ADVENT is People
My mind is like my weapon. Organized, compartmentalized. Sectioned into individual chunks that can be taken apart and put together, each part doing what it's supposed to do.
Or at least, that's what I'm told.
Things leak sometimes. Warm things, unusual things, sliding between the orderly pillars I've come to know as instruction and order. They're slippery, though. They evade my grasp, weaving through the pillars until I've lost sight of them.
Catching one of these things requires immense concentration. Sometimes, in the middle of patrol, I find myself standing still, ignoring instruction and chasing the thing in my head.
When I do catch it, it's an unusual experience. I see through the eyes of another.
One morning, I was whisked into a cozy bedroom, calm sunlight peering through curtains painted pink with white dots. I was staring down into a bed, and nestled in the blankets, covered in unfamiliar creatures, was a baby. Her big, blue eyes looked up at me, and her puffy lips turned into a smile.
Then, she barked in a harsh tone, and I found my commanding officer yelling at me to keep pace.
During the winter months, I see myself sliding down a hill on some unidentified object, skating down the icy hills. Snow covers me as I hear laughter escape buble from my mouth.
During summers, I stand at the head of a table, serving drinks and cooked meat on a lawn of bright green grass. There are burgers, just like what we have today, but there are also cylinders of meat and large shanks that look like they were torn from some great terrestrial beast. People laugh, wearing unknown, colorful clothes and drinking. The moon is high, and in the sky, I see bright lights. Explosions, like enormous versions of the fire from our magnetic rifles, going off, producing intense lights of various colors that fade away into the ether.
I assume these visions are from the Old World. Few speak of it today, but I see parallels of it with the material I've found in the hideouts of malcontents. Pictures, objects, and tools.
It is unusual, and worrying. The Old World is poisonous, is it not? The epitome of all we hate and fear, the cancer of another age cleansed by the scalpel of ADVENT.
But, if the Old World is so subversive, why does it feel good? Why do I find myself standing outside, trying to recall the visions, basking in the warm pleasure they bring to me? Sometimes, I find new sensations. Sometimes I sit at the head of a table, a flaming pastry of some sort placed in front of me and faces, wrinkled and smooth, staring at me, smiling. Sometimes, I lie in a bed with another. The lights are dim. I am blind as my hands scour the landscape of the other's body.
"Trooper 11305," snaps a voice.
I break from my thoughts, and return to reality. I am in an office, the walls covered in white metal and ADVENT paraphernalia. Posters of men and women, smiling and holding hands, plaster the walls, with the words "ADVENT CARES FOR YOU" printed on them. The room's occupant is slim, wearing a black suit with a pair of black shades obscuring his eyes. He regards me with a look that makes me squirm within my armor.
"Trooper 11305, otherwise known as Glen Miller," he continues, turning his face towards a manila envelope on the desk. "Officer 21837 has reported you for dereliction of duty and possible mental trauma. What do you say in response?"
I flip through the tongues I know before finding the appropriate language.
"Supervisor," I begin. "I apologize for my perceived negligence. I am still… shaken, after the early events.
"Yes, yes," the Supervisor says, in a dismissive tone. "However, it has been three weeks since the first terrorist attack, Trooper 11305. If you are still experiencing trauma of any kind, then I'm inclined to recommend you to the nearest Gene clinic for scrubbing."
I freeze. That word, scrubbing. He tosses it out as if it's a routine thing, but for us, it's a deadly word. Troopers, those who don't fit in, or are "promoted", undergo it. It's deemed a necessary "correctional" and "specialization" tool, and it's where the Stun Lancers, Shieldbearers, and Officers come from. Prestigious positions, but I would rather be dead than trade places with them.
"Trooper 11305," the Supervisor says, his tone tinted with anger. "Do I have to recommend you for scrubbing?"
I shake my head. "Assure Officer 21837 that my mental state has not been compromised. I am willing and ready to serve the ADVENT corp." I struggle to keep my voice from wavering.
The Supervisor nods, but I suspect he's feeling disappointed. His face is no longer neutral, and his lips are slightly downturned.
"Very well. Report back to your patrol, Trooper 11305. But if I receive another report, you will be scrubbed. Is that clear?"
"Yes, Supervisor," I say, grateful. I shuffle out of the office and collect my gear at the checkpoint in the lobby.
As soon as I am outside, the warm feeling passes underneath my temples. I groan, and resist it. I will not be scrubbed, I tell myself. I focus on instruction and order, cling to the pillars in my head until the feeling, warm like the air from a plasma heat sink, slinks away.
I clutch my forehead, or at least the armored helmet covering it. It's enough, and I regain my confidence.
"Trooper 11305," says my Officer in Basic. She stands a head above me, pricking me with her cold, emotionless voice.
"What was the Supervisor's report?" I know she's only doing this out of formality. If I had failed the report, I wouldn't be standing here.
She's demanding and controls through fear, I've learned. She's never said it, but she knows that Troopers are easily replaced. The constant reminder of that fact keeps us in line.
"I am still in peak condition," I reply, spitting out the Basic as clearly as I can. ADVENT language, although hard coded in me, is hard to get a grip on when you're nervous. Tone and inflection is everything, and Officers do not take kindly to misinformation. "Ready to return to duty ASAP."
My Officer nods, but she doesn't smile. In my head, I feel a surge of warmth, and a word comes to mind. The word is bitch, and it suits the situation, somehow.
She turns back, and heads to the rest of the patrol. Her hips, swaying, call my attention, and as my eyes make contact, the heat in my head explodes.
Now, I'm in a dank, musty building, sitting in a small chair. There are lights, and music, a pounding like the ADVENT sanctioned clubs, and a stage, where I see –
"TROOPER 11305!" my Officer yells, her Basic cutting across the courtyard. The other Troopers stare at us, waiting to see the resolution.
I shudder, and walk over to her in quick fashion.
"Just remembering proper public protocols," I say aloud, while my mind screams, angry at the vision it has just been deprived of.
As I rejoin the patrol, I think on the nature of these visions. They're hardwired into my mind, and the sensation is strong, strong enough that I know these aren't simulations. And if they aren't fake, does that make them memories?
My own mind tells me that I was once Glen Miller, a mechanic and loyal follower of ADVENT. Loving father of four, and a damn good cook. The Elders tell me I am doing my duty, and that the memories in me are as real as the flesh on my skin. But I know through these visions, that those are not my children. I know that I, that Glen Miller has never been to these parties, these occasions.
I am looking through the lens of another.
Liberating, I think. That's another word that comes to my head. Funny. This has never taught me new words before. I think up an image to follow the word, and I feel gold sunlight, the brisk touch of the wind flowing underneath my arms, and –
No. I can't let this go on. It's like a disease, developing and growing. I don't want to be scrubbed, and if that means not knowing more, then I'm fine. I don't want to know more, and I don't need to know more. I'm a soldier, it's all I've ever been, all I ever will be, and that's fine.
The feelings retreat, hiding to deep, unknown corners of my mind. They don't come back, and I let out a sigh. I bask in the comfort of instruction and order once more, relieved to be lost of those unknowable, forbidden visions.
It would be a few weeks before I felt them again.
"Balata Muertan!" screeches Trooper 24601 before toppling backward, his blood flowing through the cracks in his black armor.
The rest of the patrol springs into action. Gears click in my mind, endless combat simulations that prepared me for this.
My feet do not fail me. I make a dash to a lamppost, its large, boxy shape shielding my form from further fire. Few of my comrades are so lucky.
The insurgents are crack shots. They spring from their cover, loosing bullets that hit the fleeing remnants of my patrol with deadly results. Already, four of our number are lying on the street, limbs stiffening and mouths agape.
A ringing sounds off in my helmet, and as I check the combat overlay in my helmet, I already know my Officer plans to fight to the end.
She's marked a target, a female hunkering behind a trash can. The crimson reticle rotates rapidly around her as I take aim. Shots blast through her makeshift cover. The insurgent falls, but the wave of her hand tells me she is still alive.
"Enacting combat protocol," yells one of the other insurgents. He jabs his finger at my Officer, as if he's marking her. She stops firing, just for a moment, as if gripped by this absurd imitation of her.
Taking advantage of her surprise, the drone flies in. It's lightning fast, too fast for me to hit with my bullets. It dives, and discharges a bolt of electricity that runs through my Officer's body. She jerks, then falls to the ground, twitching. The red marker on my overlay winks out, and I'm tempted to breathe a sigh of relief.
She's dead.
"Got one more Jabber for you, Devil Dog!" jeers an insurgent. He points at me, and I stiffen as I realize that I am the last one left.
I raise my weapon to fire at him, but a woman leaps from a nearby building, crashing through the glass. In one, clean movement, she takes out an object from her back, something similar to what the Stun Lancers use. I instinctively dodge, and her slash grazes the armor covering on my thigh. The black material hangs loosely as I recover.
"Quick, aren't ya?" she mutters, her voice different from the others. It's got a slight accent to it, something… familiar.
The warm feeling is back, pounding in my brain. I gasp, trying to push it back. Not now, definitely not now.
The insurgent leaps up, and pins me down with her weapon. She's trying to bring it against my face, and I lift up my rifle to block the attack. The alloy meets the steel, with a hungry grinding sound accompanying it.
"You took him from me," she spits in my face, taking the time to enunciate each word with extra pressure to her blade. "You took my Johnny, and I'm going to murder each and every one of you bastards for it!"
With that last shriek, she presses forward, and in that instance, the warmth ignites. More memories flash in front of me, but they aren't pleasant. I see hurt. I feel pain. I feel a raging inside, a culmination of my darkest thoughts mixed with the thoughts of who knows how many.
This woman wants to kill me. The protests of dozens, no hundreds, ring in outrage. I'm not going to die, they shout. I don't deserve to die, another screams. I'm too young to die, What gives you the right, and several others cross my vision. But the feeling is the same. The pulsating urge that pushes me.
I mentally shut off my combat overlay, but my vision is still red. I scream, lifting one hand from my weapon. I see a memory, and I see two arms, my arms, reaching out and choking the life out of someone. In reality, I trace their movement with my hand, finding the spot where I grasp. Then I squeeze.
I feel the plates on my gauntlet shudder under the pressure, and I feel the uneasily satisfactory feeling of her flesh caving in. The woman's vicious expression drops, her mouth turning into a chaotic O, fluctuating as it gasps for air. Just like the memory.
Then, she drops. My hand feels like it's squeezing a bag, empty and insubstantial. And in that moment, a new word comes to me.
Anger. I like it, flowing in me. A red righteousness, hot and prickly, running through my veins.
It is not over, though. It's hungry, and it wants more. I oblige, picking up the fallen insurgent's weapon.
The other insurgents recoil, surprised to see me still alive. A memory plays, and I see myself facing an ADVENT platoon. Fire is raging all around, and instead of armor, I wear a bloody, ragged shirt. Sweat beads my forehead, hot and heavy, and I hear my own panting. I feel cornered, desperate.
Then, I run. Against all odds, I dodge enemy fire, push forward, and kill. In close quarters, the insurgents don't stand a chance.
I cleave through the necks of two of them, watching droplets of red blood splatter against the concrete. My desperation takes physical form, tearing their flesh apart and disemboweling them.
But the entrance of this feeling destroys my pillars. Instruction and order collapse, their cold, comforting steel shattering into thousands of pieces In that moment, I am left open. And that is what kills me.
Amid the storm of pain that rages within me, forcing my hand to paint the pavements with red, a greater pain drowns them all out. It is my own pain, an electric discharge running from my chest and breaking my body open, piece by piece. I'm torn from my vision, full of fire and blood, and dragged into reality to be thrown down, a gaping wound in my chest. The insurgent I was about to strike slides away from me, gulping down enormous breaths. His chest rises and falls with greater intensity as I notice the diminishing in my own.
The heat fades away, leaving me cold. New memories come. One moment, I am nestled in a sterile room, blue sheets across my body and wires running from my arms. I hear the beating of my heart coupled with the dispassionate hum of a machine. A cold, stiff sensation crosses my chest, before spreading and rendering me taut and devoid of life. I come to, back on the pavement, but still bearing the coldness from the memory.
Systems in my armor shut down, snuffed from existence. The overlay, my sensors, they all disappear, leaving my eyes locked in the tight confines of my helmet. The artificial blackness soon disappears as my eyes lose the strength to stay open.
"Menace 1-5 here," barks a person from beyond. His voice crawls through my ears, a watered down concoction that is filtered through my ear drums into a near indistinguishable mess. "We've lost Rachel and Weiss. Morozov's gonna need medevac."
"Can you believe this?" comes another voice, even fainter. "What drugs is ADVENT pumping their guys with?"
I lose consciousness, the remnants of the conversation disappearing.
My mind, once my weapon, falls apart, pieces clattering against my head before sliding into the growing coldness inside me. I feel the warmth slide with it, a liquid gift pouring down a hole to nowhere.
I die.
The inspiration for this story came from my romantic point of view on the creation of ADVENT Troopers. For those who haven't finished XCOM 2, spoilers below.
I imagine, being the products of human DNA that was harvested from once-living people, ADVENT Troopers could be experiencing the memories and emotions of other humans. They are literally patchwork creations, slapped together with the best DNA from hundreds of people. But they still are people, and still capable of thinking and feeling like people. I used the basic Trooper as the subject for this confusing identity crisis/emotional roller coaster, since they are the watered down, basic version, and therefore the most "connected" to their humanity. They're like babies (or CHAPPIE), heavily armed newborns in a world with various elements they are completely unfamiliar with.
And for those wondering, I imagine Stun Lancers experience the memories from drug addicts, adrenaline junkies, and hardcore BDSM practitioners, Shieldbearers experience memories from body builders and doctors, and Officers experience memories from abusive parents.