“Let ‘em burn,” I said. “You want to see some action, just set your weapon down and reach for an extinguisher.  See how fast those Plonk snipers pop up then.” A tear gas grenade had inadvertently started a fire in one of the barracks. No engagement since we moved in, but I wasn’t taking chances.

I remember the fire on that night six years ago. We’d been moving house to house then, too. We pulled them unarmed from their beds, the ones who’d organized the protests, the rabble-rousers. We were marching them to the stockade when the civvies started coming out of the barracks, shouting. One of them threw a rock. And then more began throwing. I remember the look on Holliston’s face when I gave the order to open fire. I should have known then that he’d be a problem. I raised my sidearm and shot one of his men, and then I repeated the order. This time it was followed. At least ten of the civvies were hit in the first volley. They kept coming, though. I decided right then that I would pull the Hunters out of Camp Cypress. This mob was no longer deserving of our protection. On the way out, I sabotaged the camp’s generator. My men would survive just fine without it, but I couldn’t say the same for the civvies. If any of them did survive, if any of them were still here, living with the Plonks or whoever the hell else, the time had come for them to welcome us back.