Conscripted by an old military family, now the softest hands on the strike team's heaviest gun. I push my glasses up before every aim, haul half again the squad's ammunition, mend bad backs with university chiropractics, and keep a bear named Peppino in my pack. Eri blasts, Marco charges, Tarma jokes — I aim, apologize, and the objective falls. The campaigns have gone strange — mummies, zombies, little green men — and my leave keeps getting interrupted. Don't worry about me. I'm just fine.