Dear Diary… or is this a journal? What’s the diff? Journal sounds more manly.

Dear Journal,

Normally I’d be vlogging this, but I don’t want Quillroy knowing I talk about his personal stuff. He really wouldn’t like that. El Ray prolly probably wouldn’t either, but… Well, El Ray won’t put me in a reverse arm bar until I say “uncle.”

I feel bad because I started the whole thing. Me, Quillroy, and Albert VII are in the rec room when El Ray comes in to tell us he won’t be in command of our squadron “for the foreseeable future.” He tried to make his statement all quick and, like, direct… Like he didn’t want to talk about it, but that’s a big deal!

He turns to leave, but I ask him if he’s mad about it. He turns back and tries to give me one of those talks the dads on old TV shows do.

“I’m not mad, Daart. I’m just very concerned. Hopper’s worldview is very much warrior focused. It’s in conflict with our way.” he says.

“With all due respect, sir, you speak for yourself. The way she handles thing. I’ve never seen anyone so… Well, so brave. Maybe it’s because of her worldview,” Quillroy says. “She’s clearly a better fighter than any of us. I think she can make us a better fighting team. For Pete’s sake, we’re fighting with literal whoopie cushions!”

“We all bring something important to the team,” El Ray shouts. “There’s more to being a good soldier than just being a fighter!”

“The fight is the test!” Quillroy says. “The fight is the only thing that matters in battle! The fight proves our worth!”

El Ray quieted himself, but you could tell he was still mad. “You’ll get yourself killed thinking like that… You’re a fool.”

I don’t remember if Quillroy or El Ray storms out first, but they are definitely mad at each other. Albert VII and I don’t know what to make of their fight, but I asked if he’s cool with Hopper as CO.

“Eh, what can you do? Orders from the top,” he says. “But one thing is for certain…”

“What’s that?” I ask. Albert VII has been with El Ray and Quillroy longer than me. I hope he can give me some perspective on this uneasy feeling I have about their argument.

“They can take my whoopee cushions when they pry ‘em from my cold, dead hands!” he says, strutting away on hands and feet.

Albert’s such a wangus, sometimes.