TGT 1: Let the Game Begin

►| one

Heels clacked against the floor. A stark figure of a woman walked across a large room, scanning the faces of the children. A pillar of blue light flashed behind her, supporting the contents of the session. The children stared at her, flat looks etched on their faces. Dressed in black jackets and trousers, they were better suited for a funeral.

She came here to teach her material, to make sure these snotty-faced children get to learn about the Winter War and its impacts on the world beyond them. Her red-rimmed spectacles peeked at the edge of her vision as she roamed the room. Her question hung in the air. No one wanted to answer. She was used to that, though. Her sharp nose turned down on them.

"The Winter War is a conflict between the Soviets and the Finnish people over a portion of territory," she continued, her previous question lost to the diffusing power of silence. Her voice was monotonic, but it was expected for lessons like this. War was never interesting to those who didn't care about it. "According to what we have discussed, which side do you think won?"

A girl scoffed, leaning back on her seat with her arms crossed over her chest. "I don't see why we have to talk about this," she said, waving a hand in the air. "It's obviously the Soviets, whoever they are. They got what they wanted."

"Yeah, but they suffered great losses and at one point conceded against the Finnish," another girl at the far side of the gathered children answered.She ran a hand down the strands of her dark hair. A frown pulled at the edges of her lips as her fingers snagged in the tangles. "I don't see that as a win. The way towards it matters as much as the end result."

"So, the Finnish won, then?" the third girl argued. Her pale skin reflected the sunlight streaming from the only window in the room, making her and the bobbed white hair sparkle. "They conceded a portion of their territory and lost a lot of soldiers too."

Finally, a boy at the back sighed and brought his feet down from the table. "What the Winter War tells us is that nobody wins at war," he said. "Aggression might get you what you want, but not without demanding something in return. Most of the time, the price is larger than the prize."

He whirled towards the woman standing in the middle of the room, the one who was supposed to be in charge of their learning. "Isn't that right?"

The teacher opened her mouth. Before words could come out, a series of explosions rocked the entire building. A loud blare descended from the sky just as the lights around the room flashed red. Glass cracked and shattered. A sharp streak of silver whizzed past a boy with a mop of dark hair. His curls bounced against his head as he dove to the ground. The silver streak sailed towards the woman who caught it on her chest, nailing her on the spot. The sound of a record scratching accompanied the blustering alarms. Blue glitched into pixels of green and pink. Then, the woman exploded into a thousand shards.

The projector clicked shut, its light retreating back to its black box.

Everyone was on the ground, hands over their heads. The boy with dark curls crawled towards the window, cursing the drag of his body and his hands slipping across the dusty floor. Rock groaned and debris peeled from the ceiling as more darts and strong forces pepper the building's facade. Another layer of alarms joined the existing one. The boy frowned. Intruders.

The girl with white hair rammed her shoulder against a door, throwing it open. She disappeared down into the dark corridor beyond. Other children followed her, as if called by a duty they couldn't refuse.

The explosions ceased. The only casualty was the window. It could be fixed. The boy lowered his hands. His breaths rattled as he edged out of his hunkered position and glanced past the webbing cracks of the glass. Two people dashed across the grounds, aiming for the entrance of their building. He recognized them.

He whipped towards the spot where the teacher's shards had fallen. This was their territory. No way they would stand back and let it be invaded. They have to defend it with their all, or die trying. The only way out of this field was to play. And in any game, someone was bound to lose.

"Not today, bitch," the boy muttered. He pulled himself up while nothing shot at him from the horizon. His hand pulled the hand-held screen from his belt. Two taps, and the thing lit up. Terrain maps of the whole city came to life.

He nodded to another girl perched atop a wooden table. Her eyes trained on the ongoing chaos outside with little interest. "With me," the boy called, making her shoulders jerk at the attention.

Without another word, she slid off the table and clambered after him. Together, they made it to a low-lying metal ladder leading to an attic-like space. His fingers gripped the cold metal as he hauled himself up. The rungs dug against his soles until his head poked past a human-sized hole. The cement had changed into wood, making way for the attic's antique make. Not a speck of dust stained the floorboards, the walls, and the domed ceiling.

Footsteps thudded towards a pile of bags and equipment veiled by shadows. Zippers swished open, locks flicked and clicked into place, and bullet cases clinked on their way into the rifle's chambers. "Tell me where and when to fire," the girl said, not bothering to look at him. "I have my eyes on several targets."

The boy hefted the screen to his face, calculating the coordinates. "6 clicks to the right. 4 south of maximum range," he said. His tone was calm. Collected. "Focus on the one on the left, moving about point-five clicks a minute. Hold."

The rifle's parts chinked. The girl blew a long breath, positioning her finger on the trigger. "2 clicks," the boy prodded, focusing on the moving targets reflected on the virtual map on his screen. Calculating the system delay...

He narrowed his eyes at the bright red dot, giving it a face. This was war, and like the Soviets and the Finnish, they both stood to gain little and lose a lot. Nobody wins in wars, but when one was in the middle of it, sometimes, it didn't matter.

Nothing mattered but the almost audible thump of one's target stepping to mark. The boy never took his eyes off the screen as the word flitted out of his lips.

"Fire."