Disclaimer: I do not own any part of XCOM: Enemy Unknown.

My feet feel heavy as I walk out of the hangar, resisting the urge to stare blankly at the body bag being pushed on a stretcher beside me. Another name, another picture: lost. And I made the call.

I always made the call.

I had been chosen as the Commander because of my mental prowess, because I could see each possibility, each percentage as clearly as the stark white tunnels of this glorified cave.

I pull the helmet from my head and nod at the resident doctors. They file forward solemnly, carefully relieving me of my burden. They are intimately familiar with this duty and perform it flawlessly. I watch them leave, the squeak of wheels loud in the hangar bay. I ignore the rest of the crew, pausing only to dismiss them as I make my way to the Command Center. I have a MIA to report.

I am part of the squad, but I'm not one of them. The camaraderie shared among the soldiers is something I can never take part in. The way they turn to each other when things are most bitter, when the experiments become too much, when the wounded drag themselves out of their hospital beds because there simply isn't anyone else; this I see, but only distantly understand.

I am the voice in their headsets, dictator of their movements; a personal Grim Reaper, deciding their fate…

I see to it that the body is shipped safely home, to the people who will honor him like I can't. My hands are tied, as are my lips. I can't speak of what is done here; can't attend the funeral. I can't tell his mother how he died, let alone why.

I hear the shuffle of moving bodies behind me as I pin a new picture to the Wall, adding another name to the List. Then I salute.

For a moment, my shield cracks and my face twists in pain. I know my eyes are glassy, my unforgiving features soft. My bottom lip quivers, a tell I could never really get rid of, despite years of trying.

I feel their eyes watching me, taking in my weakness, this faint laps of character. I let them see. It is important that they catch glimpses of frailty. It makes me a person in their eyes, just as real to them as the people on the plaque. This too, is calculated. Not the emotion, no. What I feel is no less real than the oxygen I breathe. But I let my humanity show only when they need it. When it will give them hope, tempering their pains and comforting their sorrows.

I straighten my spine and let my features close and form back into the rigid dark-eyed commander they know. I choose to stare at the pictures' smiling face, refusing to meet any of their gazes.

I'd watched each of them die tonight, if only in my mind's eye. I'd killed them all with unerring efficiency, never doubting; never apologetic. It was my duty, my purpose. I had to make the call.

I always made the call.

AN: Hope you enjoyed it. My inspiration came from the players' ability to literally see the percentages behind each attack. If you take a moment to think about it, the game is actually telling us how likely the soldiers are to live… or die. And you, as the Commander, are responsible for each change of percentage. If you've saved and reloaded the game as often as I have, you have also, quite literally, killed them over and over again. It's kinda freaky.

Review Please!

~Delgodess