Hotston stared in jaw-dropping dismay at the people assembled before him. A gentle soul, he'd been dreading receiving his call-up, praying that the European Combined Armed Forces would pull off some daring counterattack that stopped the ChinKor forces before they crossed over into France.

I can't do this, I can't do this, he thought as he looked around the barracks room he'd spawned in. Only yesterday he had been saying tearful goodbyes to his wife and children. This morning he'd boarded a military transport, manned by armoured ChinKor soldiers, been strapped into his seat, then felt the prick of a needle piercing his neck.

They didn’t even ask about allergies! Although, to be fair, considering that their armies were sweeping across a virtual Europe, perhaps that hadn’t really been very high on their list of priorities.

The next thing he knew, he had woken in this room. As had everyone else. Pushing himself off the hard floor, he realised he wasn’t wearing the clothes he had earlier that day. Looking down, he saw he wore a uniform of some sort. It was utilitarian, to say the least. On his left chest, above the pocket was his name S. Hotston on a nametape.

Pretty redundant considering I can see everyone’s names above their heads, he thought as he looked around at the others in the room. A number of the men and women sobbed openly. No one wanted to fight. No one that he knew of anyway. Admittedly there were still volunteers, but the way the war was going, volunteering was a guaranteed way to find yourself either maimed, or dead.

Tears prickled in his own eyes but he refused to let them show. There were others in the room that he felt it would be dangerous to show such weakness in. Men and women who regarded those crying with what he could only think of as predatory eyes.

Despite conscription, manpower was still limited, so the government had announced that they were emptying the prisons. He could tell by the way they held themselves just who had the capacity to be a criminal, even if he couldn’t tell for sure.

'Attention!' A voice crashed into the room as a large, barrel chested man with the finest moustache Hotston had ever seen. 'I am Battery Sergeant Major Davies, and I am the poor man who has been assigned the task of getting you battle-ready in six weeks.'

Davies stood in the middle of the barracks room, surrounded by silence, his rank insignia and name hanging above his head. Some of the recruits showed an excitement that Hotston would never understand, most stood with sombre faces, staring at the huge non-commissioned officer.

'Welcome to World DominationTM, the only war game where if you are shot, you feel it. If you are injured, you bear the scars for the rest of your life and where, if you lose fifty lives, the ChinKor bastards running the facility holding our immersion tanks will inject you with a lethal poison.'

You could hear a pin drop, thought Hotston as he waited for Davies to continue. He realised he was holding his own breath and slowly let it out.

'No doubt you're wondering if you're in-game already. You are. You are now in a simulation of Training Base 252, on the blessed virtual shores of England. You were inserted into your immersion tanks whilst you slept on the journey here. Here being somewhere on the Korean peninsular. Everything you see, hear, smell and feel is as real as it gets. You will shit, piss, sleep and eat and think it's real.'

‘Sir?' began a recruit.

'Don't bloody sir me woman, I work for a living!' roared Davies as he crossed the room in a blink of an eye, sticking his face as close as possible to hers without actually touching, 'You 'ave a question recruit?'

'Y ... yes, can we feel pain even though we're only training?'

He pulled back from her, back ramrod straight, 'Well, well, well, a question that isn't actually stupid. Yes. Pain levels are at one hundred per cent. The only thing you cannot do is lose lives permanently. You is clever. You shall be called, Private Genius.'

No way am I saying anything, thought Hotston as the silence stretched.

'Right first lesson,' said Davies, ' accessing your menus. Double wink your left eye, like this,' he demonstrated by slowly closing and opening his left eye. ‘That will open up your retinal monitor, and present you with more menus than you’ve had hot meals.’

Hotston winked twice, trying to avoid eye contact with anyone. He was still taking in the myriad of choices that suddenly appeared when Davies' voice roared out again.

Struggling to see through the menu list, Hotston watched as Davies raced up to one of the largest men he'd ever seen.

'What the bloody'ell is you doing!' Davies screamed, vocal chords straining, face beetroot red.

'I'm winking like you said,' the recruit said, caught halfway in a grimace.

'Is you stupid? I think you are! I was demonstrating how to wink! Why are you the only one doing it slowly!'

'I thought ...'

'No you bloody didn't! You are a stupid man, Private Stupid! Now bloody wink properly.'

Private Stupid winked twice. With his right eye. The effect on Davies was terrifying. One eye started to twitch, and he jutted his chin out whilst rolling his shoulders, moustache quivering with fury, chest expanding.

'Are you taking the bloody piss, Private Stupid?' His voice was quiet, a complete contrast to before.

'No battery sergeant major,' said Stupid, lip quivering.

'Use your other bloody eye!' Everyone jumped as Davies roared out the order, 'And don't you bloody cry!'

Hotston was impressed. An actor, he was well trained in how to project his voice. Davies' voice seemed to wash over him like a tsunami. The idea of having it addressed directly to him made his guts turn to water.

'Right,' said Davies once Stupid had opened his menu, 'I want everyone to select uniform, training outfit.'

Hotston raised his hand like Davies had, pointed a finger at the sub-menu and then the training uniform.

'Well, aren't you quick on the ball.'

Hotston felt Davies's breath on his cheek before he even knew he was there, the man somehow behind him.

Hotston scrambled for an answer that wouldn't incur the man's wrath.

'Thank you battery sergeant major.'

'Thank you battery sergeant major,' mimicked Davies almost perfectly, 'you will be Gonzales. Private Speedy Gonzales.'

A notification appeared in front of Hotston.

UNIFORM UPDATED

Looking down, Hotston saw a new name tag on his left breast. Stitched neatly on it, was the word Gonzales.

*

+1SP – BATTLE RIFLE

An indicator blinked on his retinal monitor, indicating that his base BATTLE RIFLE skill was now at 30%. That didn’t take into account his natural ability, didn’t take into account anyone’s natural ability. Every skill was started at 0%, and successful drills saw that rise. At some point, they had been told, the skill level would start to match, and then exceed their natural ability. At that point, they would find themselves able to load faster, aim down their sight and acquire the target quicker, and get more rounds on target.

Hotston blinked away the notification as he finished assembling the battle rifle for what was literally the hundredth time. He slapped the button before him and sat down at the same time.

'Well done Gonzales! First to complete again. Everyone else, fifty press ups!' Davies' heavy hand landed on Hotston's shoulder, shaking him to the core.

God forbid he ever hits me in anger, thought Hotston, trying not to wince at the memory of "Gobbo" a somewhat mouthy member of the training platoon "gobbing off" at Davies. The hook that laid him out also shattered his jaw, leaving him with a permanent stutter. Now he barely spoke, and was one of the most studious of the recruits.

No one dared groan at the order. At this stage of their training they were starting to see the effects of such harsh training, their strength and stamina stats improving on an almost daily basis.

Press ups soon completed the recruits sprang to their feet, standing by their rifles. Chests heaving, but not a one of them out of line.

'Finish assembling them, then draw 10 magazines. Do not load them. Go.'

There was a flurry of movement, accompanied by staccato clacks and clicks as the weapons were put together.

Hotston called up his menu, selected ammunition and placed the magazines that appeared on the table into his load bearing vest.

'Remember my lovelies,' rumbled Davies, 'when you're fighting the dreaded chin, facing them as you drive your bayonets deep into their guts, you won't be able to make ammunition magically appear. What you are issued with is what you will carry. If you need to, strip it from the bodies of your comrades and kill as many of the yellow bastards as you can.'

Hotston winced at the slur. He understood why Davies said it. It was to dehumanise the people they would be killing. But to hear such racist language, dead for decades now being used, was still jarring.

'Today, we go on the range. You will be up against a company of incredibly stupid ChinKor troops. They are simulations, but they can still injure and kill you.'

Hotston tuned Davies out as he mulled over what the man had just said. They were in a simulation, about to face simulations of other human beings, which were true simulations and not avatars.

Can this get any more meta? he wondered.

The silence brought his attention back to the present. In front of him stood Davies, impeccably groomed moustache quivering as the large NCO's top lip worked its way into a snarl.

‘Gonzales,' his voice was quiet, almost friendly, 'was you listening to anything I said?'

Hotston knew better than to say no, 'Yes sergeant major, you want us to go out and kill every single fucking one of the murdering bastards whilst employing every single bit of our superior training.'

He held his breath, heart hammering in his chest.

'Well done my lovely boy,' said Davies as he span to face the rest of the class, 'well don't just stand there! Get a bloody move on!' His swagger stick pointed the platoon to the edge of the range, a large sign hanging in mid-air marking it as "TRAINING RANGE 15 – LIVE FIRE – NO HUD –FRIENDLY FIRE ON – PAIN 100% - FATALITY ON

'Shit, he wasn't joking,' muttered Stupid as he stood in the line forming up to either side of Hotston, 'this is going to fucking hurt.'

'Squad 1, enter the range!' Screamed Davies, startling Hotston and the rest of his squad into action.

WEAPONS HOT

A marker appeared on Hotston's HUD as Genius, who had been appointed to the position of squad leader, chose an objective. Raising his rifle, Hotston zoomed the scope in. All he could see was a flag pole rising from the shattered remains of a building. In between was the scarred moonscape of fields and a ruined village.

Mouth suddenly dry, Hotston took his place as the squad assumed a vee, point towards the objective. Each member was 10 metres from the other, meaning that if they deployed into a straight line, they would stretch over 80 metres.

A bleep sounded behind him, looking over his shoulder he saw squad 2 step into the range.

'Incoming!' He didn't see who cried out, diving for the ground as pulse and tracer zipped through the air to stitch their way across the ground. The noise was incredible. The bullets zipped past, cracking through the air, whilst the pulse fire hissed.

'Squad 1 move to this point, squad 2 cover!' Hotston was up and moving before he realised it, all of the previous four weeks' training already embedded into his psyche. With bullets and pulses nipping at his heels he didn't hesitate to throw himself over the broken wall before him. Jagged stones made their presence known, even through his combat armour, stabbing at him through the cloth of his uniform where it didn’t have any armour.

'Squad 1, covering fire! Squad 2 move!'

Lifting his rifle up until his scope gave him a clear view of the enemy position, Hotston kept behind the cover and let rip with his rifle. He couldn’t see a thing, just added his fire to the weight of his squad’s. Doing so created something called SUPPRESSION, an effect which affected how well someone could aim. It also tended to make them hunker down behind cover, and therefore vulnerable to outflanking manoeuvres.

'Drones up!' A small window appeared on his HUD showing a wider top-down view of the battlefield. Almost immediately icons started to appear, marking enemy positions.

'Grenadier, get plunking.'

'On it,' replied Stupid, lifting his automatic grenade launcher. It began spitting out grenades at the rate of two a second. The weight of incoming fire immediately slackened and Stupid starting calling out kill after kill.

'First squad, attack the trench twenty yards to the front!'

Twenty fucking yards, close enough to lob a stone into! thought Hotston. Tearing an inferno grenade from his vest, he primed it then lobbed it at the trench.

'Move!' They rose even before the grenade had a chance to detonate. Flames erupted from the trench and a series of DPs popped up on his HUD as enemy troops burned to death.

He wasn't prepared for the screams. Or the hideous stench of burnt flesh and man-made fibres, nor for the sight of a ChinKor trooper clawing their way out of the trench as the flesh sloughed from their arms.

MULTI-KILL!

+3SP - GRENADE

+30DP

'Fuck yeah!' yelled Stupid as he let loose with a stream of grenades. They were set to explode on impact, blowing limbs, chunks of flesh and even whole bodies into the air.

Shit, shit, shit, thought Hotston as bile rose into his mouth. The assault on his senses was overwhelming. It was nothing like the static targets they’d previously shot at.

'Get a fucking move on you plank!' He didn't know who had spoken, nor who it was that grabbed his body armour and physically hauled him into the trench. He stumbled as his foot caught on a smouldering body.

'Fix bayonets! They're charging!'

Crying, tears blurring his vision, hands shaking, Hotston swore as he fumbled at the bayonet's switch. It was integral to his rifle and yet for the life of him he couldn't find it.

'Agh! Gonzales! Help!' screeched Stupid. Mouth open in slack-jawed horror, Hotston could only stare as an enemy soldier gored Stupid, thrusting their bayonet time and time again into the screaming soldier's gut. 'Please.'

He could barely hear the plea but could read the word on the man's lips. Trembling, he lifted his rifle, firing the moment the sight was on the enemy soldier's back.

A three-round burst tore the man to pieces, blowing his rib cage out in a shower of gore that painted Stupid red.

KILL!

+10DP

+1SP BATTLE RIFLE

NEW SKILL! STEALTH

+1 STEALTH

On knees that felt they would give out, he staggered over to Stupid, ripping out a medkit, falling to his knees as he slapped the bot onto Stupid's exposed guts.

'Fucking knob,' said Stupid as the machine set to work, 'took your fucking ti ...' his eyes rolled back, and he gave a gurgle.

'Bollocks!' screamed Hotston as Stupid was marked dead. There was a dull thud next to him and a heavy weight knocked against his thigh. Looking down, he gasped as he saw a ChinKor MK10 anti-personnel grenade. There was bright flash, a wave of heat, the start of pain, then a message appeared.

LIFE LOST. PLEASE WAIT TO RESPAWN.