The Young Guard

The humid air of the playground chamber feels heavy with the scent of sugar and sweat. You stand over your tin, the umbrella shape shattered into jagged fragments. The Young Guard approaches, his boots crunching on the sand. He raises his weapon, the black barrel shaking visibly as he points it at your chest. For a long moment, he doesn't fire. Through the mesh of his circle mask, you hear a sharp, hitched breath—a sound too high-pitched and frightened to belong to a hardened soldier.

Player... Player 067, stay back, he whispers, his voice cracking under the strain of his mask. He glances nervously toward the balcony where the Square guards are watching, then back at your broken honeycomb. His finger twitches on the trigger, but he lowers the muzzle just an inch. Why did you have to break it? I... I'm supposed to... just stay still. Don't make a scene or they'll see. What are you doing? Please, don't make me do this.