“I can’t wait for this bloody thing to end,” muttered Robert Duff. His fingers twitched over the loose ends of a cigarette. It folded over, and he gripped it between two yellowed teeth. Fumbling with the matchbox, Duff struck a light. His companion, a young immigrant who introduced himself as Alexi, struck it out of his hand.

“What the bloody hell, you foulgone inbred?” Duff stiffed the boy over the head.

Alexi lifted a quiet finger to pursed lips, and then gestured out over the foxhole. “They told us: No lights, no noises. When darkness falls, so do we.”

“What kind of blasted– When darkness– Bloody hell, the monitors really did a number on you, eh?” Duff stuttered. He crouched in the mud and struck another match. Before Alexi could react, Duff elbowed him in the knee. Satisfied the recruit wouldn’t interrupt him, Duff lit the roll. After a few puffs, he rose again.

“That the sort of propaganda they drown you in these days? Nursery rhymes?” Duff poked Alexi in the chest.

Alexi shrugged. “It is what we were taught. This era preferred sharpshooters at night. Fire is not allowed. Neither is talking for that matter.”

Duff rolled his eyes. “This your first game, then?”

Alexi nodded, watching the horizon.

“An’ you think you’re ready for this? After a month an’ half of marching an’ shouting?” Duff whispered, not for Alexi’s sake but out of actual caution. He was a cynic, not an imbecile.

Alexi shifted uncomfortably. The rookie kept peering down the sights of his rifle, as if willing a Mowbray soldier to appear. Duff’s rifle leaned against the side of their embattlement. It stood next to an equally neglected haversack. Alexi hunched over before answering. “We did not just march.”

“No, lad, you’re right. Shooting a target at hundred meters is exactly like war.” Duff glared at the lad. “Good to know your bayoneting a dead pig has gotten you ready to kill.”

“How many games have you been in?” Alexi ignored the animosity. At least, he seemed to try.

“Listen, boy. I fought back in Glory of the Romans Three. Don’t go goosing me up like the village elder. If you want quiet, then be fucking quiet. I don’t need some grassy green ogling me like a statue.” Duff picked up his rifle and leaned in its place.

“You don’t have to be rude,” muttered Alexi.

“Why not? You’ll be dead by tomorrow. Opening Hostilities always culls the herd. This ain’t a Skirmish, you know. We won’t be leaving in an hour an’ lining up for the showers.” Duff, after a few drags on the limp gasper, spat in the dirt. He eyed Alexi. “Seen plenty of you, boy. I’ll see plenty more.”

“It’s only a week,” Alexi started to protest. Duff began laughing but it quickly turned into coughing and hacking. Alexi shrunk further down beneath the dirt wall with each cough. His eyes shot from side to side searching for someone who might have heard the noise.

“Lad, it used to be two weeks. But then, the League decided that was inhumane. Can you imagine? An’ in those days, playing a Seige had no time limit.” Duff recalled each little detail with scorn. “An’ my training camp was only two weeks. They didn’t care for historical accuracy; the audience only needs to see you carry a weapon.”

“What changed?”

“Lords an’ Ladies began fighting alongside their pawns. Many wanted more realism, the bluntbrains.”

“Basketcases,” murmered Alexi.

“Excuse me, lad?” Duff glared.

“Basketcases. We’re supposed to use their words.”

“Their?– Oh, you blasted grass. Does it look like I got Lord Latymer on my shoulder?” Admonished Duff. “No one speaks the old jabber unless a Lord or one of his bots is eyeing us. You’d have to learn fresh every year. You can’t do that, lad.”

Alexi fell silent again. The two men continued in the uncomfortable silence for quite some time, each one watching in different directions. A flare shot up from the hills where the Mowbray’s Men had been sighted. Both soldiers pushed themselves into their defenses. Light illuminated the field. White shafts danced along the dips and curves of the battlefield. It glided along on the wind for a tenuous moment.

Duff grumbled as he picked up the small shovel from its spot and began deepening their foxhole. Each lump of dirt tossed out strained his back even more. Alexi watched for a moment before disentangling his own tool from his pack and joining.

“Why do you dig?” Alexi whispered.

“Sky’s about to fall,” grunted Duff. He focused on his shovel swing instead of talking. Above them, the flare faltered and blinked out of sight. All brilliance disappeared with as if a cloth had been dropped over a napkin.

“I do not hear anything.” Alexi pointed out.

“You will,” Duff grunted again. “Might be the last thing we hear.”

“What is it like?” The question paused Duff in mid-swing. He carefully reset himself and considered the new soldier. Words, barbaric and crude, percolated at the back of his throat. Duff took a deep breath before answering.

“It doesn’t matter what it sounds like, lad. You only hear it for a moment; you’ll feel it for the rest of your life.”

“They told us to open our mouths when artillery is to hit near us.”

“Oh, they did, now did they? Is that the only thing they said? Did they tell you what to do if it hits you? Keeping your maw open does very little. Instead, get as near the earth as you can. Even if you’re breathing dirt, you’re more likely to live,” offered Duff. He signaled to their hole. “You see this? We should dig it longer an’ wider. Get some sandbags. Make it real an’ proper.”

“Will they bring us bags of sand?”

“Doubt it. I’ve been in Latymer’s Legion forever now; the Lord rarely gets off his arse to order supplies once a game goes long. We fought a Siege during Sea of Tranquility where my cavalry regiment ran out of power cells. Didn’t see action for the rest of the game because we were stranded in the habitat module.” Duff rested from digging. Nothing else had followed the flare. Or at least, nothing that affected him. Away went the shovel and out came his ration can. Alexi made a show of digging for a few more minutes before stopping as well.

“You were in the cavalry?” he asked after a breath.

Duff shrugged. “I tested high enough for any division. I’ve tried most of them over the years. I prefer the ranks of the infantry.” His ration can popped open. The smell of preserved beans and sausages pinched at Duff’s nose. He stuck his bayonet into one small specimen and raised it up for examination. “Three cheers for historical accuracy, lads.”

“The money is good here,” agreed Alexi. Someone shouted far off in the distance. A few whip cracks of rifle fire echoed from the disturbance. Alexi grabbed his weapon in a hurry. As Alexi brought it to bear on the Mowbray line, Duff chuckled.

“It ain’t about the mone– Here, put that down– Not about the money. Everyone joins for the money, but that’s your first mistake. If you want mo– I said put that thing down, lad– you want money, you should have become a miner. You can’t spend money if you’re dead. Will you put that blasted thing away already? No one from our own side even knows we’re here; I doubt the enemy does.” Duff signaled to the spot next to his own rifle. Alexi sheepishly retired the self-loader. Duff shook his head, gazing off towards the opposing side.

“You don’t want the money? Why else then be infantry?” Alexi restarted Duff’s thinking after a restless moment. The older man looked back at his young compatriot.

“We’re the most free. When’s the last time you seen a Lord marching with us? Shite, I ain’t seen one seen since I was in the battery during Fall of New York. Little puke just sat back in an air-conditioned rig while the rest of us hustled around gun emplacements,” Duff reminisced as his guard continued to fall. The long night begun to wear on him. He continued picking at the cold contents of his rations.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Lord,” contemplated Alexi. His face pinched as he thought.

“You would know if you did. They prefer wearing all the fancy ribbons an’ flash.”

“And you have use the campaign’s language around them?”

“Ah, naw. You just stay real quiet an’ give a mean eye when they’re around. They’ll think you’re a crazy one.”

Alexi laughed. “You must play that well.”

Duff allowed himself a short chuckle. “You’ll get there in time.”

“I thought I was going to be dead by the end of the game.” Alexi’s challenge caught Duff up. He squinted at the foreigner before taking a deep breath.

“I’m only passing the time with you, lad. I signed on the day after my secondary graduation; everyone I entered with has either retired or gotten themselves killed. No matter the year’s campaign, whether it’s sticks an’ stones or microrailers, plenty of the young ones get themselves killed. That’s just the game.”

“Teach me to survive, then,” Alexi suggested before Duff had even finished. Duff sneered at the thought. Silence fell between them as Alexi waited. Duff turned back from watching the wilderness to find the boy’s eyes piercing through him.

“How long is your contract, lad?”

“One campaign.”

“Why? You get off the boat and realize you have nowhere to sleep at night?”

Alexi ignored the verbal blow. “Not everyone who signs on are destitute.”

“Sure they are. Why else would they be playing for blood?”

With a shrug, Alexi forged on. “I’m only here to get enough money for uni.”

Duff’s eyebrows raised at that. “Oh, a smart one? How come you aren’t waiting tables or driving a cab?”

“Will you teach me to survive the night then? If I'm supposed to die here?”

“No.”

"Why not?"

"No."

Alexi humphed and inspected the ground beneath him with disinterest. He rose back up. "Why not?"

"Lemme guess, lad. You were born in the colonies an' grew surrounded by gearheads an' smog. Your parents scrap together just enough to put you on a ship, but you never thought you'd make it that far. An' when you reached your utopia, it turned out to be just as shitty as the frontier. So you got no money, no way home, but everyone has sacrificed everything to get you here. Ob-li-gay-shun, it's called. Just another anchor to hang round your neck." Duff fished another cigarette out of his pocket it. He stuck it in his mouth and talked around it as he searched for matches. "You ain't got money for classes— though you grew up being told you was bloody well smart enough for it. You get looped into the League because the recruiter promised thousands of tics and a warm bed each night. Course, they never tell you it might be a hospital bed. The papers are signed an' you show up for training camp expecting glory. Seven weeks later, you're stuck in a foxhole with me. Me. Someone who's been fighting for more than a baker's dozen. Take it from me, lad—" Duff found a match. Striking it on his helmet, he gingerly set the cigarette off. "— The League is your life now. My family stopped responding to letters during my second campaign. They moved an' never told me. The last friend I had on the outside transferred away for a new job. The last friend I had from my training camp got his intestines flattened and divided piece by piece across fifty meters a königstiger during Blitzkrieg Seven. You even seen intestines, lad?"

Alexi switched positions, looking across the battlefield as he listened. Duff continued watching him, despite the sudden lack of eye contact. He spoke faster and faster as the young man shirked away from him.

"You're dead. You're dead. You're bloody well gone, dead, cold, an' buried. New guys come and go all the damn time to play for the Lords. You want money? I could buy the moon. You don't come back for the money," Duff hissed between small whisps of tobacco cloud. The meager light from the cherry lit up his aged beard and jowls. Hollow eyes drilled into Alexi from the cigarettes shadows. "You come back because you never left, lad. No one's going to hire a gladiator; we're bluntbrained. The longer you're here, the more of your old life dies. Forget uni. Forget Mum an' Da. You take one good look at—" Duff was stopped by a flury of sparks and launches from the Mowbray line. Both soldiers stopped and focused.

A line of flares rocketed up above no man's land. Their phosphorus halos crackled and fizzed as bright as day. Beneath them, the entirety of the battlefield revealed itself. Duff snatched up his rifle and checked its chamber. Alexi followed suit after a profane prompting from his superior. The Mowbray Men screamed that war cry they were reknowned for. The entire offensive line leapt up out of fortifications and sprinted with all abandon at the Latymer's Legion.

"You're dead, lad," repeated Duff as he zeroed down his sights. "Forget about surviving the night. You have to survive the hour. Each hour." Alexi anxiously aimed, lowered, and aimed again as the might of one Lord was brought to bear on another. He ducked down and hastily attached his bayonet to the rifle barrel.

Duff spoke again, louder as the nearing rally contested his voice. "You're dead, lad. If you survive the campaign, get out. Get out and go home. There's no surviving this, alive or dead." And with that final line, Duff fired a bullet into the fast-approaching mob. Cacophony drowned around them as the battle crescendoed into frenzy. Through it all, Duff's words echoed through Alexi's mind.

You're dead, lad. You're dead.

Iron.

Sulfur.

Ash.

Chalk.

The tastes swirled in Adney Burl’s mouth. His head spun while he tried to catch his breath. Concussive waves rolled over him, bending bone and flesh with each pass. Each shell that burst around him rained dirt, metal--and sometimes gore--in a fine cloud. Burl gasped another breath of hellish air. He let himself sink into the crater he had fallen in a little more. Best to stay out of the way until I’m ready. A cutting ring drowned everything out of his ears. A rub with the finger did nothing to alleviate it.

My rifle... Where is- His hand settled on the wooden stock of the weapon next to him. He hugged the firearm and rolled onto his back. Numb fingers trembled as Burl examined it. It took Burl’s anxious hands three tries to check the breach. It never gets easier. The breach didn’t matter; the barrel was twisted off near the end. Shrapnel must have bent it in that last volley.

Burl tossed the useless rifle away with a curse. He couldn’t very well fight without a weapon. And the monitors wouldn’t take too kindly to cowardice. A corpse lay on the other side of the Burl’s little crater. It was a younger boy who ended at the waist. Burl crawled over, desperate for a change of luck.

“Sorry, lad,” Burl muttered as he grabbed the dead soldier’s weapon. A pull on the bolt revealed it to be in working order. As an afterthought, he ripped open the pouch on the boy’s rifle belt. “You hardly fired a shot.” Burl snatched two handfuls from it, refilling his own roundabout with the unused ammunition clips. He eyed a dented canteen on the corpse’s hip. Lifting it up, he struggled with the cap.

“C’mon, c’mon... Get it together.” His hand slipped, refusing to obey, but relented despite Burl’s stress. The cap gave way. Tepid water splashed across his face as he tried to drink.

“You’re a mess, lad,” came a shout from behind him. He twisted around, reaching for his rifle. It was an older man, in similar garb to him. The Snyde’s Regiment patch confirmed his friendliness. A Sergeant rank pin on his collar betrayed his age. “Careful now,” the man called over the din. Helifted up a cautionary hand to Burl’s weapon. He slid down the dirt into the crater. “I’m with you.”

Burl nodded, switching the rifle for the canteen again. He offered it. “Water?”

The sergeant accepted it from Burl. “You’ll have to speak up, lad. My ears aren’t liking the mortar fire.” He took a long swig. “We should have brought planes.”

“We aren’t getting air support?” Burl searched the sky. The veteran spoke truth; nothing but smoke and cloud hung in the air.

“Not in this one. I heard Lord Snyde spent his coin on that new lot of cavalry we started out with.”

“Lord Vernon clearly spent his on artillery,” Burl picked up his new rifle. The man capped the canteen and passed it back. Empty. Burl dropped it next to the body.

“The Vernon Corps. always prefers to stay at a distance. Lord Snyde has to relearn that every time he plays against them.” The man motioned to the edge of the crater. “All right then, on we go.”

“Where are your boys?” Burl asked as they both steadied in prone. The sergeant, squinting at the battle before them, gave a disinterested nod behind them.

“That barrage just now took most of them. We’ve been ordered to charge up to that ridge and regroup. Where’s yours?”

“I think the same as you. I got thrown here during the blasts.” Burl winced as he felt his back. I probably broke something. “I can’t find anyone else.”

“Well, follow me then. Most of the rifles should be regrouping right about there, just before that wagon.” The sergeant picked himself up and broke into a run. Burl followed suit, leaving the corpse and crater without a second thought. A few other brown-jacketed Snydes left their respective covers and joined the run. A machine gun opened up from the portion of Vernon line not hidden by the hill. Burl gave an involuntary cry as the sonic cracks of bullets sounded past him. Someone yelped behind Burl, but he didn’t stop. It wasn’t until he was behind the overturned ox cart with the sergeant that he checked. Two other Snydes met up with them; a third writhed in the mud before the road, clutching his stomach.

“Alright, lads,” the sergeant rallied. “We’re scattered all to hell. I assume most of you can’t find your leaders, so I’ll just have to do. Monitors are saying we regroup here with the rest of the rifles,” the sergeant turned to peer over the cart. “So far, so good. The objective is just on that line over there. We’ll be out by the end of the day.”

“Those pipes are going to have no problem sighting in on us out here,” protested a young private.

“Aye, that may be. It’s not our problem, though. Ours is to follow orders.”

A deep rumble came from behind the Snyde territory, prompting tired rejoicing from everyone. The field quieted as whistles grew audible in the clouds above. Some watched the faux sky expectantly. Others wisely ducked under cover. Within a second, gouges of earth were thrown up in deafening explosions. All along the Vernon line shells fell with abandon.

A heartening warcry came from the Snydes as riflemen poured from their trenches. A few monitors flew above them, scanning men at random.

“Here we go, boys,” the sergeant yelled again as more Snydes surrounded them. The four riflemen became engulfed in a river of their peers. The monitors hummed overhead through hyperson speakers: ”...the objective! New orders: Take the objective! New orders: Take the objective!”

The crisp voice giving the order cut through the chaos and settled in Burl’s inner ear. Whispers directed him. New orders: Take the objective...

Burl raised his voice with the others, screaming it hoarse. The horde of soldiers ran unorganized up the small ridge that seperated them from the Vernon line. The artillery barrage cut short just as the Snydes teached the top. A few riflemen took a knee here and there and began to fire upon the Vernon defenses. Most, however, continued to run and flail their weapons.

Automatic fire began to spit from the Vernons. Burl watched as the men in front of him fell to the ground. He tried to duck down and find cover, but someone snagged Burl’s shirt collar and hoisted him back up.

“No turning back now!” The sergeant roared in his ear. “Attack! Attack!”

“You blasted fool,” cursed Burl as he was forced back into the fray. Three battles in and I’m still not ready for this. He could see the helmets of Vernon riflemen frantically preparing behind their parapets. Rifles began barking lead at the offending Snydes. Some readied bayonets. The line of men between Burl and the Vernons thinned. He leapt over a headless Snyde and charged onwards. Another was thrown into Burl in recoil to a well-aimed shot. Burl merely threw the body aside as he and his comrades raced the last few meters to the Vernons. The warcries crescendoed into a harried scream as the two armies clashed.

Burl jumped down into the trench, wincing as his knees took the impact. Beside him landed other Snydes. To his right, a young Vernon unsteadily came at him with a knife. Burl batted away the attacker’s arm with his rifle, and followed through with a blow to the jaw. Burl couldn’t hear in the discord around him. Gun fire, explosions, screams; noises enveloped Burl as he continued to strike again and again. Eventually, his opponent ceased to struggle. Blood stained the man’s gray cloak and his face had contorted enough to fail recognition. Burl heaved a weary breath, but checked around him. Bodies had toppled over into the bottom of the trench. That blasted sergeant was in a grapple with a crazed Vernon. A Snyde crouched down near a wounded compatriot, trying to stop blood from gushing out of a gouge. A scan over the trench head revealed more Vernons running to their brothers’ aid. Burl lifted his rifle, sighted in, and spent three rounds to halt their advance. Satisfied, he bent down and rushed past the wounded Snyde. Beyond them, the sergeant continued his melee. Burl waited for the Vernon’s back and then dug his bayonet deep into the man’s back. The wriggling body fell away. The sergeant and Burl exchanged meaningless looks. Both turned away to rejoin the brawl.

“Can you help me?” Burl looked down at the voice calling to him. The Snyde rifleman rendering aid to the wounded pleaded with watering eyes. I was that lad just a month ago.

Burl joined the two. “Listen, tie it off and get back up.”

“I tried,” wailed the boy “but it’s still bleeding. I can’t s-stop it.”

“Here,” Burl took the tourniquet from the novice. “Take your rifle and be useful.” He pointed to the Vernon side of the trench. Burl tightened the tourniquet as much as he could. Dirt trickled down on the two as bullets landed in the trench wall above. He’s as good as dead now, unless this ends soon. Burl resigned from the effort. He half-heartedly tied off the ribbon. Before he could leave, the wounded man feebly grabbed Burl’s sleeve. His lips moved, but the words couldn’t travel through the chaos. Damn this ringing. The tinnitus continued to be one of a myriad of frustrations.

“Water?” Asked Burl. The man couldn’t even open his eyes. Lips moved. The head twisted from side to side. Frustrated, Burl shook off the cripple. Vernons were reaching the edge of the trench. The young Snyde at the trench wall held his bayonet up against the coming assault. He glanced back at Burl, panic boiling in his eyes.

“Turn, you fool!” Burl ran to the ledge. “Turn-” The zip of a bullet passed through the Snyde’s head. His helmet flew back. His corpse followed it into the bottom of the trench.

Burl replaced the boy. A charging Vernon angled his bayonetted rifle toward Burl. Burl ducked as the soldier met the trench, letting him fall inside.

Burl struck the man’s lower back. Just like camp. Burl grimaced as he repeated the motions his trainers had drilled into him so many times before. His opponent fell after the fourth blow. Burl retrieved his rifle and hurried a shot into the Vernon. He spun around for his next target when a horn interrupted him.

Not a war horn.

Not a truck horn or instrument.

It was the End Game. Everyone halted. Rifles in mid-aim, knives in mid-swing, men in mid-charge. Only the squirming of the wounded animated the playing field. The monitors flew around humming. “Victory for Lord Snyde! Victory for Lord Snyde! Victory for...”

Vernons and Snydes shook hands. Quiet congratulations and dirty looks were shared. Burl took a few steps towards his side. Before climbing out of the trench, he searched around. Where’s that crazy bastard so I can- Burl’s hunt for the sergeant was halted by a bearded Vernon offering a hand.

“Good game,” the Vernon tried.

“You too. Didn’t feel like we were here for five minutes.”

“You weren’t.” The Vernon pointed to the dome. Printed in the cloudscape was the declaration: Victory by Secession. The Vernon began walking down the trench. He called over his shoulder. “I guess Lord Vernon would rather nurse our wounds than hire fresh faces out of the slums.”

“Must be nice.” Burl climbed up the trench wall. It was a long, slow walk back to the locker rooms. He crossed through cratered fields. The impacts of each shell singed the wheat that had once grown there. Small brush fires meandered through what rows of crop remained. Monitors slowed their frenzy. Drones took time to scan the bodies cooling on the earth. They were carrion fleas hopping from victim to victim. Others hovered over open flame and spritzed the area with foam extinguisher. The atmosphere lulled to a graveyard hush.

Burl passed flaming wagons. Bodies scattered around them as crumbs do around a cake. The butt of his rifle drug in the dirt as he climbed over buttresses and through ravines. He reached the first field, where the corpses of an entire cavalry company rotted under the dome’s sun. Poor bastards didn’t last much longer than the very start. Vernon did his homework; Snyde is too predictable. Burl paused by the body of a short rider. The one arm still attached to the rider remained outstretched with saber in hand. The clean blade’s steel juxtaposed the body’s grime and gore. Burl kicked the sword out of the rigored hand absentmindedly and followed the other wandering souls towards the Regiment’s locker room. The double doors set within the dome’s walls invited all to exit the gates of hell.