There’s nothing quite like the feeling of taking a combat rig off after a long day. Those things trap heat like nobody’s business, and while the temperature was mild, it was humid enough that I was sweating my ass off. I managed to strip out of my pack, helmet, IOTV, and combat shirt before the door managed to close behind me, not giving a damn who saw what. 

The maid took that as an invitation, I guess. She slipped through the crack and promptly began to assist me in getting settled in. I was too tired to protest, though I tried to communicate that I wasn’t interested in hanky panky, mostly through hand gestures and grunting. She managed, without any visible difficulty, to heft the 40 pounds of bulletproof back pain that is an IOTV onto the convenient armor rack. I guess helping adventurers out of their gear is standard practice. 

With a stranger in the room, one who wasn’t familiar with modern weaponry, I wasn’t quite comfortable leaving my rifle loaded. I dropped the magazine, cleared the chamber, and leaned it against the sword rack. I mimed shooting, and she nodded in understanding. They either had guns or crossbows in this world, I supposed. Whatever the case, she inspected it closely, but was careful not to touch it. 

What I really wanted, more than just about anything at that point, was a shower. But, I wouldn’t be able to relax until I was sure of my supply situation. So, I sat down on the bed and cracked open my go bag. 

Much to my relief, the contents seemed to have made it across the worlds intact. I had two spare uniforms, a spare set of civilian clothes, plenty of fresh socks and underwear, and some gym shorts. This was in addition to three MREs, or Meals Ready to Eat, that I’d field stripped and stuffed wherever I could find the room, 400 rounds of 5.56, still in boxes, 150 rounds of boxed 9mm, spared batteries for my NODs and rifle sight, hygiene wipes, protein bars, caffeinated drink mix, a couple of water bottles, a solar charger for my now useless cell phone, $300 in cash, and some cheap paperback books that I brought along in case we got some down time. Oh, and a cleaning kit for my gun, a hygiene kit, and a coffee service kit for camping. 

Damn and blast, another thing to do before I went to bed. The idea that the AR platform is a constantly jamming death trap dates back to the Vietnam war, when an unfortunate mix of humid weather, lack of cleaning, and shitty ammunition got hundreds of soldiers killed. The modern M4 carbine, especially one that’s properly tuned and gassed like mine, is far less likely to jam up, but it’s still best practice to clean them after every firefight. And since I’d burned through a hundred rounds in the dusty and sandy Syrian desert, I needed to get it clean sooner rather than later. So, I trudged over to the sword rack, picked up my rifle, and trudged back over to the bed. 

The whole while, the maid watched with ravenous eyes.

I got the feeling she was less interested in me as a piece of ass than she was my kit. Warriors of all stripes tend to be curious about unfamiliar weapons. I figured the chances of her running off with the thing were next to nil, so I didn’t mind her watching. 

Without really thinking about what I was doing, I popped the rear takedown pin out of the receiver and let it hinge open. Out came the charging handle and bolt carrier group, which I wiped down with a shop rag I kept for that express purpose. I made the right call cleaning the thing; the parts were positively filthy. From there, I field stripped the bolt carrier, scraping excess carbon off with my thumbnail, before putting it all back together. I took the same rag and wiped out the inside of the receiver, paying special attention to the star chamber and feed ramps, both common failure points. Job done, I squirted a couple of drops of lubricant on the rag, and got everything nice and slippery. 

Throughout the process, the maid asked questions. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying, but she managed to get her point across via gesture, and I answered in kind. Whether or not she knew what the hell I was on about was anyone’s guess, but whatever. Having a task to accomplish that required me to think helped keep my mind off other things, things I wasn’t ready to consider quite yet. 

I knew I had died, and at a really bad time, too. My squad got caught in a nasty ambush on patrol, presumably by either Syrian government forces or Iranian militia. We knew ISIS was fairly well cleaned out of the area, so we weren’t expecting much action from them. If I was dead, that meant we had other casualties as well, and I really, really didn’t want to think too hard about that. 

I’m good at compartmentalizing. When my dad died on my last deployment, I managed to bury that grief until I could get home. When my wife left me for my best friend, I kept the rage and betrayal bottled up. When friends got hurt, or when things went wrong, I always managed to kick the can down the road until it was safe to let all the anguish out. And once I’d taken the time to feel, it all went back into the bottle until the next time. 

Maybe that’s not the healthiest of coping mechanisms, but it kept me alive, and it kept me sane. Since I was stuck in another world with no idea of what tomorrow would bring, I had to keep my head about me. So, I focused on my chores until there was nothing left to do. My guns were clean enough, I had my bag inventoried and repacked, my magazines refilled (the maid got a kick out of helping with that), and my gear inspected. Now there was nothing left to do but get ready for sleep.