He got it, of course. There was a lot going on and this was a major operation. More major than normal, actually, given he was pretty much sure this counted as an ongoing act of war. The thing about that was that Adams was good at running this show. He'd spent literal years iterating upon and then executing it. Program went wrong when he wasn't at the wheel, not when he was large and in charge. Every big fuck-up had been when they'd put someone else at the reins. General didn't appreciate "I'd have done betters" and Adams wasn't usually much for them either, but on this occasion? Yeah, he'd have done better. This was why you didn't take away his baby and give it to an amateur.
He didn't do well with micromanagement. Give him a task within his capabilities and he'd fulfill it; lean over his shoulder the whole time and he was probably going to do exactly as instructed. Adams had a good memory and a better sense of just how much rope he had. Seasoned by the appropriate amount of guile, malicious compliance was a wonderful thing.
Thankfully, the General knew him well enough not to tell him how to run the Program. The status reports, though, he could very much do without. Adams had considerable resources here, enough men, artillery and vehicles to fend off a good-sized naval landing, let alone a commando assault. He had state of the art technology pointed at land, sea, and air. If a fish sneezed fifty miles off the coast, Adams was going to know about it. However, he doubted in the extreme that the British were going to come around for another pass. Given the activity in the South American theatre, Adams was confident that the Brits were focused on abetting those operations. They'd shot their shot when it came to interfering with the Program, and while Adams admired the huge brass balls it had taken to enact that sabotage, no sane commander was going to order a repeat of the trick. It would be a suicide mission, and even if they did decide to employ some kind of idiotic "it's the last thing they'd expect!" type of logic, that's why Adams had all his friends with all their heavy ordnance.
The counter-operation had been a masterstroke, if he did say so himself. Flush off victory, the British were prepared for a retaliatory attack, not a surgical strike. In an instant, they pivoted from brave rescuers to provoking a kidnapping, and on their home soil no less. Anything you can do, the USA does better. How's that for a kick in the morale dick?
Still, not being in that announcing chair really fucked with Adams' good mood from being back in the saddle. Come on, now, it just wasn't the same without being the one to give the kids their half-daily dose of levity and crushing depression. There was a reason he tried to make every single opening game briefing and every announcement; it was part of the whole thing's identity, and the optics just looked better both in and out of game to have a consistent, steady presence. The announcements were once every twelve hours, General, how hard was it to plan around that?
But now, at least, all was well again, and so Adams slowly broke into a smile as he entered the broadcast trailer.
"Hello again, my patriots!"
A long beat.
"Wait. Hold on. Can't call you that. You're British."
A clearing of the throat.
"Hello again, citizens of haitch arr haitch's most British of Empires! If you're listening to this broadcast, then congratulations are in order; you're still alive!"
You could hear the grin, the faux doe eyes.
"I have to admit to some disappointment, though. I was pulling so hard for all of you to score just one more kill before this check-in of mine. Heck, I even pushed it back a few minutes—don't worry, I won't tell if you guys don't—to see if you'd maybe get over the line and take us to halfway, but alas, not to be."
Adams gave a dramatic sigh, then rebounded back into enthusiasm like a rabbit on speed.
"So, if you're doing the math...s, you'll have put together that another five of you are dead and gone. Wanna hear how it went down? Get comfy then, kids, it's story time.
"Freya Nygourd picked the wrong fight at the wrong time with the wrong person. Pippa Andolini, to be exact. Pippa retaliated with a knife to the stomach. To borrow a phrase, she had it coming.
"Next, Yian—" Adams broke off into an undignified snort of a laugh. "Sorry, sorry. Reading it brings back memories and just—damn, improvisation is a wonderful thing, kids. Yian Griffiths brought a water spout to a gunfight. Victoria Amaro shot him. Obviously. So Yian was the one who wound up hosed. But wait, there's more! Samuel Rosen got way too curious about the aforementioned shooting, decided to get a closer look, and was rewarded with the bonus prize of more bullets! That's three on the slate for your Vicky now, kids. Careful not to fall behind!
"I'm going to tell you a little allegory now, everyone. Once upon a time, a girl saw a boy. The boy had hurt other people, so the girl decided to pick up his weapon and stand around like a lemming until the boy strangled her. The girl's name was Lucy Arkwright, the boy's was Tiny Sterling. I'll expect your essays on the deeper meaning of the story by next announcement, kids!
"Rounding us off, Pippa Andolini picked up her second kill of the afternoon by shooting Kian Banks point blank in the chest. A convenient lesson in firearms by Pippa there; can't miss if the barrel's touching.
"That's all for now, kiddos. Remember, one more death and you're halfway home. Think on that tonight.
"See you in the morning."
Weather: 2000 hours, Day Two, Thursday, January 22, 2026
A cooler evening with more of a breeze brings almost pleasant temperatures to the peninsula. Warm without being cloying and carrying a gentle airflow, the night is still and almost peaceful. From a weather standpoint, at least. The fourth announcement will occur at 0800 hours on Friday, January 23.
And, rolls:
1. Phoebe Quincy (KamiKaze) - Molly McKenzie (Irina Ivanov, Hero Card used)
2. Sofia Chiles (MurderWeasel)
3. Pippa Andolini (Laurels) Nastya Zharkova (Laurels, Swap Card used)
Three days for cards, seven more for deaths.
