The Campaign

A Work Of Fiction From The `Holodeck`

No one knew who started the Campaign. Maybe it had always been there, simmering beneath the surface — one part tradition, two parts bloodsport. Every year, the recruiters came with their mirrored visors and silver pins, as if anyone needed reminding that another round was about to begin. They called it “selection” — a word that softened the teeth of the thing, made it sound like a prize was waiting at the end.

But everyone knew better. It wasn’t a game you won. It was a game you survived — if you were lucky.

This year, they held the Campaign at U Royal Academy, a once-prestigious school where the windows had been painted black long ago. The students, jittery and pale, whispered rumors in the weeks leading up to it — how the rich kids had started betting on the outcomes. How the poorest would join just for the chance at a bursary, knowing their blood was worth less than a scholarship. In the classrooms, a few still tried to study, as if equations and history might be armor against the coming storm. The smart ones knew better: nothing saved you when the soldiers came.

The rules were simple — survive. Everything else — loyalty, mercy, even sanity — was optional. A well-placed knife worked better than kindness. Gangs formed early. Packs of students, their faces hardened by desperation…