The conference room wasn't glamorous. A bland rectangle with whitewashed walls, rows of fold-out chairs, and a projector screen humming at the far end. But the tension inside it turned the air heavy. Bravo Company—Alex, Marcus, Maya, Jake, and Sarah—took seats together near the center table. They weren't the only ones there; representatives from other top U.S. teams filled the room, whispers and sideways glances cutting across the stale air like invisible blades.
At 0900 sharp, the door opened. A tall man in a charcoal suit stepped in, flanked by uniformed aides. His presence silenced the room instantly.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he began, voice crisp, authoritative. "Congratulations on surviving Nationals. But that was only the beginning. What comes next will decide not only who the best team in the world is, but whether airsoft itself enters the international stage as a recognized sport."
He gestured to the projector. The screen flickered alive, showing an island—lush green terrain surrounded by restless blue ocean. Its sheer scale was intimidating. Forests, jagged cliffs, ruined villages, and open plains sprawled across sixty square miles.
"This," he continued, "is the battleground. A remote, privately secured island. Here, the first International Airsoft Championship will take place. Twenty countries, three teams each. Sixty teams in total. Only one will leave as champion."
Maya leaned forward, her stormy eyes fixed on the screen. "Three teams per country? That means…"
The man nodded. "That means you won't just be fighting other nations. You'll also be fighting teams from your own soil. In fact, every U.S. team is an enemy. There are no alliances. Only survival."
A ripple of unease ran through the room. Jake let out a low whistle and muttered, "So much for American teamwork."
Sarah's tablet was already up, fingers flying. "Sixty teams. Twelve members each. That's seven hundred and twenty competitors on one island. If we're starting with only five…" Her voice trailed off.
The man's gaze found her and didn't waver. "That's correct. Bravo Company currently stands at five. To compete, you will need to recruit seven more members before departure. Specialists. Fighters. Survivors. Because if you go in undermanned, you will be eliminated in the first week."
Alex felt the weight of that word—eliminated. He'd just survived Nationals, scraped past the Apex Predators, defied every odd stacked against him. And now they were telling him to fight an even bigger war, this time with incomplete numbers. His fists clenched under the table, nails digging into his palms.
"Explain the rules," Marcus said, his voice calm but iron-hard. He was the one who always cut through drama and got to what mattered.
The man clicked through the slides. Icons and diagrams replaced the island photo.
Rules of Engagement:
Head or chest hits = instant elimination.
Arm or leg hits = wounded. Wounded players have ten minutes for rescue.
Only medics can perform rescues. Lose your medic, you lose that lifeline.
Landmines are scattered across the island. Trigger one, and you're out. Anyone within five feet? Also out.
Elimination is individual, not by team. Your squad shrinks over time.
"Each squad will have twelve positions," he continued. "Five combat specialists, four support specialists, three tactical specialists. The mix is mandatory."
Marcus's eyes narrowed. "So we can't just stack shooters. We need a medic. A demo expert. Communications. Tech."
"Correct," the man said. "You'll need every role to survive. Lose your medic and rescues end. Lose your demo and you're blind to mines. Lose communications and you're fighting deaf. Choose your recruits wisely."
Jake leaned back in his chair, arms folded. "And the prize?"
The man's lips curved into a thin smile. "Five hundred thousand dollars. Plus international recognition. The winning team will make history as the first officially sanctioned champions of airsoft."
That lit a spark, even in the room's heaviness. Five hundred grand. Not just money—validation. Proof that the sport they'd bled for mattered.
But Marcus wasn't distracted by glitter. "What about monitoring? Cheating?"
"Impossible," the man replied. "Every player will wear bio-monitor vests with impact sensors, smart helmets with HUDs, and bodycams. Drones will patrol the island. No blind spots. No cheating."
Sarah frowned, tapping at her tablet. "And survival? It's weeks-long. Food? Shelter?"
"You'll be issued military-grade camping gear: bivouacs, rations, water filters, medical kits. Enough to live—but not comfortably. Camps will be raidable. Supplies are finite. Teams that can't secure and protect resources will starve or burn out."
The screen changed again—this time showing specialized gear. Ghillie suits. breaching kits. drone monitors. Stretchers. The works.
"This is no weekend skirmish. This is endurance warfare, played out under international broadcast."
The silence that followed was crushing. Everyone in the room understood the stakes now. Nationals had been brutal, but this… this was survival.
The man closed the presentation and faced them directly. "You leave in thirty days. Use that time to recruit, train, and forge yourselves into a true twelve-man squad. Because once you step onto that island, the world will be watching—and hesitation means elimination."
He left without another word. The room slowly broke into clusters of murmurs, but Bravo Company sat frozen at their table.
Jake was the first to speak. "Twelve-man squad, huh? We're seven short. No pressure."
Maya's voice was sharper, urgent. "We can't just grab randoms. We need specialists. A medic is first priority. Then demolitions. If we miss either, we're dead weight."
Sarah nodded, her brow furrowed. "And comms. Without intel, we're blind. Apex Predators taught us that."
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the table. His eyes swept over each of them—his squad, his family. "We don't panic. We don't rush. We recruit carefully. Build a team worthy of surviving this. And we start now."
All eyes turned to Alex. Champion and Promise weighed heavily on his hips, reminders of what it had cost to get here. He took a slow breath, then said the words that locked their path:
"Alright. Let's find nine more who want to be legends."
---
Author's Note:
This chapter officially transitions Bravo Company from National Champions into the International War for Survival. The rules are now clear:
12-man teams are mandatory.
Specialists matter as much as shooters.
Resources and survival gear will be as critical as combat.