Sims (2022 Weekly 252)

When General Anthon was invited to view the War Game exercises done in Anvil Station, he had low expectations. A company marines made up the backbone of the UNSC as well as a half a platoon of newly christened fourth-generation Spartans. The enemy on the other hand were half the Marine’s numbers but they looked unfazed by their apparent deficit in firepower and manpower. 
“The War Game is about to begin.” Reminded the onboard AI in charge of the facility. The lack of artificial enthusiasm worried Anthon. “The Swords of Sanghelios are on the offensive. The UNSC will defend.”
“With the Spartans, this is going to be tricky. I heard the Elites are tough SOBs but I think our boys can handle it.” Spoke one relatively young major of the Marines. As Anthon caught a glimpse of their eyes, he noticed a lack of sharpness many veterans of the war inherited. Odd, he thought. It had only been eight years since the war ended yet the officer corp had not ceased recruiting and training new bloods. And dumping out old fossils like himself, thought Anthon.
“What’s the saying again? A Spartans worth a hundred marines! I believe in the total victory of our side.” Shouted some enthusiastic IC councilor. 
“If they follow their directives, they shall be fine. A lot can happen in the field. Things out of our control.” Replied madame director, a person who seemed to avoid these sort of gatherings. An ONI official thru and thru.
“With respect, ma’am but I think Fireteam OLED’s got this.” What about the other Spartan fireteams? Did they not get any flashy names?
Why would they bring a politician of all things to this event? General Anthon wondered. Let alone someone who clearly cared more about the spectacle of a lights-show than the hard and unforgiving results from a battle. Ah, but this was not a battle in the mud against genocidal extraterrestrials. This was a simulation intended to put on a show off the skills and newfound friendship between Humankind and the Sangheili.
I guess, thought Anthon, the glory and victory taken from this would be simulated as well. But he didn’t think the Sangheili saw it that way. They were the serious bunch. True fighters of any shape that would flay his men alive if they so wished. Anthon was glad this was simulated.
The war game eventually started and soon the observers began placing bets and guesses on what would happen. The most popular outcome most had expected was a pitched battle.
Well, there wasn’t any pitched battle dreamed up by the enthusiastic. Instead, it was a bloodless massacre. 
Bloodless in that the supposed battle before his eyes of were all simulated with digi-structures or whatever fancy term suited the techs today and, worse, a massacre for his side of the battle. Team UNSC had been routed by the outnumbered but clearly superior forces of the Swords of Sanghelios. The elites, as they were known, stood tall and bowed to their liege. And their master, or what Anthon assumed to be their leader, gave a short speech on how great his warriors had performed. Consistent tenacity from these veteran Elites who had served in the Silent Shadow. Fearsome as our Spartans, many would claim.
“Tough lil’ reptiles, don’t ya think? They practically controlled the battle-space.”
“Fireteam OLED got cracked, what the hell was that?”
“This doesn’t make sense at all.”
“Madame Director, I was mis-informed. I had assumed Spartans were nigh un-killable.”
“Stop reading the Tabloids, councilor. This is war not some fixed election. Things don’t go the way we want them to.” And that really was the case during the war. But being silent for the entire spectacle and letting his peers talk it out had made Anthon quite peeved. He just had to speak.
“This is a simulated battle. Where we hypothetically got our butts kicked by the Silent Shadow, yes. It’s clear that our ‘intel’ in this little skirmish was certainly right on the money. The Sword had sent their best and treated this as they would treat an actual firefight. We got cocky and got caught with our pants down.”
He noted the disapproving frowns plastered on his fellow officers. Madame Director, part of ONI, remained still as her cybernetic eye. As she hailed from a secretive Intel Group (or Secret Police depending on who you asked), the woman despised being put under the spotlight. 
‘How could we have lost?’ littered their thoughts. At least that was what the old and bitter Martian assumed his peers thought. They were now busying themselves with idle chatter or reviewing the battle in conversation or in data-pads. Anthon knew at least Naval Intelligence was gathering every bit of tactic and information from this little War Game they had arranged. Misery and mistakes are a great teacher for a student willing to be humble. 
But still, those words he had uttered with nonchalance had kept his mind busy.
‘We got cocky.’
It had only been a few years since the war, how could we forget the horrors we had to endure for thirty years? How could we forget the lessons seared into our souls as a species?
Anthon did not know the answers to that. He had trained to master the three levels of the battlefield, not understand the spirit of Humanity’s defenders. Leave it to the poets and philosophers to make us grand, he told those serving with him.
“Ah well, this is all simulated anyway. We can just simulate a counterattack later, when the Elite’s aren’t ready.”