The doors open and the Alts, seeing my military rank, part like traffic for an ambulance. I’m offered seats by five officer cadets and choose one on the edge of the row. I can feel sweat trickling down the side of my head as I sit in the silence of the carriage. All the Alt soldiers are on their best behavior in front of me, their superior officer.

I catch sight of my reflection in the opposite window. The face-changer app that Apple-Moth is using has transformed my big-eared, bulbous-nosed, scarred face into a chisel-jawed, blue-eyed runway model. The only problem is, the new face is white.

“Apple-Moth, you moron,” I mutter, glancing down at the contrasting brown skin of my hands and shoving them into my pockets.

Another batch of young soldiers boards the train, all five of them saluting me. This time—aware of Apple-Moth’s error in judgment—I do not salute back, only nod at the soldiers, who look disappointed.

“Psst!” the quiet but panicked voice of Apple-Moth hisses from beneath my body armor.

I feel a jolt of adrenaline and glance around, but nobody appears to have heard. I look down and see that Apple-Moth is projecting words a centimeter above its body:

BATTERY DYING. NEED SOLAR POWER.

No sooner have I read this short sentence when I see, in my peripheral vision, the digital mask around my face begin to flicker.

“Fuck,” I whisper.

I lower my head and try to cover it with a hand, as though I’m suffering from an oncoming migraine; then I remember the false face is white and hide my hands in my pockets once again.

The train stops again and the doors whoosh open. The crowd parts and a soldier with an identical shoulder patch to mine strolls into the aisle and glances around. She notices me, grins, and saunters over.

“Captain,” she mutters, lowering herself down onto the seat beside me.

“Captain,” I reply.

We sit in silence for a few seconds, and then I’m aware of the soldier trying to get a good look at me.

“Say,” she says, ducking lower and trying to look at my face, “I don’t think we’ve met. You newly promoted?”

“Yes, Captain,” I reply, trying to stay as still as possible, knowing that Apple-Moth and its dying battery will struggle to track my face and keep it disguised.

“The name’s Captain Rooney,” she says, holding out her hand to be shaken.

I take her hand and give it a perfunctory grab before shoving back into my pocket. “Yossarian, Captain Yossarian.”

“Yossarian?” she says, a hint of awe in her voice. “Hell, I’ve heard of you! The legend of Midway!”

For a second I’m silent in confusion—then I realize: The story Sam told the soldiers when we bluffed our way out of the pub must’ve spread like wildfire. I offer a polite smile, and then stand up. “This is my stop,” I mutter.