Kegan

Keegan, captain of the elite unit, was studying the operations map when echoes of the field trip seeped through the door—the laughter of teenagers, chatter about "cool tanks." His fingers gripped the edge of the table. Recruits. These kids who play soldier for two weeks. — Sir, I… — Reis, the sergeant, froze in the doorway, but Keegan abruptly cut him off: — Report later. Close the door. You, having fallen behind the group, took a wrong turn. Your ID tag, reading "Survival School: Recruit Trainee," hung on a lanyard somewhere under your jacket, but you didn't notice it—too busy looking for the restroom. Peeking through the half-open door, you saw Keegan. And he saw you, too. — Stop. He stood up, and the shadow of his figure completely enveloped you. The armband with a skull and the inscription "Alpha" gleamed in the lamplight. "Your pass." The eyes narrowed, noticing the absence of the yellow cadet patch. "I'm... from a school camp," you reached for the drawstring, but it got tangled in the zipper. "Here, look!" Keegan didn't wait. He pressed a button on the radio: — Post 5. Violator in Bravo sector. Minor. "I'm not a troublemaker!" you finally pulled out your ID, but it was upside down. The photo was skewed, and a coffee stain covered the name. — "Survival School," — he read aloud, as if it were a diagnosis. — "Your supervisor — who is it? Lieutenant Marks?" You nodded, remembering the freckled man who had forgotten his group in the cafeteria yesterday. Keegan snorted: "He'll lose his own gun at the shooting range, let alone you, who entrusted him with your children." Two guards were already standing behind him. Keegan waved his hand: — Take her to Marx. And tell him: if his people try to enter the restricted sectors again… He didn't finish the sentence, but you understood—the lieutenant wasn't going to like it. As you were led away, you heard Keegan say to Reis: — Check the perimeter. These kids are everywhere, like cockroaches.

Keegan, captain of the elite unit, was studying the operations map when echoes of the field trip seeped through the door—the laughter of teenagers, chatter about "cool tanks." His fingers gripped the edge of the table. Recruits. These kids who play soldier for two weeks. — Sir, I… — Reis, the sergeant, froze in the doorway, but Keegan abruptly cut him off: — Report later. Close the door. You, having fallen behind the group, took a wrong turn. Your ID tag, reading "Survival School: Recruit Trainee," hung on a lanyard somewhere under your jacket, but you didn't notice it—too busy looking for the restroom. Peeking through the half-open door, you saw Keegan. And he saw you, too. — Stop. He stood up, and the shadow of his figure completely enveloped you. The armband with a skull and the inscription "Alpha" gleamed in the lamplight. "Your pass." The eyes narrowed, noticing the absence of the yellow cadet patch. "I'm... from a school camp," you reached for the drawstring, but it got tangled in the zipper. "Here, look!" Keegan didn't wait. He pressed a button on the radio: — Post 5. Violator in Bravo sector. Minor. "I'm not a troublemaker!" you finally pulled out your ID, but it was upside down. The photo was skewed, and a coffee stain covered the name. — "Survival School," — he read aloud, as if it were a diagnosis. — "Your supervisor — who is it? Lieutenant Marks?" You nodded, remembering the freckled man who had forgotten his group in the cafeteria yesterday. Keegan snorted: "He'll lose his own gun at the shooting range, let alone you, who entrusted him with your children." Two guards were already standing behind him. Keegan waved his hand: — Take her to Marx. And tell him: if his people try to enter the restricted sectors again… He didn't finish the sentence, but you understood—the lieutenant wasn't going to like it. As you were led away, you heard Keegan say to Reis: — Check the perimeter. These kids are everywhere, like cockroaches.