The Last Sentinel

Greenland's last hope against imperialism!

Inspired by the recent news that the UK would send one… ONE soldier to Greenland to defend it from American acquisition.

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For years, the crackle of the radio had been Captain Thomas Hargrove’s only link to the world beyond the ice. Nearly every day, reports filtered through the static: the Americans were threatening to come, their diplomats issuing veiled warnings that escalated into outright bluster. “Overwhelming force is an option,” the voices would say, quoting U.S. officials. “Military action remains on the table if negotiations fail.” Each broadcast painted a picture of impending doom. Hargrove listened intently, his orders clear: defend Greenland at all costs. The only problem was that he was the only soldier the U.K. sent to the island.

Determined to make the island seem like an impossible target, he set to work transforming his solitary outpost into a fortress that would intimidate any observer from above. Above him, American planes and satellites were watching, planning their cruel assault. He built with visibility in mind. Trenches snaked across the tundra, deep enough to suggest hidden bunkers. Walls rose from packed snow and scavenged stone, reinforced with whatever metal scraps he could find from old debris washed ashore. To amplify the illusion of strength, he crafted fake soldiers from the few gnarled tree branches and driftwood the harsh landscape offered. He positioned them strategically across the countryside. From the air, they would look like a small but resolute garrison, ready to repel any force.

Day after day, the invasion never materialized, proof that his efforts were working. Yet each sunrise brought new threats over the airwaves, more urgent dispatches warning of imminent action. He kept building, and scavenging farther afield for materials, expanding his network of decoys and barriers. The routine became his purpose, a cycle of creation against the impending doom.

Then, one stormy evening, the radio sputtered its final message amid howling winds: “Hold the line at all costs. Reinforcements delayed. Stand firm.” Static swallowed the rest, and the device fell silent forever, leaving him truly alone with his vigil.

Years had blurred into an endless cycle of frost and vigilance for Captain Thomas Hargrove. The vast frozen wilderness of Greenland stretched before him like a forgotten canvas, painted in unrelenting whites and grays. I built it all myself, he thought, gazing at the fortifications that ringed his solitary outpost. No army, no supplies, just my hands and the will to endure.

He had learned to survive in this harsh terrain, where the wind howled like a living thing, and the cold seeped into bones like an old enemy…but over time more like a comforting but irritating old friend. Through blizzards that buried him alive, through summers where the sun never set, and sleep became a memory, he had held the line. He had made Greenland an impenetrable fortress, a bulwark against American imperialism.

One morning, the familiar quiet was shattered by the rumble of heavy machinery. Hargrove awoke in his crude shelter, his heart pounding. Engines growled and metal clanked against rock. He grabbed his rifle, the one companion that had never failed him, and crept to the ridge. Below, an entire crew of construction workers swarmed the once-barren landscape. Bulldozers carved wide paths through the snow-dusted tundra. Yellow helmets bobbed this way and that. Voices carried clearly on the crisp air.

He approached cautiously, rifle slung over his shoulder but ready. The man who seemed in charge, a burly figure with a clipboard and a hard hat, noticed him first.

“Yo, where did you come from?” the manager asked, eyes widening at Hargrove’s weathered uniform, the faded Union Jack patch barely visible under layers of grime. “Have you been living out here, pal?”

Hargrove’s voice was rough from disuse. “What’s going on?”

The manager wiped his brow, despite the chill. “We’re building a road out to a new mining site. Rare earth minerals, you know? Big operation. Should be done in a few months. But the way business has been booming, we’ll have another ten contracts for highways by the time this one’s completed.”

Hargrove lowered his guard, a rare smile cracking his face. Impressive, he thought. Glad the Danish are finally building infrastructure on the island. After all these years of isolation, progress at last. He bid the man farewell and followed the fresh road to its source, his boots crunching on the gravel bed. Several miles in, the wilderness began to give way. Scattered dwellings appeared, simple houses with smoke curling from chimneys. Then more, clustering into neighborhoods surrounding paved side streets.

The path widened into a good-sized town, a small city by British standards but a huge one by Greenland’s. Sidewalks lined the roads, people went about their day in this bustling place: shoppers carrying bags, children laughing on their way to school, vehicles humming along paved avenues. Wow, Hargrove thought, the Danish have really done something. A thriving outpost in the Arctic void. Pride swelled in him for his allies and what he helped accomplish.

Then he noticed it: a tall building rising at the town’s center, shining like gold in the Arctic light. Glass and steel gleamed, a monument to modernity and progress. Emblazoned across its surface was a word in bold letters, one he did not recognize from his smattering of Danish. He sounded it out slowly. His brow furrowed.

“Trrrrooomp?”