…in a pile of other combat dolls in an old canvas tent, to find some goggle-eyed kid in a scout uniform staring at her through the open flap.
"e-excuse me? miss?"
she is aware of two other things:
one, a hairline fracture in her core.
two, she's unclothed.
not that there's much to see on a combat doll, but still, propriety.
"please stand by!" she says, and yanks the flap closed.
the other two dolls are still sleeping, their expressions angelic and untroubled, so she knocks them on their heads.
"ladies! wake up!"
"don't wanna…"
"too sleeby."
"uniforms!" she hisses, and then, not bothering to find hers, she yanks on somedoll's cargo shorts and somedoll else's tank top. or somedoll else's zirconium oxide ringmesh armor layer, maybe. it rattles.
she slips out of the tent.
"they'll just be a minute?"
outside in the dappled mid-morning sunlight, she realizes that she towers over the poor kid, which has got to be at least a little intimidating. she forces her limited facial actuators into the best sheepish grin she can.
"uh, good morning, be prepared, semper fi, or whatever."
"good morning," they squeak. "um. hi. is this stuff, um, all yours?"
she scans the campground. half-dozen black and yellow crates, mostly open and empty. empty launchers leaned against various trees and benches. paint and scorch marks everywhere.
"yeah, that could make sense."
there's rustling behind her. she turns. two other dolls emerge from the tent, looking severe and pin-sharp in uniform minidresses, and flank her.
"Ceria."
"we overslept."
"we're going to lose our rental deposit."
"Miss will be cross."
"do something."
"you're supposed to be the responsible one."
dammit, she is, isn't she.
and the kid's eyes are about to burst out of their head.
maybe at the words "the responsible one" or maybe just with activity, the core crack anneals, as they usually do.
"this is Camp Ten Mile Creek, isn't it, kid? what day is it?"
they stammer a date. oh, grit, she and the other dolls were supposed to be cleaned up and gone yesterday. Miss will indeed be cross, unless…
her tactics engine whirs, a half-physical sensation inside her.
she blurs across the campsite, checking each of the crates. empty. empty. empty… ah.
"okay. uh. what do you do here."
"i'm a junior counselor, miss! i'm supposed to be inspecting the campsites before we start next week, but this is an awful mess!"
"junior counselor. okay. so they must trust you. can you get me a mop and bucket, and a rake?"
"yes, miss!" they nod. their kerchief bobs. adorable. "but the scoutmaster will be by to double-check before lunch, and i don't know if that'll help much…"
"nah, nah, we got this. let's do a good turn, huh? show me where the tools are?"
they point out a shed. she throws open the door. rusty, but whatever. she throws the tools at her comrades, who catch them with barely a visible motion.
"Lana!" she yells at the one with the mop and bucket. "paint! handle it!"
"it will be done."
"Praz! burns! blast craters! go get some fresh, i don't know, branches or something."
"forest floor litter," the scout interjects.
"nah, just branches and dirt, no potato chip bags."
"that is forest floor litter, miss! it's a technical term! we also use detritus, or duff."
"huh. cool. i mean, hoo-rah, right? anyway, Praz! get some duff! make it happen."
"by your command."
another olive-drab shape accelerates into furious activity.
"and we," she tells the kid, slinging the last of the simulant rounds over her shoulder, "are going to get out of the way for a bit. ever fire an Eclipse Shade device?"
"uh, i don't know if i'm allowed."
but their eyes are on the launcher at her feet.
"sure you are. i'll walk you through it. peace is our profession! help me find a clearing, will ya?"
there's one down a little dirt path from the campsite. they pass a beat-up white van with a witch's hat painted on the side in grey, and she winces, thinking of Miss. she'd told Ceria that they needed to get out of the house.
"combat dolls need enrichment. go chase each other around a bit. take them upstate. you're the responsible one, Ceria; you drive."
only responsible-ish. only responsible by comparison. still, she had Miss's orders.
"okay, this should be big enough. got that launcher?"
"yes, miss."
she adjusts the shoulder piece for them.
"so you hold it here, and here. trigger here, keep your finger off it until i say. now, the Eclipse Shade is an irreal rifter…"
"is that one of your technical terms, miss?"
"yeah, i guess so? just keep it pointed up. these are sim rounds, tiny fraction of full power. it won't be loud, but…"
she activates her buddy shielding, casting a faint green glow.
"…eyes and ears on anyway. safety first."
the kid's fairly vibrating now.
"okay. easier to explain if you see it once. pull the trigger!"
the fat stubby rocket chuffs skyward.
it bursts.
the sun goes away.
velvety blackness streams down around them.
phantom shapes glimmer in the darkened woods.
"pretty cool, right?"
"holy gosh," the kid burbles.
there are pyramids, and languid snakes made of cubes, and ghostly moss hanging from everything.
"with the sun's rays shunted off, we're seeing what is just partway there," she explains. "normally, that's witch stuff."
the sim round's rift is already closing.
"oh, miss, can i do another?"
their eyes are absolutely gleaming in the fading ghostlight. she wonders if she's woken something up that will remember her one day.
"we've got four more, kid. go nuts. just don't tell your scoutmaster about the mess, okay? it'll be gone by the time we get back."
"you promise?"
"scout's honor," she says, ball-jointed fingers crossed. it's not a big fib. dolls have honor too.