Or did the years of tea-bagging not teach you anything? I’ve been punching people’s tickets since before you were born—hell, maybe even before your mother was born. The sooner you get that through your thick skull the sooner you might amount to something. BigHero, rear guard,” Larry finished abruptly.

“Yessir,” Edgar said, dropping back behind Ronnie’s avatar. It was an exercise in self-control to keep from snort-laughing at Lynn’s gravelly voice and deadpan comments. Lynn was so good, it was a beauty to watch, and easy to forget Larry wasn’t really a grizzled old combat vet from some bygone war.

Their route to the location marker Dan had dropped was circuitous, which made Edgar think Lynn expected an ambush and was making it as hard as possible for the other team to find them. Since both teams could plainly see the banner at the top of their screens announcing which team had the flag and how long they’d had it, it was a safe bet that all ten of the opposing team was hot on their trail.

Different games dealt with this aspect of a capture-the-flag scenario differently, but in WarMonger, once a team had held a flag for more than five consecutive minutes, the flag’s locator icon popped back up on the overhead map. That way neither team could hide the whole game and call it a win.

The moment the flag hold timer hit five minutes, ten very angry and motivated players would be converging on their location like piranhas on a hunk of meat. If Larry, Ronnie, and Edgar could make it to a defensible location before then, they might manage to keep the flag. Otherwise, they were toast.

“Hey kala—I mean, Larry, can we hurry it up?” Ronnie whined. “Our hunker-down point is right over there and this flag-holder debuff is gonna get me killed. It’s already at two-hundred-percent extra damage.”

Lynn didn’t bother responding, which was probably best. Edgar knew Ronnie was smart enough to realize the importance of their evasive maneuvers, he just needed to do a better job of keeping a lid on his nervous chatter. Though, to be fair, it was rather nerve-wracking being unable to fight and becoming more and more fragile by the second. The flag-holder debuff was another mechanic to help level the playing field. Pretty soon it would get so high that the tiniest amount of damage would kill Ronnie even at full health.

Edgar was just feeling optimistic—the hold point was just across the street—when things got even more interesting.

Interesting like a literal stampede of murderous-looking, fire-breathing reindeer careening down the street they were on.

“Grenade screen!” Larry snapped.

Edgar switched to his MAC-50’s grenade launcher and started walking them across the front of the advancing horde while Larry yelled at Ronnie to “get your pimply ass to the hold point now.” Edgar’s aim was crap while still moving, but he didn’t dare stop. Mack’s avatar stuck his head out the door they were headed toward, saw the reindeer, and started laying into them as well. The front ranks fell or were blown into bloody chunks, but the bogies behind them just kept on coming.

“BigHero, stay with Bimbo, get him to the roof,” Larry said, voice eerily calm despite the cascade of grenade explosions and solid wall of red-eyed and red-nosed bovines about to trample them. His avatar slowed fractionally and his rifle was replaced by a shoulder-mounted RPG launcher. He waited until Edgar and Ronnie passed him and dove toward the door, then started firing, no doubt painfully aware that even a sliver of proximity damage from the explosions might be Ronnie’s end.

Edgar dearly wanted to hang around and watch Lynn at work, but dutifully sped on after Ronnie with the sound of RPGs launching and exploding in a methodical rhythm behind him. Wow, one launch per second? He hadn’t even known that was possible, though it didn’t surprise him. Bonus after bonus scrolled across the bottom of the screen as Larry made mincemeat of the reindeer stampede.

Mack led the way down corridors and up stairs, heading for the roof. As they ran, their flag timer passed five minutes and the green flag icon appeared on the overhead map.

Now the real fun began.

They burst out from the last stairwell to the roof, Mack in the lead and Ronnie still blocking Edgar’s view.

“Crap!” Mack yelled. “How did he get—”

MackTruck35 has been terminated by YodaMaster.

Mack’s avatar dropped like a rock and Ronnie was screaming, shooting, and trying to back up all at once.

“Whereishewhereishewhereishe??” Dan muttered frantically, obviously trying to find the opposing merc in his sniper scope.

Edgar’s tried to get around Ronnie in the tight stairwell, expecting Ronnie to die any second, when a single, heavy caliber rifle report echoed over the chaos.

YodaMaster has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

“Whoah!” Dan exclaimed. “How did you do that, Mr. Coughlin, sir? Can you teleport??”

“What do you think this is, a garden party social club?” Ronnie yelled, voice high-pitched with tension. “Can you guys focus on the mission instead of chit-chatting like little old ladies? My debuff is up to eight hundred percent!”

“You’re real lucky Larry is being paid not to kill you,” commented Fallujah from wherever Larry had sent him earlier. “That only lasts as long as the match, though, so go ahead, keep digging your own grave.”

“At least I’m here for the love of the game, not to screw people over for money,” Ronnie snapped.

“Shut it, Ronnie, before I come sew your mouth closed myself,” Larry growled. “I hear your old man is out with his buddies tonight, so I won’t have any interruptions.”

Ronnie’s mouth audibly snapped shut and silence reigned. Edgar shuddered despite himself. Sometimes Lynn was too scary for her own good. So scary he had a moment of doubt that Lynn was actually Larry at all. But how else could Larry know about Ronnie’s dad? Unless he really was former specops with secret surveillance capabilities?

Don’t be an idiot, Edgar told himself, shaking his head. No reason for a guy like Larry to give a monkey’s backside for a group of nobody teens from Iowa if not for a personal connection. Nothing else made sense, no matter how scary Larry seemed.

“You two Bimbos get your asses out here so I can booby-trap the stairwell,” Larry commanded. “Everyone else, stay sharp, the vultures are descending.”

Edgar and Ronnie emerged from the stairwell to the sight of Larry’s avatar, and Edgar considered echoing Dan’s question to find out how in the world Larry had beaten them to the roof. Either he really could teleport, or the location had an exterior avenue of approach Dan and Mack hadn’t noticed.

Probably the latter, but the former was more fun to imagine.

The next few minutes were a cacophony of fire, explosions, and shouting. Everyone and everything was converging on their location, including the Christmas-themed NPCs. The only saving grace of the situation was that the NPCs were indiscriminate in their murderous intent, so they helped split the opposing team’s focus. On the other hand, Dan had his work cut out for him sniping the yetis and abominable snowmen scaling the outside of the building and lobbing barrages of snowballs up at them.

It wasn’t long before their teammates guarding the first floor had bought it and the enemy reached Larry’s booby trap. The explosion took out two of them, but three more pushed through. Edgar body-shielded Ronnie while Ronnie yelled frantically about his debuff—Ronnie clearly had a problem with loss of agency. He seemed to think yelling loudly at everyone else was helpful.

Edgar only had a moment to worry about it and wonder where Larry had disappeared to when the lead enemy’s head exploded and the other two went down face-first like they’d been hit from behind.

0BigStreetBoy0 has been terminated by DarkRider48. 

KillerCroc_ has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

SheWolf14 has been terminated by Larry Coughlin.

Dan’s “Yesss!” overlapped Ronnie’s “Holy shit, that was close!” and Ronnie’s avatar did a little victory dance with the flag.

“Get away from the edge of the roof, you idiot!” Larry yelled.

But it was too late.

A solitary snowball, sparkling white and perfectly round, arced up lazily from below and hit Ronnie in the back with a cheerful crunching sound of packed snow.

Ronnie’s avatar dropped like a rock.

RonnieDarko714 has been terminated by environmental effect [Abominable Snowman].

RonnieDarko714 has achieved Inevitable End: dying with 1000% or more damage debuff.

RonnieDarko714 has achieved Death By Hangnail: being killed by a single point of damage.

Edgar could just imagine Ronnie’s enraged howling and cursing in Lithuanian, something the rest of them were fortunately spared from until Ronnie respawned in about sixty seconds.

Edgar glanced at the overhead map, expecting to see the little green flag icon back at its original spawn point. Instead, to his surprise, he saw another timer banner appear, showing that their team once more held the flag.

Well, now he knew what FallujahSevenNiner had been up to.

Edgar finally looked around and realized he was alone on the rooftop with about five yetis cresting the roof’s edge and Dan was yelling at him to bail. There was no sign of Larry anywhere. But then, there rarely was, unless you counted the dead bodies and kill notifications that followed in his wake.

Time to exit stage right.

Edgar had just reached the ground floor down the interior stairwell when he rounded a corner and his display flashed red with damage. Blood splatters obstructed his view, indicating he’d taken a critical hit. He spun, looking for his attacker, then his avatar dropped and his first-person view pulled back, showing his fallen body with a respawn timer superimposed over it.

BigHero232 was terminated by NewCenturion.

Edgar shrugged and took a swig from his water bottle while his timer counted down. Unlike Dan and Ronnie, he didn’t care much about his leaderboard ranking. He just wanted everybody to have a good time, and so far between Larry being Larry and Ronnie being Ronnie, he’d been having a blast.

Edgar’s reentry screen hadn’t even finished materializing before his ears were full of Ronnie’s ranting. But on the bright side, the timing banner was still present indicating their team held the flag. It had almost hit five minutes, so whoever carried it, likely FallujahSevenNiner, was about to get outed. Cumulatively, though, their team had controlled the flag for a little over fifty percent of the match, so the likelihood of them achieving the coveted victory bonus was fairly good.

The rest of the match passed swiftly with Edgar, Mack, Ronnie and Dan doing their best to distract the other team while Ronnie complained about Larry in their Baconville Bashers group channel. Larry and FallujahSevenNiner somehow managed to tag-team the flag so that every time one of them died—which was far less frequently than they had any right to—the other was ready to snap it up, or slit the throat of any opposing player who snapped it up first. YodaMaster took them each out a handful of times, but NewCenturion didn’t seem to be in the same league as the other three mercs, so wasn’t able to coordinate with YodaMaster as well as Larry did with FallujahSevenNiner.

The match countdown ended right in the middle of an epic free-for-all between both teams and a horde of polar bear-riding nutcrackers led by Santa himself in a tanklike sleigh mounted with machine guns. Edgar was having a grand time and was sad to get kicked back to their team lobby. He only remembered to check their final score because it flashed across the screen, followed by the team achievements and individual scores.

“Yes! We did it!” Dan crowed in their group channel at the sight of their final victory bonus.

“Good job, everyone!” Mack said, sounding almost as excited as Dan.

“No thanks to that shiknaskyle kalakutpisa,” Ronnie grumbled.

“Oh, shut up, Ronnie,” Dan said. “He did, like, eighty percent of the work.”

“He did not! I got to the flag first and made sure we took the initiative. If he hadn’t butted in—”

“We’d’ve been dead within minutes,” Edgar finished for him. “Come on, dude, give it a rest. We all did great. And you getting smoked by a snowball was hilarious.”

Dan sniggered.

A join request from Larry Coughlin popped up for their Baconville Bashers group channel.

“What does he want,” Ronnie said darkly.

“Dunno, why don’t we find out?” Edgar said, a grin spreading across his face. He accepted the request before Ronnie could cancel it.

“Not bad for a group of amateurs,” came the familiar baritone.

“We’re not—”

“Thanks, sir!” Dan said loudly, cutting Ronnie off. “It was an honor to fight with you. Maybe we can do it again sometime?”

“Not a chance, grasshopper. If I wanted to torture myself, I’d go back to the sandbox. At least the food is decent over there.”

“Then why don’t you go?” Ronnie said, finally getting a word in edgewise. “You’re a creepy old guy who gets off on bullying people for money.”

There was a moment of charged silence, then Larry said.

“You know why I pick on you, kid?”

“Because you’re a stinking shiknaskyle!”

Larry laughed, a sound like gravel scraping along the bottom of a deep, echoing pit.

“Nice try, kid, but no. I pick on you because you’re a coward. And I hate cowards.”

Ronnie spluttered, but before he could get anymore insults out, Larry continued, his voice becoming as sharp and deadly as a Yoshindo blade.

“You know how I can tell you’re a coward? Because every mistake you make is always someone else’s fault. Every bad thing that happens to you is because someone else screwed up.”

“That’s not true,” Ronnie gritted out.

“Really? Then tell me one thing you did wrong during our match and how you could have done it better.”

“I—I didn’t—I mean, there was nothing—”

“Yeah, thought so. I’ve known too many people like you, kid—people whose self-worth is tied to performance. You think if you acknowledge any fault, you’re done for. Problem is, you can’t fix something you won’t admit is broken, so you trap yourself in a self-inflicted hell of mediocrity.”

Ronnie’s spluttering and attempted denials didn’t seem to bother Larry, who just kept speaking in that deep, cold voice.

“You’re terrified of personal responsibility, Ronnie, because then there’s no one to blame for your failures but yourself. But you know what happens to people who won’t take responsibility?”

Edgar could fairly feel Ronnie’s death glare through their mics, even though his friend didn’t make a sound.

“They get people killed,” Larry said, his voice a whispered promise of violence.

Goosebumps broke out across Edgar’s skin, and for a moment he forgot Lynn was Larry, forgot that the whole alter ego was a carefully crafted mask. In that moment, Larry really did sound like a war-weary vet who had seen and done things he could never speak of, and who had probably watched friends die in combat, maybe even because of someone else’s mistakes.

“Cowards blame other people, Ronnie,” Larry finished, voice soft. “Heroes take responsibility.”

There was a pregnant silence, then a notification popped up on Edgar’s screen:

Larry Coughlin has left the lobby.

The silence in their group channel stretched on, and Edgar felt no need to break it. The spell Larry—that is, Lynn—had cast over them felt weighty with meaning, and Edgar wondered if something was bothering her to prompt such a speech. Maybe their TD Hunter Strike Team drama was weighing heavy on her mind. Maybe she’d seen an opportunity to tell Ronnie a truth he’d never take from her personally.

Maybe she’d been willing to forgive, and maybe he should be, too.

The question remained, though: was Ronnie willing to step up? Had he learned anything at all?

“Mack,” Ronnie’s voice cracked when he spoke, but he kept on like everything was normal, “get some rest. I’ll see you guys around.”

And with that, Ronnie left the lobby, too.

The rest of them exchanged subdued farewells and went their separate ways. Edgar was too preoccupied to fret that nobody had rallied them to play some more matches like they’d intended. He was busy worrying about Lynn. She’d been under a lot of pressure lately, and their Hunter Strike Team status was still up in the air. What should he do? Ping her and offer some advice? Or would that seem patronizing? Trust her to figure it out and give her space? Or would that be leaving her high and dry when she needed a friend? Would he know better how to support her if he’d been honest with her about his feelings this whole time? Or would that have driven her away for good?

This was why Edgar kept secrets, because half the time he didn’t trust himself, and you could never unsay something you’d already said. You could never pull back that punch you’d already let swing.

And he would never become his father.

Sighing, Edgar levered himself out of his sagging gaming chair and gathered up a few empty bags of chips to throw away. He had homework to do, so he might as well get started. He’d wait and see what Lynn said at school tomorrow and take things from there. Maybe he’d have a chance to talk to Ronnie tomorrow, too. Gauge his attitude. See if he was ready to stop being a dooshnozzle.

He was just settling down with his dreaded math homework when he got a ping notification on his LINC. He pulled it up to see that it was from Lynn, sent to him, Dan, and Mack. As he read it, a slow smile spread across his face:

“Hey, everyone. We need to have a war meeting. Tomorrow after school. My place. You guys in?”

He shot back a quick “hell yeah” and got busy with his homework, feeling lighter and more hopeful.

The future was full of questions, but tomorrow he’d get some answers. And with Lynn at the head of things, he was confident they’d be good ones. Maybe even good enough that, someday, he’d have a chance to share some of his secrets with her.

Maybe.

Copyright © 2024 by Lydia Sherrer

Lydia Sherrer is the award-winning and USA Today best-selling author of urban fantasy series Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus—the Lily Singer Adventures. She has most recently written the first in a trilogy of Gamelit novels with New York Times best-selling author John Ringo.