Free Deadlock by Robert Liparulo

ran to the dresser and returned with a multicolored scrunchie. She began raking Laura’s hair back with her fingers.
    Laura closed her eyes, enjoying the moment.

TEN
    Julian Page rocked his chair back from the table, trying to get it to balance on its rear legs. Tired of his own quarters, which he shared with no one, he had wandered into Fireteam Bravo’s quad. Now he was in their common area, which consisted of a kitchenette, a dining area, and a den. Doors set into each of the two long walls led to four bedrooms.
    The barracks here at Outis’s Washington state compound were modeled on the U.S. military’s “four-plus-one” design, which had replaced the long rooms of bunks most civilians thought of when they heard the word barracks . The switch began before Julian was born fourteen years before, but even recent movies about the modern military showed the old style. Either Hollywood was slow on the uptake, or the filmmakers simply refused to give up the feeling of camaraderie and tension, and the romantic notion of a soldier’s monastic existence that those halls of bunks and lockers implied.
    Oh man , he thought. Monastic existence. Where’d I hear that? Too much time reading in my room and listening to these guys shoot the crap.
    Which is what he was doing at that moment. The four fireteam members were in the den, ten feet away, arrayed in front of a big-screen monitor. Three of them were wiping out opposing teams who were unlucky enough to encounter them in the online version of a war game developed by one of Julian’s dad’s companies.
    Disgusted by the thrashing they’d gotten, many of their opponents summarily added Ben, Emile, and Anton’s player IDs to their “don’t play” list, which ordinarily prevented another matchup. The Outis system, however, granted the fireteam special privileges, which included ignoring “don’t play” lists and spontaneously changing their IDs.
    Which override these guys chose depended on whether they wanted to merely continue owning their frustrated opponents or also wanted to taunt them, stalking them through game after game. Their game play, now as always, was punctuated by whooping and hollering, rude appraisals of their opponents’ skills, and equally crass assessments of movies, actors, books, music, weapons, tactics, their own training—whatever struck their decidedly diverse fancy.
    Only Michael wasn’t participating—in the game or the bantering. He sat cross-legged on a couch, hugging himself, rocking slightly. A wireless controller rested upside down in his lap, as if one of the others had tossed it there. He’d been quiet like that since returning from a training mission a few days before. Normally he was the loudest, the most energetic, the first to plug into a game after a day’s grueling drills. Now he was lifeless. If he expressed any emotion, it was a flash of disdain or sadness.
    Julian had asked him what was wrong. Michael had frowned, told Julian to leave him alone. The problem must be related to something Michael had done. These past days, his teammates had either given him the cold shoulder or gone out of their way to razz him.
    Julian saw it coming again.
    One of their opponents took too long getting his gun around, giving Ben time to blow him away.
    â€œHa!” Anton said. “That dude pulled a Michael. Gotta be quicker than that!”
    The three of them laughed.
    â€œHey, kid,” Ben said, “don’t start bawling, you hear? You might slobber on the controls . . . then I’d have to shoot you.”
    More snickers.
    â€œI don’t think he’s listening,” Anton said. “Better pass this down.” He punched Ben lightly on the arm. Ben punched Emile. Emile leaned from his chair, couldn’t reach Michael, and stood up. He stepped closer, and gave Michael a serious jab to his shoulder, hard enough for Julian to hear it.
    Michael