Cooper remembers being normal, and the memory rattles his skull. Normal fit him like a straitjacket. He can still feel the bindings, not on his body but on his soul.

So that’s why he’s here—starting a war.

"At most it’s a battle," a voice says on his left. "War implies a grander scale."

"I’ll give you scale," Cooper snarls. And then he unleashes hell.

Except hell was out of his budget, so he unleashes...lukewarm brimstone. And oh does that...lukewarm brimstone...burn. Tearing into the night sky like claws, ragged lines of flickering orange sailing past stars, racing down to the horizon. It would be more impressive if there were more than three missiles—three and a half if you count the broken, pebble-sized chunk that Dualla threw in because she couldn’t sell it to anyone else.

"I think you got an outhouse."

"We got an outhouse," Cooper says, clasping Denver by the shoulder in what he imagines might be an affectionate gesture. He knows it’s important to stress unity amongst his subordinates. Make everyone feel part of the victory.

And really, what a victory! Denver was right—one of the missiles did indeed get an outhouse. The flames reach up in stinky anguish, easily reaching two, maybe three feet into the sky.

It’s a sight to behold.

Where will the soldiers of Captain Saber’s fearsome Squadron Five go to relieve themselves now? Gone is their wooden tower of waste. Their attempts at civility are about to be reduced to ash. They’ll be forced to turn to the mud and shadow like dogs. Yes, Cooper has reduced these men to animals. He has done that.

"Can we go home now?" Denver asks.

They’re hovering two clicks away from the Saber encampment in a souped-up, two-seater planet hopper.

Cooper forces a chuckle. "The taste of war too bitter on your tongue?"

Denver doesn’t even give him the dignity of an eye roll. Instead, she yawns, flips her black hair to the side, and turns her back to him.

Which is just annoying and uncalled for. Of course, Denver would wear a tank top with a low-cut back to his war. Bloody obnoxious. Yes, the Renegade tattoos that stretch down her spine are "impressive." Yes, they’ve proven she’s seen "real combat" in the Blood Zone. Doesn’t mean she’s better than him.

"Sure," he finally mumbles back at her, wind sucked out of his sails. Any moment now, Squadron Five will be sending out their Shashka pilots to investigate the—admittedly minor—emergency. Their hopper doesn’t have the fire power to defend itself. This was a guerrilla strike, he tells himself before nodding to Denver. "Best chart a course home."

"Aye, aye, cap." And to her credit, he can hardly pick out the sarcasm edging the words.