"I can honestly say it was like a dream. Actually it was more like a really twisted nightmare. The dreams are usually bad but reality is so much worse. Sometimes I pray that I'm still dreaming that way at least I can wake up."-XCOM Central Office John Bradford, on the run April 9'th 2018.
Somewhere beneath the Appalachian Mountains USA: XCOM HQ
"Sir! We've got massive power fluctuations all across the board! Our defenses are offline!" The young technician failed to keep any trace of panic from his voice, shouting loudly enough that every member of XCOM could hear him. He could have saved himself the trouble though as the blaring alarms were more than enough to alert anyone across the massive underground base that something was indeed horribly wrong.
John Bradford moved briskly across the room, trying not to run and failing. Everything was happening too fast. How could it have gone so wrong so fast? "What's the cause?" He asked keeping his voice even, as any good officer would in a moment of crisis. It didn't come easy.
"Unknown, unless…" The technician began sifting through diagnostics at inhuman speeds, eyes blazing across the computer screens in an attempt to give Bradford any answer. Central needed to know what was going on and he needed to know now.
In a minute the entire building will shake, it's coming from the Delta quadrant. The technician will tell me we've been hit with an EMP. It's an attack. It's THE attack.
As if on cue, a rumbling shook the base, dropping dust and flakes of concrete across the various monitors and staff. Another muffled sound, frighteningly like an explosion, echoed throughout the command center, shaking the room again.
How the hell did I know that?
"Sir, we've been hit with an EMP!" The technician shouted. Leaning forward, he screamed at any nearby colleague, "Get me a sit-rep on our backup generator! Now!"
"The back up generator is holding steady but she's taking a pounding!" A female command technician shouted back, "We've got multiple breaches in delta!"
Bradford's heart fell. "It's an all out assault. The aliens have finally found us." He keyed in his headset, speaking firmly into the microphone, "Central to Commander Frost. Commander Frost, we're under attack, this is not a drill. I repeat, not a drill."
He won't respond. Everything is static. They're jamming communication.
Unfortunately, everything in his ear was static, garbled transmissions, broken up by the occasional screams coming from Delta. It was all happening so fast. Without Frost…
"We've lost our connection to most of the base!" The young technician announced, rather too late for Bradford's purposes. "The cause could be anything! I'm only getting Delta channel!" The Delta band was garbled, barely understandable. Constant explosions rippling across the airwaves added to the confusion.
Tapping his headset to try and key-in the frequency, John spoke crisply, "This Central. Delta, respond, someone, anyone, respond!" His orders went momentarily unanswered.
Faintly he could hear someone scream, "Oh God! They've found us! The aliens are in the base!"
Thunder Dundak is going to get on the horn and confirm this is an invasion. You're going to commandeer two security personal to accompany you in an attempt to reach the Commander's quarters.
He tapped the headset again furiously, "Delta! Respond! What the hell's happening over there?"
This time his question was answered. "This is Lieutenant Dundak," The heavily accented voice of the Polish heavy crackled across the airwaves. Thunder, it seemed, had managed to establish a link to central command. "I can confirm we have been invaded. Aliens are pouring into the Delta quadrant." He paused, the sound of his belt-fed machine gun firing eerily distorted by the weak connection. An inhuman shriek suggested the big Pole had hit his target. "Sergeant Ben-David and myself are attempting to hold them here, but we will be overrun. Put every sector on high alert."
Bradford didn't even give the order before the code red alarm blazed to life, drowning out every other noise echoing from the loud speakers. "All hands to battle stations," a woman calmly announced, "All hands to battle stations. This is not a drill, delta quadrant has been breached."
Bradford couldn't wait, they needed Commander Frost if there was going to be any chance of surviving this. XCOM had existed this long by the skin of its teeth thanks to the man's brilliant tactical leadership, yet it hadn't been enough. There were too many aliens, too many variables, not enough time.
Slamming his fist against the emergency release on a nearby console, Bradford withdrew the hidden pistol from its storage, slipping a fresh magazine into place. Flicking the safety off, Bradford motioned to two nearby security personal, "You two, with me. We'll bring the Commander here ourselves." Turning his attention to the only actual XCOM soldier on guard at the command center he ordered, "Sergeant Hahn? Hold this position! No alien steps through that door!"
Graff Hahn pumped his shotgun once, "Ja! Herr Bradford!" The situation was proving tense enough for the sergeant to slip back into his native German. Even a veteran was on edge, not a good sign. Bradford and the security men made their way towards the door, heading for the lift to take them up to Commander Frost's quarters.
You aren't going to make it. The door will explode inward; aliens will rush the command center. Sergeant Graff Hahn dies first.
Bradford was halfway towards the door when it rocketed inward in an explosion so deafening his hearing momentarily vanished. His body slammed into the ground, driving the wind from battered lungs as small bits of shrapnel slashed across his head and chest, tearing his sweater and flesh. Hot blood ran down his face while he struggled to maintain consciousness. He'd struck his head against the ground in the fall and now it throbbed, beating against his skull like a drum.
The source of the explosion became obvious as, a moment later, a large Muton came bounding through the opening. The massive alien raised his plasma rifle towards the prone Bradford, murderous intent clear in inhuman eyes.
Yet the kill shot never came.
A booming echoed throughout the command center over the din of the battle. Graff Hahn's shot struck the militant alien directly in the side of its unarmored face, a rare weak point on the creature. It collapsed with a muffled howl, dead or mortally wounded. For his trouble, Sergeant Hahn caught a plasma burst, vaporizing the man's chest, the solitary shot, punching through his Kevlar armor like paper. The German looked down, momentarily shocked that he'd actually been hit before crumpling into an immobile heap.
A second Muton was responsible, stepping gingerly over his brother's corpse, firing indiscriminately into the technicians. The man who'd give the initial reading fell screaming as the shot took off his arm.
A prone Bradford returned fire, shooting his pistol at the massive alien soldier. "Hold this position! Hold your ground! We can't lose the command center!"
Several bullets struck the Muton in the legs, causing a cry of pain but little actual damage. Bradford's clip ran dry, the chilling click of the empty pistol followed by the large alien's rush across the command center. Mutons continued firing into the unarmed technicians with base security returning fire as best they could while a third and forth Muton made their way through the smoldering ruins of the door.
With obvious contempt, the Muton kicked Central Officer Bradford in the head, driving the man into unconsciousness.
The wilderness of the Canadian Sector: Outside Jacksonville, a Shantytown near New Vancouver
The pain in his head was real, the result of a particularly nasty bump in the road slamming him against the humvee's metal walls. Bradford swore violently, rubbing his hand against the fresh bruise already forming along the side of his head. The last thing his hangover, even one as mild as this, needed was company.
"Watch out old man," Jan "Dutchie" Peters announced rather too late, "Your local Advent work crews don't make it out this far. Road gets bumpy ahead." The grin spreading across the old Dutchman's face could only be described as "shit-eating," his one good eye gleaming mischievously.
"I'm only five years your senior, smartass," Central grumbled back at the driver, earning nothing but laughter from Captain Peters.
Bradford caught a glimpse of himself in the humvee's rearview mirror and sighed internally. The years hadn't been kind to Central Officer John Bradford. His face was a mess of wrinkles and scar tissue, hair gone from mahogany brown to slate grey, a permanent five o'clock stubble refusing to leave even if he put the razor to it, which admittedly he did rarely these days. At fifty-five, he'd been through hell. Some days he thought he literally was in hell.
I doubt the boozing helped.
Still, judging by the nightmare, a memory he'd rather forget but had seen over and over in his mind, he'd not had quite enough of the bootlegged whisky he needed to make it through the day.
It had been twenty years since the alien invasion, little over nineteen and a half since the base had fallen and XCOM died. The council withdrew its support before disbanding entirely. Small resistance groups continued across the planet but XCOM was broken, little more than guerillas and poorly funded ones at that. Without Victor Frost, the mysterious commander sent by the council, everything went to hell.
They'd gone on the run, striking where they could, but his troops splintered or died off, leaving him with few soldiers from those days still loyal to the name XCOM. A handful of veterans and crazy recruits had barely made a dint in Advent, the new government the invaders had established after earth's resistance had been officially crushed. A new government for a new world order twenty years in the making.
Still Bradford fought on, and still he looked for opportunities to hurt Advent. There was one way, one pipe dream that he held onto, the Commander himself. Despite the chaos of XCOM's fall, reports reached him that the aliens had taken the Commander for some purpose. Shen doubted those rumors, but Bradford couldn't let himself do the same, he didn't have the luxury of doubt.
"I wish we could have taken the Skyranger," Bradford mumbled, rubbing his blurry eyes with the back of a weathered hand, "It's been too damn long since I rode in one of these old buckets."
"Central, you're the one who said we need to go into Jacksonville all quiet like," Dutchie noted with only minimal sarcasm.
"If Kelly's contact is as good as she implied it'll be worth it."
"One can hope."
Jan Peters was starting to fray at the seams, but there were few men John trusted more. Ever since rookie base security officer Peters had saved Bradford's life during the chaotic final moments as their HQ burned, the Dutchman had been at Central's beck and call. XCOM could claim only a few survivors of the original organization still bunking aboard the flightless Avenger, but Peters was one of them. His left eye was milky white and covered with a patch, the pupil burned away during a close encounter with Advent peacekeepers, low-level soldiers that were everywhere in the city centers. Jan's once proud Mohawk had been buzzed down next to nothing, while a droopy salt and pepper handle-bar moustache proved at least somewhere the man had hair. Jan was a mess of tattoos, arms a tangle of names and serial numbers belonging to fallen comrades, XCOM's old logo on the back of his hands, making loyalties clear. Bradford didn't feel the same need for ornamentation. Maybe it was the old soldier still alive in his battered frame, demanding some degree of professionalism.
"Quite the place isn't it?" Dutchie commented as the humvee drew closer to Jacksonville, the shantytown looking anything but inviting. Once again, Bradford found himself stunned by the vast difference between the gleaming city centers Advent had constructed over the ruins of earth's greatest cities and the towns of the wilderness. Inside the city centers loyal citizens had food, employment and shelter. They had security, entertainment, and gene-therapy that could treat almost any medical condition, or so he'd been told. They only thing those brilliant white cities lacked was true freedom. That and any sense of personality, if you saw one city center you'd seen them all. Advent had been extremely careful to eliminate rallying points of the old world. No CN Towers no Statues of Liberty. New New York was almost identical to New Bombay and New Sydney and that was how the aliens liked it.
In theory Advent tolerated the numerous shantytowns that sprung up in the areas on the outskirts of the city centers. They rarely sent troops to patrol them and, despite encouraging folks to move into the city centers for their own benefit via billboards, TV advertisements and something resembling missionaries, never seemed to force the issue. However, Bradford had heard enough rumors, and seen enough with his own eyes, to doubt their benevolence. In spite of Advent's continually increasing pressure, many shantytowns were centers for one resistance force or another.
Jacksonville was typical of the shantytowns, built beneath the crumbling ruins of an old overpass. Dilapidated buildings made from reclaimed steel and plywood, old neon signs or Christmas lights glowing pitifully in the darkness of the wilderness as garbage fires burned for both heat and illumination. Several ghostly figures moved around the upper and lower levels, never standing still for long. With the wilderness being home to plenty of bandits, raiders and monsters it was hard to fault their caution. Bradford noted at least one sniper watching them from the overhead pass, the long-haired man standing above the old shipping container serving as his home.
Jan parked the military vehicle outside the village limits, killing the engine. "Looks like fog's rolling in, could be acid rain." Peters fetched his assault rifle, double checked the magazine was in place before slinging the weapon over his shoulder.
"I hope not, that's the last thing we need." The aliens had done more than simply devastate any resistance, plenty of areas outside those city centers were absolutely destroyed by the conflict. That led to the tricky part, getting the shantytown close enough to take advantage of whatever technology Advent had installed to keep them safe from the worst weather effects but far enough to maintain the independence that drove people to live in these scrap piles in the first place.
Bradford rolled his shoulders, feeling the comforting weight of the blade on his back. The multipurpose rifle he'd lovingly built himself was loaded and within easy reach; if the locals wanted trouble the XCOM veterans could give it to them.
"Shall we?" Dutchie asked with a smile, throwing open the humvee's door and stepping into the fog. With a grunt of agreement, Bradford followed him. Both men were dressed in nondescript clothing, trying to conceal their loyalties in case of traitors or informants. There was no knowing how many spies Advent had in their employ but resistance intelligence suggested hundreds, if not thousands. Still, as a chill rushed through the air, Bradford wished he'd brought a thicker coat.
From his perch above, the sniper watched both men enter Jacksonville but did nothing. They obviously weren't aliens and if they were bandits they wouldn't have walked through the front gate. Still, Bradford knew they'd been marked.
"Where'd Kelly say we'd meet this guy again?" Jan asked in a hushed voice, trying to avoid the attention of a band of raggedy looking people gathered around a trashcan fire. They were armed with simple blades and handguns though Bradford knew he'd be more suspicious if they weren't. Anyone traveling outside controlled areas without protection was crazy, suicidal or probably something worse.
"She mentioned the local watering hole. Some place called 'Paradise.'" He wrinkled his nose as a particularly foul smell wafted across the breeze. "If it's here, I doubt it's as nice as the name suggests."
It wasn't.
Paradise, as it turned out, was a cleverly constructed two story building. It was certainly haphazard and ramshackle but undoubtedly sturdy. Its base layer was solid concrete, suggesting it had been erected over the bones of some old home as rickety wooden stairs led into a bustling taproom. The plywood walls and broken glass windows gave the two veterans a fairly clear look inside, the standard affair full of salvaged or homemade tables and chairs, illuminated by candles and battery power lights. A long bar took up the rear, behind which was undoubtedly a still producing whatever homebrew the Paradise's owner served the gaunt residents of Jacksonville. To ensure any visitor knew the name of the shantytown's only bar a cardboard sign above the door read, "Paradise" in shoddily drawn letters while a garish neon arrow, likely looted or stolen, pointed towards the much smaller piece of cardboard.
"Charming." Jan wrinkled his nose, clearly less than impressed with the established.
"It's where this contact is supposed to be," Bradford reminded the solider, "So that's where we're going."
All the same I'm not drinking the water.
The two men approached slowly, ensuring the large bouncer noted their arrival.
"Don't make trouble," the man growled from beneath a crudely manufactured metal helmet, doing his best to intimidate the armed men with his calculated stare and folded arms.
"No intentions on that front," Bradford responded honestly. This was a get in, get out, kind of mission.
The bouncer slid aside and the pair entered through the saloon-style doors. The Paradise interior was remarkably busy considering the small size of the town, with most tables occupied by rough looking individuals deep in their cups. Bradford ignored all of them until his eyes landed on the person he was looking for.
Jane "Banshee" Kelly unlike Dutchie and Bradford wasn't a survivor of the original XCOM, though she'd been with the men for so long she might as well have been. Kelly had led a small resistance cell named The Children of Earth and, while most of her comrades had been killed, Bradford managed to pull her out of the fire and she'd been with XCOM ever since.
Though in her late thirties and a veteran both as leader of a resistance cell and the war against Advent, age hadn't seemed to quite catch up with the Irishwoman. Her hair was red as ever, pulled into a long ponytail sticking through the back of her green "Kiss me I'm Irish" baseball cap. Cold blue eyes started out across the room above a Roman nose and unscarred face. The sleeveless jacket she wore revealed both her tattoos, elaborate white etchings of the ghostly women of Celtic myth the ranger took for her call sign. She sat comfortably, sawed-off shotgun on her back and a pistol at her hip, looking entirely collected. The contact, on the other hand, was not.
The man was less than half Bradford's age, at most mid twenties. A bright red toque was pulled low over hair that, judging from the simple beard on the man's face, was brown. His eyes were hidden behind aviators though a large burn was visible across a good portion of his right cheek. His clothes were obviously non-military, consisting of a flannel shirt and cargo pants with far too many pockets. A cigar was clenched tightly, too tightly, between his teeth as he obviously tried to keep from fidgeting with the tablet he was holding in his hands. Overall he didn't exactly seem XCOM material but Jane's judgment had repeatedly proven sound in the past so Bradford tried to keep his mind open.
The two empty chairs across from the duo provided a clear invitation and they sat down without a word. The barman was instantly present at the table, refusing to leave until both Bradford and Jan had a dirty glass full of moonshine and were a few bucks poorer for it.
Once the civilian was out of earshot, Kelly made the introductions. "Central, Dutchie, this is Toby Edwards, a civilian hacker, a good one."
"I prefer to go by Sparky," the hacker stated with far too much fake gusto for Bradford's liking. Still, by focusing on a code name it showed he was at least smart enough to try and keep his identity hidden.
"And this guy has information that can change the whole war?" Dutchie inquired with some obvious sarcasm, narrowing his good eye on the much younger man.
"Yes and no," Toby answered as honestly as he could. Despite the aviators doing their best to hide his expression it was clear he was nervous about his odds if he angered the XCOM forces. Turning the tablet around, Toby flicked it to life. A string of data ran across the small screen almost faster than Bradford's eyes could follow. The numbers were accompanied by the Advent gibberish his best people had still been unable to crack. "What we're seeing here is a package of data that's being rotated around the Advent network. It's classified at their highest level of encryption and marked with every kind of top secret label and protection that Advent knows about."
"So what's in it?" Bradford probed cautiously, anything that Advent felt worthy of such high protection was worth his time.
"I don't know." The hacker sounded utterly dejected, finally letting the cigar fall from his mouth and land on the table without comment. Dutchie raised an eyebrow at this and Jane winced. Still, Kelly was clearly aware of this setback as she motioned for Sparky to continue. "I couldn't crack this if you gave me a hundred years, not without help."
"I thought you said you were good." Bradford made his disappointment with Toby obvious. He quickly followed that comment with a sip of the moonshine, itself an almost equally large disappointment.
Finally Sparky showed a bit of backbone. "I am good." There was no false bravado in the words, simply stating a fact. "The fact is this particular package is encrypted beyond anything I've ever seen, that anyone who focuses on cracking Advent code has seen. I can't even begin to guess what's in here." He paused for dramatic effect, "But I know how to find out."
"He's got a plan, Central. Whatever this information is, if the jabbers think it's so important we need it." Jane wasn't pleading but it was clear she had a hunch related to the file.
"We came all this way, we can hear him out." Bradford's tone made it clear he was ready to walk if he didn't like what he heard.
And I doubt I'm going to.
"If I had an open Advent network, or even a vulnerable one, I could crack it upload this file and run the Advent decryption software within their own network. Then it'd be a simple manner to grab the files back off the network." Toby clapped his hands together, "Easy-peasy lemon-squeezy."
"You can get files off the network?" Jan Peters inquired with some surprise, "We don't have a lot of people with that kind of capability…" He wasn't hiding his skepticism.
"That's how I managed to get this file in the first place." Toby stated proudly, "Via a security tower that was damaged in an attack by a resistance group. The programming weakened enough for me to bust through the firewall and grab everything I could download. People need the truth, especially with Advent trying to kill the 'net. Pretty soon we won't be able to find the truth anywhere."
"So you need an open connection. We don't have one of those." Bradford was intrigued by the possibility of acquiring whatever data was inside the files. With Kelly vouching for Sparky's abilities that gave the young hacker credibility in Bradford's eyes, yet no amount of vouching would be able to solve that one simple problem. They didn't have that network connection, and no way to open one.
"That's where my plan comes in." Sparky smiled. "One file I did manage to decrypt was the network schedule for the Advent prison trains. Times, departure locations and destinations, manifests, records, the whole deal; that's actually what I was after in the first place." He admitted this sheepishly, glancing down at the rickety table.
"And all Advent trains have a network terminal on them, somewhere along a middle car. They need them to sort route data." Jane jumped in, expanding on what Toby had implied, "If we hit one of these trains we can kill the crew and Toby does his thing before the failsafe severs the connection to the Advent network. We'd have the time."
Bradford leaned back in his chair, finishing the moonshine more out of obligation than enjoyment. Putting down the filthy glass and wondering morbidly just how many fresh bacteria were now enjoying their new home, Bradford asked, "You think we should hit an Advent prison train?" When he said it aloud it sounded crazy, yet XCOM had survived this long because occasionally it did something crazy.
"They wouldn't expect it," Dutchie admitted, "No one ever risks attacking one of those trains, they're decently guarded and move on a constantly rotating schedule."
"Which means they wouldn't think we're going too, so they wouldn't be ready for us," Jane finished, seeming rather pleased with the possibility.
Bradford looked at the data, he looked at Banshee and Dutchie, trying to feel his veteran's attitudes in all this. Toby seemed capable enough, and the chance to crack this high-level Advent data was too good to pass up. "I can't believe I'm say this, but yes, let's do it."
"We're going hit a train?" Jan could hardly contain his excitement. An attack on a prison train was a real statement, XCOM was far from dead.
"Find us a soft target," Bradford added quickly, "Low guard count, few prisoners, easy. We don't want to lose everything on a bad mission." He felt good, back in control. He was planning to take the fight to the invaders, not simply reacting like he'd been doing for years. Now XCOM was on the offensive.
"There's one wrinkle in that plan," Sparky stated with utmost determination. Jane's expression made it clear her civilian contact hadn't mentioned any such wrinkle before. "We have to hit a specific prisoner transport, at a specific time, to release a specific prisoner."
"You said this was a data recovery op, not prison break," Bradford's tone took on a dangerously low volume, while leaning in menacingly.
"It's both." Sparky glanced down at his datapad, "I'm alive today, and in possession of this data, because of someone. Someone I promised I'd get out."
"Explain." Bradford wasn't in the business of working with liars.
"Early on, when I was living in New Toronto, I wasn't convinced of it." Toby's age made it clear he had no recollection of pre-war life, the gleam of the city centers was all he'd known. "This whole alien messiah thing? It seemed fishy so I started digging." He shook his head, "I wasn't sure what I was going to find, but before I could discovery anything much, peacekeepers were at my door and I was hauled off on a couple charges, espionage being the kindest."
"They take you to Advent maximum facility prisons for that. People don't come back from those places." Jan Peters spoke with the cold certainty of a man who knows from experience. Certainly enough resistance fighters, political figures and alien opponents had ended up in one of those facilities to make their legendary reputation warranted.
"Yeah, I know. Look at me," he gestured to his lanky frame, "I wouldn't have lasted ten seconds in a place like that. And I'm sure plenty of killers were given incentives from our glorious leaders to make sure of it."
"But you survived."
"Because I had help." Toby looked down, "It's complicated. This guy Alex Cooper, he's not a good man, not even close. A murderer, a psycho, killed a ton of people."
"I remember Cooper. Some things even Advent propaganda can't clean up." Bradford vaguely remembered the details, Cooper had killed roughly twelve or so people with a knife and was given maximum time in a correctional facility. Central couldn't really keep up with the news but the account was gruesome enough it caught his attention.
"Right, Cooper, he protected me."
"What do you mean, protected?" Bradford enquired with obvious confusion.
"I mean, he took me under his wing and killed the guys who came after me. I wouldn't have made it without him. That's a fact. We became something resembling friends and I swore I'd get him out."
"Madman Cooper, the serial killer?" Unflappable Jan finally seemed stunned by something, "You were what? His pet? His "special friend?""
"As crazy as it sounds, no, nothing like that. We were friends, regular old pals, well, as regular as you can get in a place like that," Sparky stated firmly. "That man protected me when no one else would, so I made him a promise. I would get him out. Besides," he asked looking at Bradford, "Aren't XCOM in the business of looking for killers to fight Advent?" That was true enough, though the implication left a bad taste in Bradford's mouth.
"What are you suggesting?" Kelly asked slowly. "Are you saying we bring Madman Cooper into the fold, giving Advent even more material to smear us with? All for some data we know nothing about?"
"It's two birds one stone!" Sparky interjected, "You get some overwhelmingly critical data and at least one skilled killer who I'm sure will happily fight alongside XCOM. Can you afford to turn anyone away at this point?"
The Avenger has plenty of extra bunks and a man like Cooper knows a thing or two about killing. Not to mention the data…still…
"How'd you know we're XCOM?" Jan asked, zeroing in on the young hacker. "You weren't informed of our affiliation."
"Advent files." Sparky admitted rather glibly, "They've got your faces plastered across all of them as POIs, wanted terrorists associated with XCOM radicals. I recognized your faces."
Bradford knew it was time for decisions; once again wishing beyond all hope that the Commander had been there to make the call instead of him. Cooper's train would have decent protection, turrets and soldiers. Then there was the matter of Cooper himself, nothing stopped the man from attacking them once they released him from custody, he'd been plenty eager to spill blood before.
Yet Toby was right, that data could be potentially huge if Advent considered it worthy of their highest protection, a strike on a prison train would be a huge blow against the aliens and if Madman Cooper really could be convinced to join XCOM, something Bradford still wasn't sure he wanted, he'd no doubt be an effective killer. Besides that, the prison train would likely be full of other prisoners, many of whom would likely be resistance fighters or political prisoners and therefore a boon to the XCOM cause.
We're dying a slow death, this could change everything for us, turn back the clock.
Central Officer John Bradford, a man who'd been through twenty years of hell fighting the aliens that had taken away his home made a decision. Commander Frost was always a gambler; it was time for Bradford to take a page from his book.
"Let's do it." The words were firm, moving from person to person with equal force.
Toby rubbed his hands together gleefully and beaming. "All right!" He tapped his datapad a few more times. "In a few days the train will be passing through the New Mexico wilderness towards the actual county of former Mexico, all data suggests they have a supermaximum containment facility there." Toby's datapad showed a map crisscrossing the deserts of that region. "Honestly, it'll be mostly abandoned, a perfect time to hit the train mid route. Hopefully we'll be able to get in and out before they know what's going on."
This just might work.
"Well, assuming you can get down there in time, I doubt you'll make it by car…" Toby's tone fell several feet, suddenly realizing the flaw in his otherwise brilliant plan.
Bradford actually smiled. "Don't worry, I've got something for that…"
AN: An so we begin! I'm not abandoning Pickman's Muse! Don't worry! But this has been kicking around my laptop for awhile and I thought I'd put it up here and see if it gets any traction or interest. I play a heavily modded XCOM 2 and will reference influential mods in the AN's, in particular I enjoy Allies Unknown and The Liberated reskin for that faction so expect some liberated aliens!
Cheers!