They’d served in Attila the Hun’s army and massacred Mason’s group, playing the Romans. They were the Romans and massacred Cadence’s group, playing the Carthaginians. They’d fought Ralph’s group in the Persian Gulf, and they were lions who tore apart Emefa’s hyenas. They’d been space aliens and destroyed Britt Schmeiser’s old Soviet army, and played peasants battling a Mongol invasion led by Karl Marsters. Tom had died because of parachute failure; by drowning; gunfire; and various stabbing, burning, and biting wounds. He’d been ritually sacrificed by Heather and her Incan warriors, and he’d gotten beheaded by Yosef and his fellow samurai. He’d racked up the highest kill-to-death ratio of all the Middles, and he’d even killed Karl three times, which Tom maintained grew more fun each time he did it.

If he hadn’t systematically alienated every single Coalition CEO, he would’ve stood a chance of getting promoted. As it was, Wyatt was the only one of them moving up the ranks, finishing Middle Company in six months.

Their last hurrah under Snowden found them in the old Western Wyatt Earp vendetta ride scenario. Wyatt Enslow herself was in the enemy group, on the opposite side as the historical figure who shared her name, playing an outlaw called a Cowboy. Ironically, Vik was the one playing Wyatt, as in Wyatt Earp, the old Western lawman. Tom was the gunfighter Doc Holliday, and since he and Vik were working together to hunt down Elliot’s cowboys one by one, the inevitable moment came when they faced her at the O.K. Corral.

Wyatt avoided the petty gunfights and headed to a saloon and rigged up a bunch of Molotov cocktails. Her firebombs against members of Tom and Vik’s posse had destroyed the scenario’s promise of so many wonderful gun duels. She’d killed most of their group, too, and shown everyone that she wasn’t getting promoted only because of her programming skills. Her dislike of fighting had paradoxically turned her into a lethal killing machine.

Tom and Vik were wary about an open confrontation. The guns were wildly inaccurate, and the bullets were primitive. They had to strike once, and strike carefully.

Luckily, Wyatt had one weakness: Giuseppe was on her side.

He was lounging right in the open on a chair in front of the saloon, boots idly kicked up on the railing of the porch. Wyatt clutched her pistol and peeped out every few seconds from behind a shattered window, while Giuseppe discussed how much his boots chafed. Tom had tied himself underneath a wagon for the slow, rattling sneak attack, and he could glimpse them from where he was hanging. He tugged out the knot holding him to the bottom of the wagon, trusting his arm strength to keep him up until it was time to drop down and pull off his ambush.