XCOM Enemy Unknown, XCOM Enemy Within, and XCOM 2 are all owned by Firaxis. Who I would love to work/intern for, which means I don't own them.


July 6, 2035

I can't believe I'm doing this. I haven't kept a journal of any kind since, what? High school? College? Doesn't matter. Tell my story he said. Alright. This is not going to be updated regularly. Just when I need to blow off steam. Everything else is in the AARs, after all.

I remember the War. I remember watching the news with anger and helplessness as I saw and read about city after city burning, people being abducted left and right. The military tried to respond, oh did it try. But the results were nothing more than a series of destroyed military bases. The United States military, one of the most powerful and technologically advanced nations in the world, was broken by a few walking tanks.

My gut wrenched when I saw LA burn on the news, thanking God that it was a Saturday and my mother was, relatively, safe at home. I remember the relief I felt when I called home and heard her voice, and the desperation with which I plead to her not to leave the apartment unless absolutely necessary. Thankfully, our landlord was understanding of the whole affair and, with the economy collapsing anyway, allowed his tenants to live rent-free, at least for the duration of the crisis. (Not that anyone would admit to it, but money was becoming more and more worthless by the month. The only thing stopping crime in the suburbs and intact cities was the fact that every law enforcement agency had effectively been turned into a militia.)

But as the War dragged on into its final month, everything had felt routine. No longer did the news, the few surviving news stations anyway, show the horror of alien attacks on cities, or their abduction efforts. They just maintained a list of abducted citizens and a list of cities that were destroyed over the course of the week. It had become... normal. Which was why, on a whim, I took a bus from the university to go to S- - to try out the tabletop RPG night at the comic book store.

It was 9:00 when I left. The streets were empty save for the homeless and the few who had been out late. Gone were the days when people would go out to the city at night. Now, everyone rushed to be home before dark. And failing that, to be home as soon as possible. So, with the streets empty as they were, I decided to walk right on the road on a whim.

It began with a sound. The sound of something, not unlike a water balloon, slamming into a wall at high speeds, mixed with the hiss of ice melting in a hot frying pan. I stared numbly at the sight of concrete melting before my eyes, an ominous green glow surrounding the hole in the movie theater. I don't know how long I stared at it, unable to understand what had just happened. It took another series of bolts striking buildings all around the street for the situation to take. S- - was under attack. And I was right in the middle of it.


By this point, I was well past the point of panicking. So, as a Californian, my instincts took to the very first disaster scenario they could grasp: earthquakes. To be fair to my subconscious, the situation wasn't too dissimilar with the ground shaking and buildings coming down. And it was the only disaster scenario drilled into my head that actually took. Being in the middle of the street granted me no cover or protection from falling debris, so my body moved to a nearby restaurant, ducking under one of the concrete tables outside.

I don't know how long I laid there, curled up in a ball, my hands protecting my neck. I laid there until I heard sirens, police sirens. I crawled out from under the table and popped my head out in time to see a police cruiser pull up in front of the restaurant. I remember the hope that swelled in my heart as a couple of officers came out, the one closest to me pulling out a shotgun. I remember the tell-tale green glow of a plasma bolt striking the car, the flash causing me to instinctively duck down. That action probably saved my life as the car exploded, scattering shrapnel and burning fuel around the car as the officers' screams echoed through the streets.

To this day I remember smelling burnt pork and, in spite of the situation, craving some barbecued meat. Before I realized in horror that I was smelling men burning. And as I lay under the table again, shivering and desperately trying to keep down my dinner, something hit the side of the table and clattered to the ground next to me. I hazarded a look. There, beaten, burned, yet still seemingly intact, was the shotgun.


I left it lying there. After all, this wasn't a video game or an action movie. I didn't know the first thing about firearm use... Ok, I knew some because I looked up random things on the internet when I was bored, but that sure as hell didn't mean I could use one. And, when I heard the roar of engines flying overhead, I didn't think I'd need to use it.

Oh, how wrong I was.

What I had heard weren't jet engines like I'd thought. Instead, I watched in horror as flying torsos with jetpacks roared overhead. With that sight burning in my eyes, I lunged for the shotgun and proceeded to attempt to pump a shell into place.

I had only just managed to do so (in a manner I'm certain was not how one is supposed to do so) when one of the torsos flew past my head, the thing's beady little eyes glaring at me in surprise as it jetted past, only to turn and try to slow down. Between it's sharp claws and the sickly green glow the emanated from it's silver rifle, I knew it would... detrimental to my health to allow it a chance to use either. So I did the only thing I could think to do. I shouldered the shotgun. I looked down the sights long enough to see the damn xeno slow to a stop. And I squeezed the trigger.


My world seemed like it had exploded as I slammed back into the table. Everything spun and blurred. My arm didn't feel quite right. Nor did my head. Then everything came back a little, like coming to your senses after blacking out while drinking. You're not sober, but you're certainly less drunk. My senses came back enough for me to register pain in my shoulder, the stickiness that covered my clothes, and the ringing in my right ear. I blinked to clear up my vision. I saw my arm dislocated. I saw my clothes covered in something I didn't, and still don't, want to think about. And I saw the alien, since it couldn't be anything else, lying on the ground, its arm and part of its head missing.

I'm still not quite sure what it was. Maybe it was shock. Maybe it was the sheer absurdity of the situation I found myself in. Whatever it was, I began to laugh. It wasn't joyous or amused. It wasn't the sound of a cackling madman. The only word I can think to describe the sound that came from my mouth is... hollow.

I don't know how long I laid there, laughing. Perhaps a few seconds, perhaps a few minutes. However long it took, it was long enough for me to be lucid enough to feel pain again. And when the laughter died down, I heard something else. A series of rapidly paced clicking. Not unlike the sound of cockroaches running in a metal duct. I knew I didn't want to look at what was making that noise. I knew it was a bad idea. And yet, slowly and painfully, I forced myself onto a bench and sat there, facing the street with my back to the table.

I never liked insects. I especially hated seeing large pictures of insects, which made certain bio classes a bit difficult to sit through. But seeing a trio of overgrown purple bugs who held their sharp forelegs like scythes, well I now had enough nightmare fuel to last me 27 months. Yes, I counted.

As with the torso, I could tell that the bugs would ruin my day. And probably my face, among other vital things I needed. But this time, I was out of options. I couldn't fight. Not with a dislocated arm. I couldn't run, at least not fast enough to get away. And, since they had clearly seen me, given how they were charging at me, I certainly couldn't hide. And so, out of options, I did the only thing my pride would let me do.

I flipped them off.

And with impeccable timing, there was a roar as a rocket streaked down in the midst of the trio of charging insects and exploded. Even half a block away, I could feel the heat and the wind from the blast as I sat there, awed then horrified as the bugs kept coming, on fire and pissed. Then a peal of thunder and a snap hiss preceded the bug in the back growing a new hole in its thorax. A beam of red light lanced down the street, striking the second bug on its head, which caused it to pop like an ant under a magnifying glass. Finally, to cap off the spectacle, a figure dashed over to my bench, taking cover for a second before raising a science fiction prop and firing a laser at the lead bug. And with that, she turned to look at me and she said, "Don't worry, kid. Cavalry's here."


The details of everything else, the exact words we said beyond that point, have faded over the past 20 years. But I still remember what happened. I remember taking in the brilliant silver armor gleaming in the firelight, the futuristic rifle she held in her arms, and the symbol stamped on the center of the chest plate: an elongated pentagram, an X over a globe, a trio of stars, and the words Vigilo Confido. I remember staring at that symbol, wondering what the words meant, until she snapped her fingers at me and reminded me, in a playful tone, that her eyes were on her head, not her chest. I remember trying to rub my head sheepishly with my right hand before the pain reminded my that my arm was dislocated.

Over everything else, that probably snapped me out of it the most. The soldier took one look at my arm, grabbed it, and popped it back into place before I had even stopped hissing in pain. When it registered, I yelped, biting my tongue in the process. When she asked how I'd managed to dislocate my arm, I simply pointed to the shotgun and the dead floater. She whistled and told me I had balls when someone else ran over and asked what the holdup was.

Like the first soldier, he was also wearing that silver armor and held a laser rifle. Unlike her, he had a small carton with a red cross attached to his hip. When she explained to him what I'd done, he unhooked that carton and waved it over my arm. When I was about to ask him if it was a tricorder, it sprung a needle which he jammed into my shoulder joint. As I felt something soothing come from the needle stuck in my arm, he explained how he was injecting a mix of painkillers and something to help keep my shoulder together long enough for me to get proper treatment.

By this point, the excitement and adrenaline was wearing off so I was dead on my feet. The soldiers told me that they'd set up an evac point near the train station down the street and that I'd be safe there. I nodded and got myself up on my feet. And before I left, I turned to them and said, "Thank you."


I'd caught my second wind at some point while I was jogging down towards the station. But even with it, I was crapping out. Thankfully, the only bit of excitement before I'd reached the station was my short encounter with a tall Argentinian, outfitted in silver armor with a rocket launcher strapped to his back and a machine gun in his arms. Realizing that this was the man who probably sent that rocket my way and too out of breath to give a proper thanks, I gave as much of a bow as I could while running. He seemed to understand, though, as he gave me a quick nod and a small smile before continuing to lumber forward.

It was only when I'd reached the train station that I'd realized something important: I was never told where in the station the evac zone was. Of course, it soon became apparent why that was. After all, it's a bit difficult to ignore the dropship parked right in the middle of the parking lot. As I trudged on board, the first thing I noticed was the smell. If what I smelled was fear, then fear smelled a lot like piss, sweat, and soiled pants. Not that I could say anything, having been covered in god-knows-what from the alien who died next to me. I didn't notice any other details from my fellow rescuees. I didn't care. The only detail I'd bothered to note was how many there were: eight. I was the ninth person to be rescued.

A few more people trickled in as the minutes wore on, but I was too tired to care. I just sat in my seat until a soldier arrived. I didn't recognize him. Clad in that iconic silver armor and a sniper rifle slung over his shoulder, he walked over to the cockpit. The next words he said answered the question that was rising in my throat.

"I need 3 bodybags."


The ride over to the university was silent. Noone spoke a word. Too tired, too shocked, too pissed. Take your pick. We landed on the soccer fields next to the RecCen, where civil and college officials, paramedics, and more were waiting for us. A CSO dragged me from person to person, making sure that I wasn't about to fall apart or drop dead. When I was cleared to get back to my dorm, the CSO escorted me back to my room, dropping by the bus stop along the way to pick up my bike.

Thankfully, the dorm was quiet. My RA would have words with me in the morning, but at that time, I was effectively alone. I stripped off my clothes, dumping them into a plastic bag, grabbed my toiletries, and took a shower before collapsing into my bed.

This whole time, I wanted to throw up and cry, to scream and rage. I couldn't do any of that. So instead, I shut down. Thankfully, it was June, the quarter was over, and I was supposed to go home the next day.


Everyone was worried about me that summer. I did nothing more than eat, use the restroom, shower, wander around the apartment, stare, and sleep. The only emotion I displayed was terror as I awoke, screaming from my nightmares. After waking up the neighbors enough times for them to lodge complaints, I learned to wake silently. My grandmother would often find me sitting at the kitchen table at 1 in the morning, staring blankly at the TV.

Two of my friends, H- and J-, came over often, doing what they could to help. Aunts and uncles dragged me off to see psychologists and therapists to no avail. For three months, the only thing that managed to get through to me was the news that the the world as a whole had surrendered to the aliens, and that a new world government was being built. Oh, that news pissed me off, but I did nothing besides glaring at the TV. Though that did get my grandmother excited. It had been the first sign of emotion I had shown since I got home.

It wouldn't last. Before the hour was up, I had slipped back into depression. But it was enough to give my family hope.


It took the news of my friend, D-, being listed as MIA to snap me out of it. His mother had called, then visited, with an invitation to the funeral, and possibly to deliver a eulogy.

"I won't." Those were the first words I had said in three months. My grandmother was elated. My mother torn trying to figure out how to respond appropriately. And D-'s mother, she was pissed. As she opened her mouth, I cut her off. "I will neither attend the funeral, nor deliver the eulogy for someone who isn't dead. Schrödinger's cat. You do not have his body. Nor has his death been reported. So, as far as I'm concerned, he isn't dead."

She was not pleased with my response. She accused me of not caring about, of not really being his friend, of not supporting him. I replied that she had no faith in him, that so long as no one could confirm that he wasn't dead, there were a chance, no matter how slim. The argument was short, but it was heated. In the end, she left, upset and on the verge of tears. And me, I felt like shit. Oh, I was pissed that she had given up on him so easily, but logically it made sense. And it could not have been easy for her to accept that. Nevertheless, I never mourned him. I just waited and prayed. I'd wait for over twenty years, but I found him, in the end. But that's a story for another time.


By February, the ADVENT government was in place. Over the course of a few hours, every sovereign nation in the world turned over control to the new administration. Anti-government groups worldwide, from small domestic terrorist cells to massive international organizations, were either wiped out or sent into hiding. Any hint of resistance at all was quickly crushed with overwhelming force.

After brandishing their big stick, the new administration began to show the carrot, starting with the region that held their new capital: the Indian subcontinent. The region having fallen early during the war, the aliens, and thus ADVENT, had been there the longest. It had been their beachhead, the first place the aliens turned up en-force, and it showed. News reports during the war had shown India to be a war-torn hellscape, covered in craters, plasma scars, and the dead. In less than a year, ADVENT turned India from a place that the world would have considered salted earth to a vision of paradise for most modern people. Gleaming cityscapes where poverty was a faint dream, something that happened to other people in other places. Everyone had a home. Everyone had something to eat. Everyone had access to healthcare that surpassed the imagination of medical professionals. And everyone could afford an education.

Those who weren't cowed by the stick were won over by the carrot. ADVENT was nothing if not efficient in building their gilded cages, and it would be less than a year until I found myself moving into an apartment in one of those city centers.

How'd I escape? I'll save that for another entry. As for this one, I'll leave it off here. It was good to get this off my chest. Maybe I'll keep this up, see how this goes.

End log entry.


Author's Note:

Yes, a second SI, although this is really a self-insert in the loosest of terms. Mostly because the viewpoint character has ~20 years on me, and he went through shit I never did. In other word, we only share our names, and the first ~19 odd years of our lives.

As for the update schedule, I've had this for a couple months now, and, as you've seen with my other works, I update like twice a year at best. I'm trying to work on that, but things get busy during the school year so... yeah. Updates are going to be sporadic at best, this one moreso than my other two.