This isn't about me or Granger, Commander. This is about you! This is your time! Make your mark on history!
Director Redmond Boyle, 2047
A Mark on History
Reykjavik was cold.
She'd expected that of course – she wasn't wearing the anorak for nothing. That wasn't even mentioning the beanie, the woollen socks, or the mittens. And yet, as she stepped out of the automated cab and paid her fare via her thumb print, Cassandra Blair was once reminded that Iceland was indeed cold. The global temperature had risen over 21st century – tiberium had consumed so much of the world's plant life that Earth was without its old carbon sinks. Some of that had been offset by a reduced human population and the development of clean energy, but still, she'd seen the mercury go up over the course of her life. Seen tiberium encroach on a world with shrinking habitability, the only memories of the world before the coming of the green crystal having been those imparted to her by her parents and teachers. Five years ago, 98% of the planet was classified as a red zone, and humanity was projected to be extinct by 2068. Now…well, Reykjavik was still cold for one thing. Iceland remained untouched by tiberium, though given the influx of humanity that had fled to the island over the decades, it hadn't been spared from tiberium's effects completely. They'd come here, and one man in particular. A man she intended to see.
She walked into the apartment block – a grey, featureless piece of permocrete that was identical to every other grey building in this part of the world. Space was at a premium. As she stepped in, and found the elevator to be out of order, she realized that maintenance was as well.
"God damn it." She sighed, pulling off her gloves and beanie. She doubted that God cared that she'd have to climb ten flights of stairs, but maybe that would get her a bit closer to Heaven. Or maybe she was stalling. Either way, she began to climb. She started running short of breath at the third level, stopped for a break at the fifth level, let out another curse at level seven, reflected at level eight that all those other levels had been prime numbers, and finally arrived at level ten. So when she went to the door marked 16, and asked, "Mister Connor?", it was with a breathless voice.
Part of the door was replaced by an electronic screen. On it was the face of the man she'd come to see. A man with grey hair, a grey beard, and scarred skin.
"Miss Blair?"
She nodded, still too out of breath to say "Ms."
"Hold on a moment."
The image disappeared and a moment after that, there was a series of clicks, followed in turn by the door hissing open. She composed herself as best she could, finally getting her breath back. Seeing the old man before her, how he carried himself the way he did on his walking stick…well, she might have been out of shape, but at least she had two good legs.
"Come in," he said.
She walked into the room in silence. Her first realization was that it was larger than most apartments – certainly the ones in London. By extension of that realization was that whatever the world thought of men like Gabriel Connor, vet benefits had been kind to him. But the second realization, the one that hit her hardest, was the lack of any kind of personal details. No paintings, no holo-stills, no ornamentation…the apartment told her nothing about its owner.
"Can I get you something?" Connor asked.
"Water, please."
He grunted, making his way over to the tap. "Water isn't cheap you know. We're on the rationing system here."
"Water's rationed everywhere," she murmured. She took a seat at the table in the centre of the room, next to the flatscreen mounted on the wall. She took off her anorak and mounted it on the chair's back.
"Don't worry Miss Blair, I'm not a cheapskate." He handed her a glass of water, while he was carrying a glass of a much darker liquid. "I hear it's even worse on the other side of the pond."
"It's…fine," she said, tasting the water. It was good. Not great, but good. "I still get to shower once a week."
"Hmm. It's every two days for me here."
"And the other people of Iceland?"
"On average? Once every three to four days." Connor took the seat opposite her. "But we're not here to talk about water consumption are we?"
"No. We're not."
She reached into her anorak's right pocket and pulled out a small orb. Pressing a button on its top, it opened up, deploying an anti-grav system and opening up to reveal a pair of eyes. It hovered in the air between them.
"New model?" Connor asked.
"W3N is good to me. One camera drone, two cameras. It'll get both of us."
Connor didn't say anything. He just took a sip of his beverage. She could tell that he was having trouble making eye contact. Or, more likely, simply didn't want to.
"So, if we can begin…"
"Thought we'd started already."
Cassandra sighed. "Mister Connor, please understand that this could be your opportunity to-"
"I've had twenty years of 'opportunities,"' he grunted. He put the glass down and for the first time, made eye contact. "So come on, let's get this over with."
Cassandra paused for a moment. It was cold in the apartment – she was beginning to regret not leaving her anorak on. All that separated her from the chill was her blouse, a scarf, and nerves of steel. Or so she hoped. Taking a breath, she said, "Commander Gabriel Connor, thank you for being on the program,."
Connor grunted, causing her to bite her lip. She leant forward, hoping to put him at ease.
"Mister Connor, in light of this being the twentieth anniversary of the end of the Third Tiberium War-"
He grunted again.
"…and your role in ending said war, I…well, I'd like to hear your story."
He gazed at her. "Think I've given my story enough."
"You might have, but in the twenty years since, history hasn't been kind to you has it?" She picked up her datapad. "You detonated the liquid tiberium bomb in the battle against the scrin, defeating them, but causing a chain reaction within the Italian red zone that led to the deaths of over twenty-five million people."
"I did." His voice was without inflection or tone. It was a simple statement.
"Then there was the aftermath, where you withdrew from the Global Defence Initiative mere days after the resignation of General Jack Granger, and the swearing in of Redmond Boyle as GDI director."
"Also true."
"And since then, you've retired from public life. You've been holed up in Iceland for two decades and have said little."
"But I did say something at the time, didn't I?" Connor murmured. "Think you know what."
She nodded, consulting her datapad. "You said, and I quote, 'the utilization of the liquid tiberium bomb was a measure of last resort. I used every asset at my disposal to destroy the alien relay node through conventional means. If this is indicative of my failure as a battle commander of the Global Defence Initiative, then this is a charge I accept. But do not believe that the use of this weapon was a measure undertaken likely, nor that I will go to my grave without regret." She put the datapad down. "Strong words."
"Could have been stronger." He leant back in his chair. "Could have said that it was Boyle who authorized the plan for instance. Could have claimed that I was following his orders. Could have…" He reached for his glass, put it to his lips, but then put it back down on the table, realizing it was empty. "Could have done a lot of things. But I didn't. And do you know why?"
Cassandra remained silent.
"I was the one whose finger was on the button. I may have been given the order to pull the trigger, but I'm the one whose hand was on the gun that killed twenty-five million people and rendered almost the entirety of Europe an irradiated wasteland." He sighed. "Here's to victory then."
"Some may not have called it a victory."
"Perhaps." He chuckled. "Do you know what Boyle told me before using the bomb? He said 'make your mark on history.'" He snorted, a dark look in his eyes. "Well, I did that, didn't I? Think I marked a lot of things."
She decided not to list them. How tiberium had rained down all over Europe. How she'd been in Manchester at the time, and seen (along with millions of others) the green light emanating from the Mediterranean. How she'd seen refugees pour into the United Kingdom, bereft of any other safe harbour. How tiberium poisoning had cut down the old and young alike. Instead, she murmured, "does it make you feel better in the knowledge that history hasn't been kind to Director Boyle either?"
He shook his head.
"Why?"
"Because thanks to a heart attack, Boyle's long dead. Hell, Heaven, or high water, he doesn't have to bear the judgements of the living in this world. I do. And before you say anything else, I accept it. I have to bear it."
"And to the millions of people who are no longer in this world either? What would you say to them?"
He sighed. "I wouldn't say anything to them. I'd say things to the living."
"And what would you say to them?"
"That I'm sorry. That I failed you. That for what it's worth, I didn't sign the death warrant of twenty-five million people lightly."
She nodded. The words were simple, but just by looking at the man before her, at the look in his eyes, at the quiver in his hand…she could tell that the emotions behind them were anything but. Time hadn't been kind to Gabriel Connor. Not in body, and not in soul.
"Since the Third Tiberium War, there's been numerous historians who've poured over the battles," Cassandra said. She looked at her datapad again. "Professor Niles Kamal claims for instance that the assault on the scrin relay node could have succeeded if you'd made a quick, concentrated strike, rather than focusing on the nearby Brotherhood of Nod forces. " She scrolled down on the pad. "In contrast, Professor Annetta Chang states that you should have focused on holding your position. To bleed the scrin dry, and wait for more of their forces to head towards the Threshold Tower." She put the pad down. "Does it bother you, how your efforts on the battlefield have been evaluated?"
"No," he said, surprising her. Not just the response, but from how genuine it sounded.
"How so?"
"Every commander in history has had their actions evaluated by those who came after them. Kitchener, Patton, Solomon, McNeil…" He rubbed his hands together. "I don't begrudge them that. Some of us may not like it, but that's what history's there for. To make sense of the past. To give us a sense of truth."
"And do you think they've given us the truth?"
"No," he said. "And before you ask anything else, it's not because of the argument that they weren't there. It's that by those two statements, I think it's clear that the truth either doesn't exist, or has yet to be arrived at. All I can say is that I took actions I thought were correct at the time. Either those actions weren't correct, or I had no chance of winning that fight." He shrugged. "Guess the consequences are the same either way."
Cassandra nodded. "Then I guess that brings me to the last question for you. Kane."
Connor's eyes narrowed. She paused, before ploughing on. "I don't think I need to elaborate on the events of the past five years. What with Kane resurfacing and the Tiberium Control Network."
"Proposed Tiberium Control Network."
She couldn't help but smile. "You think it won't work?"
"I think I'll believe it when I see it."
"And what about Kane?" she asked. "How does his survival in light of everything make you feel? That he's working with the organization you once worked for? That your greatest foe might prove himself to be humanity's saviour?"
She saw Connor clench the couch, and she felt a pang of guilt. Her editor had insisted that she touch on Kane. That she phrase her question in such a manner to get a rise out of Connor. To her, it felt like kicking a man while he was down. Still, as Francesca had said, they were asking every higher up in GDI how they felt about the alliance with Nod, and, to quote, "a bastard like Connor deserves to be kicked." She'd left London with the knowledge that Francesca's views on the disgraced commander were quite clear, and that she better not cross the pond without a response to that question.
"I have nothing to say about Kane," Connor murmured.
God damn it, don't do this to me. "Mister Connor, surely you have some thoughts on-"
"No, I don't."
Cassandra sighed. "Commander Connor, I can't believe you have no thoughts on-"
"Don't call me Commander Connor Cassandra, I know you don't have the respect for me that that word implies."
The words cut through her like a knife. It was a feeling that surprised her, She'd been subjected to far worse comments by her interviewees – she was a journalist, and that meant asking hard questions. Hard questions hurt, because hard questions, if asked correctly, resulted in hard truths. And the truth was rarely all sunshine and rainbows. Truth was that when Kane had resurfaced five years ago, she'd been shocked as anyone else, and outright disgusted that the GDI Council had agreed to their alliance with him. But now, five years on, and with construction of the TCN in full swing, she had to admit that the hard truth was that the greatest monster in human history might have just become humanity's saviour. That Kane had turned out to be the messiah his followers always claimed him to be.
Of course, that was her truth. Other truths she'd heard floated around was that this was all a Nod ruse. That Kane couldn't be trusted. That nothing was worth an alliance with Nod. Decades from now, historians might look back on the council's actions in the same manner they'd looked at Gabriel Connor's and make their judgements.
"If I could just have a comment," Cassandra said. "Anything about how you feel about Kane."
Connor sighed. "A comment? Alright, I'll comment." He took a breath. "Kane is a monster. Kane should have been dead three times over. And that's not even touching on the elephant that no-one wants to touch, that the bastard must at least be in his eighties, but doesn't look a day older than how he was in the First Tiberium War."
"…that's it?" Cassandra asked.
"That's it." He got to his feet. "And I mean that's it. As in, the interview."
"Mister Connor, thank you for your time."
The words were for her audience, not for Connor. He was already on his way to pour himself a second glass of the brown liquid. She felt like an idiot for not knowing what it was, but she hadn't had any alcohol in over half a decade. Not that she was ever the biggest drinker, but with alcohol being as expensive as it was…well, her salary was good. But not that good.
"I'll, er, just see myself out then?" she asked.
Connor grunted. Silently, she deactivated her drone and put it in her pocket. She planned to stay in Iceland for a week. Get the lie of the land in a country least affected by the wars of the past century, but perhaps the most affected by the influx of refugees. That was a story worth telling, and it always did a kicker for the ratings. Integrity and commercialism weren't always exclusive after all.
"You know, I never asked," Connor said, turning around to face her. "What do you think?"
She paused in putting her mittens back on. "What do I think?"
"About Italy. About what I did."
"I…really don't think-"
"Come on, I know the camera's off." He took a sip. "Trust me, I've heard everyone's opinion of me over the last two decades, I can hear one more."
"But what makes you think that I have an opinion worth giving?"
"Well, if you're the journalist that W3N makes you out to me, I imagine it counts for a bit. But even if that isn't true…" He took a sip that was the largest one so far. "Well, no-one said that opinions had to be informed."
She paused, making an effort to put her second mitten on quite slowly. She knew that she had the option of just walking out. That she was under no obligation to answer Connor's question. But after putting on that second mitten, and feeling none the warmer for it, she opened her mouth.
"I think…that you did the best you could," she said. "I don't think that the liquid tiberium bomb saved lives in the long run. I think an ideal outcome would have been for you to destroy the relay node through conventional means." She paused. "But I don't think history has judged you fairly. There's plenty of monsters across human history, and you're not one of them. Monsters rarely try to keep themselves in check. Monsters don't give everything that you did."
He didn't say anything. He just stood there, glass in hand. Looking at her. His skin weathered. His hair grey. His eyes old.
"Goodbye, Mister Connor."
"Goodbye Miss Blair."
She headed out of the apartment. Out of the chill, into the cold. The door closed behind her with a hiss and a series of clicks. She tried rubbing her hands together. Tried rubbing them against her body, but it was no good. It was still cold.
Just like the world.
Just like history.
"Let me tell you who we are. We are the ones the public has entrusted to protect them. We have a responsibility to uphold that trust. Yes, there are risks, yes, there will be casualties, but this is war, against an enemy unlike mankind has ever seen. If you don't do everything in your power, if you don't use every asset available to end this war right now, then you are failing every man, woman, and child on this planet.
Do the right thing Commander. That's all I can cask. Just...do the right thing."
Director Redmond Boyle, 2047
A/N
Something that always bugged me with the GDI endings of Tiberium Wars is that there's no middle ground between them. Either you defeat the scrin without using the liquid tiberium bomb (thus getting the good ending), or use it, and get chewed out by Granger for it. I kinda wish there was a 'neutral ending' that acknowledges players that try to complete the mission without the bomb, but end up using it as a method of last resort (maybe if it's used after a given period of time, or after a loss of a certain no. of units?). Because that's what I did the first time, trying to beat the mission, failing, using the bomb, getting chewed out, then doing it the 'right way' because Michael Ironside lecturing me isn't fun. :(
Anyway, drabbled this up.