For a Captain in the United States Armed Forces, Jerome was younger than most of his peers. His rise was in great deal due to his uncanny ability to know the perfect time to play the political game, balanced with an equally innate understanding of when to shut his mouth and become part of the wallpaper. It was due to his youthful countenance and the fact that he was a career officer that he was often reticent to truly come down on the men under his command. Some of the other battalion leaders would at times yell and scream with a fury that would strip the lacquer off the floor and risk waking any dead that happened to be nearby.
Since he had been assigned to the Program, Jerome had never seen any need to enact strenuous discipline upon any of his officers. Had someone in the upper echelon of command not had the genius idea to take a mulligan of this quarter's program using foreign students as a form of retaliation against the Brits for their interference, he surmised he would have had to break that streak. Things had gotten messy, and mistakes had been made. The last man who had commanded the patrol units on that fateful day had been "reassigned," though word through the grapevine said that his new assignment was at the bottom of a ditch somewhere.
The General didn't tolerate failure, and that meant that they could not afford any mishaps. Not again.
Which also meant that when some obnoxious British student decided that wrecking cameras was a good idea and your superior officer instructed you to "eliminate the offender," the superior officer expected an appropriate amount of force to be used.
Employing a grenade launcher to kill one student was like using a flamethrower to kill a cockroach; not exactly what Captain Gunnarsson would have considered "an appropriate amount of force."
Scanning over the report in his hands one more time, he closed his eyes and rubbed his temples, already feeling the knot that was starting to form. Use of rocket ordinance was specifically against regulations unless absolutely necessary, and this report's justification of its use was flimsy at best. Opening his eyes, he read over the last lines of the report once more.
The student had been ensconced within the structure with little hope of retrieval without a ground incursion. Sergeant Brown believed that a ground incursion would present an unacceptable risk to the air company and authorized use of heavy ordinance. Heavy ordinance requested at 1531. Sergeant Brown approved use of heavy ordinance at 1532. Target was eliminated at 1535 without other casualties.
Ensconced. Jerome scoffed to himself and rolled his eyes. That was a great six-dollar word that Sergeant Brown had dug out of a dictionary to justify the fact that he was too lazy to take the helicopter in and wait for the target to present an opportunity. Perhaps he'd been talked into it by one of his men; he'd seen Brown fraternizing with his subordinates on numerous occasions, breeding a degree of familiarity that was inappropriate for day-to-day operation. Jerome ran his fingers through his thick blonde beard. On days like this, he was glad for its presence. Without it, he looked as baby-faced as ever, and his youth was on full display. While looking youthful may have been a gift from his Scandinavian ancestors, when demanding more comprehensive answers than the target was ensconced, it helped not to look like you were fresh out of the academy.
The fact of the matter was that the whole operation had been sloppy. One shot had been taken at the target, and Brown had very quickly authorized the flyover when it had missed. No waiting, no patience—nothing. It was that kind of overzealous behaviour that was the reason the Brits had been able to take them by surprise the first time.
Zealousness leads to sloppiness, and sloppiness lead to mistakes. Mistakes got people killed, and Jerome Gunnarsson didn't plan to be one of those casualties.
Picking up the phone on his desk, he pressed the button to connect him to his assistant. The young woman answered quickly and assertively, a style that he'd come to appreciate since she'd been assigned to him.
"I want to see Sergeant Brown in my office at 1800."
The gears set in motion, Captain Gunnarsson set the phone's receiver back down upon the cradle and once more rubbed his temples. The headache's tendrils were starting to set themselves throughout his head properly, and his now-imminent meeting with Brown was liable to set them off into a migraine were he not careful. Opening the drawer of his desk, the Captain reached in and retrieved a small bottle of Motrin. Giving it a small shake, he turned the cap but hesitated.
Ensconced within the structure.
Grunting in annoyance, Jerome tossed the pill bottle back into his desk. No, for this particular meeting, it was best that he feel the twang of irritation that a headache brought on. To dull his senses would render him ineffective and could sabotage his authority. After all, the whole point of this exercise was not to illustrate how effectively the American military power could strike down upon its foes. They'd been doing that for years already. No, this was far more of an insidious show of force—one that Jerome personally approved of. Brown needed to be reminded that the children needed to be the cause of their own undoing. Explosions looked pretty, but they were messy and attracted attention. To watch a teenager actively submit to the basest urges? It was like something out of a documentary. It was something fascinating; something glorious.
If he needed to be reminded of that, then perhaps Captain Jerome Gunnarsson might have to ensconce his foot firmly up Brown's ass.
God, he hated that word.
"Good morning, British nationals. This is Major Yancey once again."
The voice that echoed from the speakers remained clear and disciplined, but there was something else behind it, a note, perhaps, of weariness or deeply suppressed irritation.
"You have continued on-pace, further reducing your numbers and bringing us closer to a conclusion and to the release of the ultimate victor, should they so choose. Allow me to read the roll.
"Penelope Franklin was impaled with a farm implement by Tiny Sterling, though she did not go into death alone; as she fell, she fired her gun and fatally wounded bystander Barry Taylor.
"Shortly afterwards, Fleurette Lussier decided to ignore our instructions to avoid damaging monitoring equipment, and was eliminated by our forces. If you heard the helicopter or the explosion, that was why.
"I have been asked to remind you all not to sabotage any equipment, and to note that doing so will not represent either a hindrance to our operation's ongoing function or an effective form of ideologically-barbed suicide. Lussier, being the first, was allowed to go fairly quickly and painlessly, but any further vandals will be dealt with in increasingly protracted and agonizing fashion. You don't want that, and neither do we, so do play nice.
"A rather abrupt exit was what fate had in store for Lena Bianchi who fell through a weak point in the pier and plummeted to her demise. Awareness of your environment is the hallmark of a good soldier, and negligence can so easily lead to death.
"And then we returned to some more violence committed by you all upon each other. Cassandra Argent made use of what she could scavenge, and stabbed Daniel Newhouse fatally and repeatedly with a shard of glass.
"Finally, Oliver Davis took onboard my advice about double-tapping, and lit up Anvi Parekh with an entire cylinder's worth of bullets.
"We will now offer a moment of silence for the fallen."
For two seconds, the broadcast consisted of nothing but faint, hissing static, before it was broken by the unmistakable sound of a door opening and shutting. A second later, a buzzing, humming sound cut through the air, taking a moment to resolve itself into Taps, played mournfully on a kazoo.
"Hey there, kiddos," said a different, but recognizable voice. "This is Brigadier-General Adams, stopping by to pat the good ol' major on the back for the wonderful job he's been doing while I've been occupied making sure that we won't see any interference. Heard you've been committing some lovely violence upon each other. Very good, very good.
"I just wanted to make sure you knew I hadn't forgotten about you. Keep up the good work, pip pip cheerio, and all that. You'll be hearing from us again in twelve hours, unless you mess up and die."
With a click, silence returned to the arena.
Weather: 0800 hours, Day Two, Thursday, January 22, 2026
With the rising of the sun, much of the mist and cloud cover of the night quickly burns away, bringing a day that is warm but not so stiflingly hot as the first. The arena remains muggy and humid, but a measure of airflow persists through the day, breezes keeping especially those places closest to the sea from becoming unbearable. During daylight hours, visibility is good, and the day is bright without real break. The third announcement will occur at 2000 hours on Thursday, January 22.
And, the rolls:
1. Samuel Rosen (Skraal)
2. Freya Nygård (Deamon)
3. Yian Griffiths (Frozen Smoke)
As is the norm, three days for cards and a further seven for deaths.
