Tuesday, January 20, 2026: Bellington, United Kingdom
The wail of air raid sirens was not quite commonplace in Bellington, but it also wasn’t far enough out of the norm to arouse particular shock. Fear, of course, was a different story. While the American planes made their runs quickly and at a relatively high altitude, the damage was still real. There had been deaths—not many, but all it took was for someone to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. More than that, the bombing runs provoked a sort of tired resignation among the populace. Even if the vast majority of the ordnance failed to make contact with anything of note, someone’s house would be partially destroyed or some business would be wrecked or some little area of peace, a pond or a bench under an old tree, would be obliterated. Every time the planes came, life became just that little tiny bit worse.
Saint Editha Academy was no stranger to this process. The school had sustained damage in bombing runs before, and in fact some parts of the building were still undergoing repairs. The evacuation process was familiar to all the students. As the sirens screamed throughout the town, classrooms emptied one after another, clusters of students making their way in quick yet orderly fashion towards the bunker built into the bottom of the school, below even the gymnasium. The teachers shepherded them, demeanors grim but stoic, shouting clipped corrections to any who strayed or took the process anything less than perfectly seriously. It was efficient, practiced, safe.
For the most part, anyways.
Two classes faced a slightly more chaotic process. Due to lacking classroom space because of the damage, a few courses during the busiest times of day had been relocated to an old stone outbuilding across campus from the primary facility. When the sirens began, a maths course and an English course were in progress there, a few dozen students either doing their best to focus on their lessons or to avoid doing so. The outbuilding was a fairly popular location, in part because the greater distance from the main campus provided ample excuse for a measure of tardiness and in part because the instructors exiled to it tended to be lax.
Mr. Shaw, in charge of English, was an oddly cheerful, careless sort, and in fact when the racket began he almost sprang out of his chair, clapped his hands, and beckoned his charges after him as he set out across the open field with long, loping strides. By contrast, Mrs. Horton let out a little shriek, though quickly took to yelling for order.
The populace of both classes merged into one big mass, absent the careful coordination of their peers indoors. This, too, was not uncommon. Haste was the order of the day, but still the threat did not feel overly real. The early warning system was advanced, and sometimes the Americans just buzzed the town. Bellington was not a high enough priority target to really justify heavy expenditure of ammunition.
Today, though, something went wrong. Mrs. Horton was leading the charge, less an inspiring leader and more the one most concerned for her own safety. Perhaps that was why, when she stumbled and dropped to the ground, Mr. Shaw giggled. He didn’t realize what had actually happened, didn’t notice the puff of blood that exploded from her chest, until a second later. He didn’t hear the gunshot over the keening. He didn’t know what was happening until he, too, was under fire. Two quick shots caught him in the throat and temple, and this was harder to misunderstand.
Some of the students screamed. Some turned to run. Nobody got far, though. The span between outbuilding and school was wide open grass, lined with hedges, and over these hedges now hopped a dozen heavily armed, armored figures. They shouted to each other, accents all-too-familiar from movies and the news. Americans.
“Freeze,” the man who must have been their leader called out. “You all are coming with us. Any resistance, you’re dead. Hands over your heads. Now.”
One boy decided to chance it. He made it two steps before he was cut down by gunfire. After that, nobody had much resistance left.
The Americans marched the students away. Though they did not yet know it, they were bound for a pair of helicopters, and thence to a United States facility in Ireland, where they would be drugged into unconsciousness and across the ocean. There was no discussion—their captors made it clear that would not be tolerated—but private speculation ran high. Were they to be hostages, prisoners of war offered up for trade? The Americans were known for underhanded tactics that defied the typical rules of warfare, but this was a whole other level. Were they to be grilled for information? Used as propaganda pieces?
Nobody, of course, figured out their true fate. Not until they woke up again, lined up loosely, guarded by a different dozen soldiers as a man in fatigues with a loose, easy manner told them all of their doom.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it is my privilege to welcome you to the United States of America!"
A harsh and blinding light flared to life, glaring into the faces of the group of teenagers whose last waking memories had been of terror and anticipation, a subdued and powerless flight aboard military helicopters. This, clearly, was no helicopter. Each of them sat at a plain wooden writing desk, their right hands ziptied to the crossed metal structure which fed down to the desk legs.
The industrial light was dazzling, fierce enough that it was almost impossible to discern what lay behind it, pinpoint the source of the voice. Instead, the Saint Editha abductees had to take stock of alternative surroundings. The wooden floor of their new abode was almost aggressively clean, bereft of any charm or life. The walls were bare and windowless, the ceiling high and raftered. Perhaps once this had been a warehouse. Now, it was something else.
"You're all looking a little squinty. Let's see if we can't... ah, there we are!" The strip light was extinguished and immediately replaced with two more, these overhead rather than front-on. The area ahead of the teenagers was illuminated by a spotlight, as were their own rows of desks. A blonde man wearing olive drab trouser fatigues and a white t-shirt stood bathed in the light. One hand rested on his hip and an easy grin adorned his face.
"I've come to know you all in the past twenty-four hours, so let me return the favour. My name is David Adams, but you can call me 'Sir'. I'll be your master of ceremonies for this, the all-new, all-British edition of the Program." He paused. "Apparently a couple of you aren't actually from sunny England originally. How lucky for you."
He surveyed them for a long moment. "See, Her Majesty the queen decided that rather than keep our war on the up and up, she was going to launch an attack on our soil, murder our children, then try and claim the moral high ground against this great nation's great Program." Adams smiled, broad and cold and vicious. "So, really, if you're going to blame anyone, blame your own military. The US won't stand for such cowardly attacks, and you, kiddos, are the living proof." He paused. The edge of his mouth twitched. "Well, figure of speech."
"For those of you unfamiliar with how this works, listen up. Outside of these four walls is a little piece of American paradise, a town which the locals have kindly donated to us for our great work. That town is your battleground. Each of you will receive a pack with provisions, some basic gear and a randomly assigned weapon. Guns, blades, tools; remember it's not about what you get, it's how you use it."
He cast his arms wide with theatrical flair. "And the task we're setting you to is killing. Specifically each other. The last one standing gets to go back home to jolly old England, isn't that nice?"
Adams' expression stilled, losing even his dead smile's facsimile of good humour. "Now I'm sure you're all thinking 'our army managed to pull one over the US before! They'll come save us!' No. No they will not. If British aircraft come within a hundred miles of the US, they'll be blown out of the sky. Shipping? Sank to the bottom. Land? They're not even clearing the border. Nobody is coming for you."
He let that hang in the air. "I'll keep the rest simple, don't want you straining yourselves. Get cute with the cameras and we'll shoot you. Try to leave the town and we'll shoot you. Attack the soldiers, your exciting prize will also be a bullet. Rest assured, we're packing much heavier hardware than anything we put in your packs." The smile returned. "In any case, I'm sure we'll have a much better relationship than that. Think of me as your mission control, your eye in the sky, keeping you posted with regular updates about the progression of our game. Every twelve hours I'll give you an announcement detailing the dead and who killed them and any other important information you need to know. Any questions? Eh. I'm sure you'll figure it out."
Adams fired off a lazy salute. "Tally ho, chaps. See you in twelve hours."
Thick white gas flooded the warehouse, obscuring everything from view.