"I was a sucker, Mona," he'd say, running his thumb over nubs of missing fingers. "Don't you be too."
She'd thought she probably wouldn't cut it as a sniper. It was tough, so the others said. She'd already taken a few shots at alternate placements, but, while she hated to admit it, she just didn't have the proper creativity and cunning to work out how to dodge trouble. The Coast Guard had been a wash—she hadn't even known how to swim. Artillery had sounded intriguing, but she lacked the mathematical and mechanical aptitudes. Slowly, inexorably, she'd drifted towards a posting in the army, try as she could to avoid it.
But, just her luck, it had turned out she was a pretty good sharpshooter after all.
Some of it was manual dexterity. A lot more, perhaps, came from the mentality. Ramona was patient. She could be meticulous. She could practice. That had been how she got through school, when a number of the subjects were so difficult for her: drilling and repetition, again and again. Practicing shooting was meditative for her. Pretty soon, she was making a name for herself. She'd never truly excelled at anything before, so it was exciting. Being good at something, having skills that brought her respect, it made her proud. Her father had been proud of her. He'd told her often, in his last days.
It was, then, a shame that her talent didn't transition too well to practical application.
The first cracks showed in live-fire exercises. All that patient, meticulous practice didn't mean much when her heart started hammering so hard that her hands shook and she couldn't hear. She could be incredibly accurate when she was in the zone, but under that sort of pressure? Impossible.
They'd talked about kicking her over to a training role. "Those who cannot do, teach," that was what her father had said, usually followed by "...and those who cannot teach, teach gym." Ramona couldn't teach, turned out—not marksmanship, at least. It was far too physical, too instinctual a process for her. Whether she could teach gym, the verdict was still out. She hadn't gotten the chance. The army didn't need that.
No, with her inability to perform under pressure, it'd seemed like she was headed straight for some hellhole frontline support responsibility—that, or dishonorable discharge and court martial. There were other roles, of course, for the incapable, but incapable was a designation reserved for those who couldn't physically hack it. She was, as some of her officers had so succinctly put it, simply a coward.
What use was a sniper who was also a total coward?
But then, when all hope had seemed lost, she'd gotten the call: a spot had opened up, one that called for an extremely specific set of skills and values. One of the enforcers on The Program had retired, and they needed someone new, someone with pinpoint accuracy and no particular moral compunctions about blowing some teenager's head off for telling Uncle Sam to shit on a yucca plant. Did she think she could handle that?
In the old days, firing squads had included one gun filled with blanks, just so everyone could feel better about themselves, tell themselves maybe they hadn't been the one to contribute to the deed. The Program didn't work like that. Ramona had helped kill, oh, seven or eight kids over the past few years. Give or take one or two. She'd had the number down pat at first, but that was a while ago.
She hadn't been on the helicopter ride this version. Not her shift. She hadn't had any action in a while. Had been getting worried, actually—the collar thing they'd tried, she'd hated that. Had railed against it in meetings, spun a whole line of hooey about how it made patriots come off like common criminals. Maybe everyone saw through her. Adams did, she knew that. She'd only met him a handful of times, but she could tell when he looked at her that he knew.
Collars meant killing kids with the flick of a switch instead of the pull of a trigger. That meant no need for snipers. That meant, well, Ramona would have to find something else to do to fill out the last two years of her service.
She tugged on her boots, checked her rifle. There were no collars now, thank goodness. Sometimes in the final stages, they would let kids go about their business, let them take however long they wanted to finally fight it out, but not this time. Too much risk, with such unknown quantities, foreigners without a total understanding of the proceedings. It was almost the hour for the final showdown, whether they liked it or not, and she was a key part of the enforcement mechanism.
If they didn't want to cooperate and go to the little arena prepared for them? Well, then she'd just have to rack up kill number eight.
Or was it nine?
Somewhat under eight hours after the last time, the speakers spread throughout the arena crackled to life once more, carrying the semi-familiar voice of Brigadier-General David Adams to those who remained to hear.
"Evening everyone."
A weighty pause.
"All four of you."
Another. Taking his time.
"I'd congratulate those of you left alive, but it's too soon for anyone to start throwing parties. You've made it this far, but if you take your eye off the ball, it will all have been for nothing. Put up or shut up. You don't want this to be the biggest disappointment since prom night, do you?
"Wait, do you have prom over there? ... Eh, details."
Adams cleared his throat.
"Annnnywhooo. I'm sure you're all anxious to hear who's still with us, so let me fill you in.
"Firstly... wait, let me get in the mood for this one..."
There was a repeated tapping sound, setting a beat.
"He's Sebbo Boston and he's here to say
He'll fight all night, and lose all day
When Cassandra Argent came along
Well my friend, that's when things went wrong.
He thought he was safe, a place to rest
But in Program you'll find unwelcome guests
Y'know what'll get a Brit kid's goat?
Stabbing 'em right through the back of the throat
So kiddos, in brief, what went down
Saint Editha's Academy: short one clown."
Dead air for several seconds.
"After that—okay you know what, usually I'm all about keeping this in order, being that these announcements of mine are a matter of record, but I am so darn annoyed by this I can't keep it in. So Cassandra Argent, fresh off of actually deciding to give a damn, has the brilliant idea to go for a swim. In the ocean. In the evening. Congrats, Cassandra, you made it to a hiding spot; none of your competitors will ever find your frozen corpse!
"In less idiotic news, we did get a classic double KO earlier on. Rajni Smith and—I'd just like to register my sheer disgust your parents are making me say this name—Katana Locke-Baldwin took each other out. Rajni took a stab wound, Katana got a net to the throat. Katana got a net to the throat.
"I'd call you a disappointment to your family for managing to get yourself killed by one of the least lethal weapons in the entire pool, but I think they have way too much disappointment-debt to work off after naming you, I can't stress this enough, Katana.
"As for Smith, well, if only she had some kind of reliable ally there who could have stepped in and prevented her from dying. I can't imagine who that possibly could have been.
"If I can take a moment for a quote, one Tiny Sterling gave us the following: 'You gonna shoot me? I fucking dare you.' Which is of course an incredible thing to say to someone who has already shot people. Oliver Davies accepted the challenge.
"After doing literally nothing to avert the aforementioned confrontation, Fisher Darden was then threatened and generally pushed around by Oliver, who was so goshdarned annoyed that Fisher didn't agree with him that he wasted all of his ammo and rushed at him. Davies was promptly shot dead, because even Fisher can eventually get around to stopping dithering if you give him literally every possible chance."
There was a high pitched toot, followed by a jaunty celebratory tune. Played on a kazoo.
"Then there were four.
"Fisher Darden. I can't count the number of times I've seen you walk into a situation with someone who should kill you and then somehow walk out unscathed. Credit where credit's due, you've demonstrated that you're more than an easy out. Too bad it's taken you this long to locate your spine. If you'd had this nerve from the start, imagine how many of your classmates you could have saved.
"Pippa Andolini. The driver, the one making things happen. I've liked your game from the moment you finally realized what had to happen to survive and you've proven you have what it takes. Still, we reap what we sow and you've got two gunning for you at the very least. Our past has a way of catching up. In any case, you've killed three. What's three more?
"Galahad Matthews. I can't decide whether you're the best and sneakiest actor I've ever seen, or a complete sadsack who got very, very lucky. Either way, there's nowhere else to run and nobody else to hide behind. You made yourself a promise and nothing I've seen from you suggests that you have what it takes to keep it. Feel like proving me wrong, o gallant knight?
"Virgil Raeburn. Another lucky son of a bitch. You've stumbled your way in and out of danger after danger, and I think even you might believe that you're bulletproof. Guess what? You're not, and you're out of time to let others do the work for you. Oh and... behind you.
"Endgame takes place in The Graveyard. Be there, or get real good at dodging snipers and mortar fire.
"I'm sure whoever turns out the winner will give us a jolly good show.
"David Adams signing off. See you in an hour."
Weather: 1827 hours, Day Three, Friday, January 23, 2026
Late afternoon bleeds into evening. The day is cool, but has fallen relatively still. There is little ambient noise; wildlife has resumed its activities, but generally shy away from the places where students remain. In the distance, a helicopter may be heard, and may even be seen if the students have a good vantage point. No further announcements are expected to occur.
With that, Endgame may begin at any time. While normally its prompt start would be mandated, in acknowledgement of the holiday season staff is giving a little extra leeway. Endgame activity enforcement will not begin until the clock ticks over into the new year, meaning that the latest possible date for Endgame to begin in the end of January 6, 2020. That said, we invite and encourage the Endgamers to get rolling sooner if they have the ability.
Finally, we would like to invite everyone to check out and fill out the Official Commendations (PV3 Plastic Hammers). It's always nice to get some love going to get the finals off on a good foot. (Oh, and also if you happen to feel like giving the tragically neglected Prologue Hammers a poke, that'd be swell also).
Thanks for reading! We're looking forward to an excellent conclusion to the version.