Spent quite some more time trying to stretch it out as it was a little short, but couldn't think of anything to write for a while that might seem unnatural or shoehorn-y. Around now I feel the quality of my stuff is starting to tank quite a bit. They're still pretty enjoyable to write, and I have some fun stuff planned for the next chapter, so hopefully the issue will be gone by then.

Also there was like quite a few days of holidays I spent playing videogames on my new PC that I bought about two weeks ago. Upgrading from a mid-tier laptop to a high-end desktop is quite the power-up, I tell you, so I was a little occupied XP


XCOM: Splinter

Chapter 4

~ The Eye of the Storm ~

I woke up a little before we landed, feeling something jabbed and taped to the inside of my elbow. I wondered idly for a while if it had a proper name and if it wasn't way too complicated to call a simple part of the body. I then felt my insides float for the short duration when the Skyranger's engines cut back to let it fall and touch down on the landing deck.

As I slowly woke up proper, I began to worry. If I passed out despite my wound being covered up by magic medical goo, that meant that I was probably bleeding internally. It could also just mean that I simply exhausted myself after losing a lot of blood, but keeping a positive mind never saved lives - at least not as far as I was concerned.

"Ryder, you asshole," grumbled Nikolas as I became conscious enough to try sitting up, only to find that my energy hadn't quite returned yet and sink back down with a groan, "If you're awake now then you're walking on your own damn feet."

I rubbed my eyes and opened them, finding myself lying between the seats on the floor of the Skyranger's troop compartment. The others had even removed their vests to make for cushions for me, too. An unexpected gesture, but a welcome one. My wounds have been properly bandaged, not too much blood was showing on the wrapping cloth, and I found a drip bag of blood connected to my elbow. This, Nikolas bent over and helped me remove, as the bag was basically empty at this point and it was time to get proper treatment in the triage center.

As Pavle and Nikolas pulled me to my feet, I got a rush of of dizziness and blurred vision as I drunkenly stumbled out of the Skyranger with the others, collapsing to my knee in front of Bradford, who had come out to meet us like the first time we arrived.

"Congratulations on your first successful mission," he started off, an irritatingly cheery smile on his face, "not like the stuff you're used to, huh?"

I glared at him as much as I could with eyes that seem to do their damndest to stay unfocused and snarled, "Yeah, usually when the mission is a bust we get the hell out, not push harder."

"Oh come on," said Bradford, "it wasn't that bad, at least by our standards. A single injury that doesn't kill is pretty damn good around here."

Oh yeah, that'll make me feel better about being shot, I thought angrily.

"Besides, you got the data, right?" he asked, reaching out a hand towards us.

"Yeah, sure we do," said Nikolas, pulling his tablet from it's holder on his belt. I grabbed his hand before he can lift it all the way up towards him.

"Not so fast," I growled, "you owe us some stuff for this after what I went through."

"Oh come on," whined Nikolas, "you can't actually be serious."

Bradford folded his arms, a hard look on his face. "Go on, then," he said.

I slowly stood up, blinking away the blurriness, and held out a finger.

"One," I said, "I want more vegetables. You only have meat and the odd leaf of cabbage or lettuce. We need more, hell, the resistance at large needs more."

Bradford's forehead furrowed, and a look of slight confusion started to creep over his face, but with nothing much to say in retort, he replied, "I'll...pass that along. You know our food comes- "

"Yes, yes, I know you get the stuff from the resistance." I waved away, "Having livestock or growing plants to eat is kinda illegal right now, so most resistance people have been hunting for their food. We've been hired for hunting trips before."

"Still need those fibers and vitamins," chimes in Yuriel, "literally the one thing we don't need to fight right now is scurvy, a goddamn 17th century pirate malnutrition disease."

"Right," said Bradford, nodding, this time with no hesitation, "I'll pass it along."

"Two," I continued as I pulled out my machete, "This single-edged thing nearly messed things up for me, could you get some double-edged blades in here?"

Bradford shrugged and said, "Afraid not. We can't exactly grab every machete we have on hand and grind down the back to an edge. We could try, but the result really wouldn't be worth it."

Then he waved his hand in a 'whatever, I don't really understand' gesture and said, "Swordsmithing, all that stuff."

"We have swordsmiths on hand?" asked Nikolas, a hint of amusement in his voice.

"The resistance does," replied Bradford, "It's a cheap way to make fairly effective weapons that don't expend material as bullets."

"So," I said, bringing the topic back to my request, "no double-edges?"

"If we develop the tech to make our own melee weapons," suggested Bradford, "and if that happens, they would also be better at their jobs than simple tempered steel - I'll make a note to have double-edged blades over single-edged."

"Third," this time Bradford didn't try to ask for the data before I spoke up, "What the fuck is Splinter One through Four?"

"They're your callsigns," said Bradford, an eyebrow cocked in confusion, "We use them around here."

"I fucking know what callsigns are," I snapped, "I'm saying ours are shit and that I want to change them." I then pointed at the rest and said, "I will NOT call any of these guys Splinter Anything. It feels like I'm legitimizing the lot."

Bradford snorted a little and said, "What the hell, sure, have it your way."

I nodded and sheathed my machete, "Great, that'll be all. Nikolas, give him the tablet and now let's get me patched up proper. Shit hurts even more from speaking."


I was bedridden for three whole months to recover from my gunshot wound. The mag-bolt didn't do too much damage to me, having lost a lot of energy by punching through first my shotgun, then my armored vest.

The wound was mostly a lot of bleeding and broken bones and meat. According to Tygan, though, some bone fragments and shrapnel got uncomfortable close to my lungs. Still and all, three months was blistering fast. I remembered when a flesh wound from bullet fragments took that long to heal if not more.

Three months was a long time to spend lying in a bed either way, and since I was the only guy on the ship that was wounded at the time, I was also alone in the triage center.

After two days of utter silence outside of the odd checkup and the constant steady beeping of the medical equipment around me, I almost started to miss Pavle and his ramblings. Before the thought could really sink in though, I was saved be someone I really didn't expect.

It was the guy who gave me that bland-as-hell cigarette the day XCOM came a half hour too late. I hadn't spoken to him at all since then, I didn't even know his name. Whatever his name was, he was the only other Grenadier on the base. He was a pretty big fellow even next to Pavle, wore an eyepatch over one eye, had full tattoos down both his thick arms and had fairly long black hair tied up in a ponytail.

At first glance he looked like a gangster like myself, so when this man just walked into the triage center with something I couldn't make out under his arm and headed straight for me, old instincts kicked in and I prepared to defend against the first blow and planned my counterattack.

So it somewhat surprised me when it turns out the stuff he brought with him were some books and I nearly swung out on instinct and punched him in his gut. Instead, I just kinda flinched in a weird way.

For a few seconds, I locked eyes with him as he stared back at me after putting the books down on the bedside table, then he simply pointed at them and said, "Books."

I stared at him a moment longer, then slowly, I responded, "I...can tell..." my eyes darted back down to the three books he brought as if expecting to suddenly find something else, then returned my gaze at the man and said, "...why exactly?"

The man cocked his head to the side slightly and said, "Last time I was here I was bored out of my mind. Thought you might be, too."

I thought for a moment, but ultimately couldn't think of anything to say back except for, "Uh, okay, thanks. I was bored."

The man nodded, and started to turn to leave.

"What's your name?" I ventured.

He stopped and turned back at me, "My name is William Martins. You can call me William."

Not the most talkative fellow are ya? "Mine's Ryder Lynn. Ryder will do."

He nodded again, said, "of course," and left.

I sat there for a moment wondering what was that all about. He seemed like a nice enough guy, having brought me some reading material, but not all too social. He kinda reminds me of someone I knew, the way he means well but has problems communicating it.

I thought for a moment trying to figure out who William reminded me of, but came up blank, so instead I grabbed the first book off the top of the stack and started reading.


After that encounter, the stay in the triage center was fairly uneventful. I finished the books William brought me within 2 weeks, and started to read them over again for another week before William brought another batch of books, expressing slight surprise I finished them in the time I did. This second batch lasted me another couple of weeks before I managed to argue that I was healed enough to start walking again.

Besides the obvious reason which was that I needed to keep in shape for my current line of work, being stuck in bed for nearly two months was driving me stir crazy. I had been bedridden with injuries before, but usually I at least had a window where natural light could shine in nearby.

After clumsily squeezing myself into the weird garb that passed for casual wear on the ship, I set out to explore the base proper. It's not as if I could get lost, I knew the ways around the ship already, just that I wanted to spend more time looking the place over.

Too bad there wasn't much to look at. Every room in the lower deck held only ruin, either from whatever shot this craft down all those years ago or deliberately destroyed by the aliens when they left it.

Mildly disappointed, I headed up to the crew quarters with William's books to return them to him. The man wasn't there, so I simply left the books on his bunk, and took a moment to look over at my own bunk - on the top bunk.

I chuckled a little at the memory of a fight over the beds with Yuriel back at boot camp, then shivered at another memory of something that would happen later regarding them, also realizing that the nickname she gained that day would probably be the one that went as her callsign in future.

Deciding to head down to the bar/mess hall, I cut through the command room, nodding at some people I barely remembered yet as I passed through, though most were too busy with whatever they were up to to even notice me.

Going down the stairs to the barroom, I passed by the armory, and wondered briefly if I would be getting a replacement shotgun. Even if I didn't, I could settle for a rifle. I simply preferred the raw punch of the shotgun, its range limitation be damned.

As I walked into the room, a small cheer erupted from the other fighters in the room. A quick scan of the room told me William wasn't here, either.

"Hey Ryder!" yelled Pavle from the back of the room, a big mug in one hand spilling some drink as he stood up, "Mind getting yourself killed properly next time?!"

"I'll consider it once I finally snap and gut you." I replied, trying not to make it too obvious I was glad to hear his bullshit again. "And why the hell is Bradford mixing drinks?"

Because he was. The acting commander of an apparent crack resistance cell made specifically to combat aliens was standing behind the bar counter, mixing drinks and looking as if all was well in the world.

"I don't shittin' know," replied Pavle, downing another gulp of his mug's contents, "I think he's the only guy onboard that kinda knows how to mix things other than Jagerbombs. Or whatever passes for Jagerbombs these days. This stuff's pretty okay," and he waved his mug at me, fortunately without enough liquid to spill out at me, "you should try it. Tastes like actual booze."

I looked at the bar again, spotting an opened bottle of fancy brew and said, "Probably because he added actual booze to the mix."

"Really?" asked Pavle jokingly. He took another swig, then looked up at me and his face fell, "Holy shit I've been drinking actual booze and didn't notice?"

Seeing the rare crestfallen expression plastered on Pavle's face cracked me up, as it was rare seeing him be lost for words. Leaving him as he looked like he was in the middle of an existential crisis, I walked over to the bar.

"What the fuck are you doing over there, Bradford?" I demanded as I took a seat on a bar stool next to two other people, "Don't you have more important stuff to do besides mix drinks for the grunts?"

"Yeah, but this is a bit of a special occasion," said Bradford in an oddly cheery tone as he dumped the contents of the mixer into a beer mug, "Here, for you."

I stared at him for a moment hoping for an explanation, but Bradford didn't respond. Figuringing he couldn't be so dense as to not miss my obviously questioning look, I sighed and took a swig of the mug, "Huh. This isn't half bad."

Now Bradford looked up and smiled. He then lifted the fancy brew on the counter and pointed at it, "Bottled in 1957. This thing is older than some countries. If they were still around," shaking his head, he placed it back on the counter and then said, "That'll be the only drink you get, though. My grandpap would say different, but alcohol doesn't help that hole in your chest any better than another bullet would."

Now I leaned forward and asked, "So why am I drinking this now exactly? What's the occasion?"

Bradford sighed loudly, though he didn't look as dejected as I thought he would be.

"The data you brought back from your last mission," he started, "Most of it is still encrypted or written in code, but if we're reading what we have cracked so far right, they could be a lot of things we have been working towards for a while," he started another mix now, "what those things are I obviously can't tell you, at least not yet. Just know they're big enough that I'm breaking open one of my prize bottles over here."

I looked back into the murky liquid in my mug, my vague reflection on the bubbly surface. Briefly I remembered a story about how death row convicts were served a final meal of their choice before they were executed. Tossing the mug back, emptying it in a single gulp, I determined once again to see this war through the very end. If for nothing else, to find a drink that tasted better than this one.

"Aaagh...tastes like...apple juice, rubbing alcohol and root beer." I joked, suppressing a cough.

"Well suck it up, Inky Jr., it's the best shit you're gonna chug without dyin' nowadays," came a woman's voice next to me.

I turned to find two of the other fighters I remembered from the post-ADVENT raid. They were two women, one was a Caucasian in her early twenties with half-framed glasses, had her dreadlocks tied back and an acid look in her eyes; the other was an Asian around her late forties with round glasses, with had her hair tied up in a bun with a pair of knitting needles used as hairpins. Her gaze was gentler, but also colder. Like a hunter examining a target to plan her attack. Kinda like Yuriel, actually.

"Who the hell is Inky Jr.?" I asked the two.

"You, with the tats," said the Cauc.

"And I guess that makes William 'Inky Sr.'?" I asked her.

Her forehead furrowed, "I guess? Will's that bookeeper guy, right?"

"Melissa has only been with us for a few months, and she seems to have trouble remembering people's names," cut in the Asian, "nicknames are easier, though, so she's been assigning nicknames to everyone on the Avenger until she remembers our names."

"To answer your last question, yes, William is the big man that owned a bookstore before the invasion," I replied to Melissa, "You know who you were talking to at least?"

"Uhhh…" she turned to look at the Asian, "Holly, right?"

"Hori," said the Asian, "but you're getting closer."

"Yes, well, pleasant meeting you two," I said as I tossed back the little bit of liquid that gathered at the bottom of the mug, "Now if you ladies would excuse me, I'll be touring the place a bit more and then maybe go back to the triage center."


"You sure a pistol is all you need?" I asked, still quite worried.

"Yes, I am sure," he said confidently, and sighed, "Look, boss. I'm not going to go out of my way to shoot some aliens. I'll just head straight to the rendezvous point and deliver your merchandise."

"You sure you don't want to get like an automatic pistol or- "

"Ryder!" he interrupted, speaking my name in the rare times he really wanted to get something through, "It's fine. Really. Now if we continue arguing like this any longer I might be late to the meeting point."

"You're not even wearing any body armor!" I protested, by now pretty much knowing it was futile.

"As if it would hold up against the weapons being used by the creatures crawling around outside," he said, cuffing the suitcase to his hand. "I'll keep the merchandise safe, so you can stop worrying about it."

"I'm not worried about the merch, Zhang." I said.

Now, Zhang turned and looked at me. He held my gaze for a few seconds and then chuckled, "As I said, I'm not going out to pick fights. I'll avoid any aliens I come across and focus on the delivery. I promise."

I sighed deeply, and finally responded, "Fine. Look. Just do the delivery and get yourself back here. Then let's get a drink. It's been a while since we drank together."

"Of course, boss," Zhang replied, doing his final checks to make sure he had everything on him.

"Well, then, you better hustle. You remember the meeting point. Good luck out there." I said, and bade Zhang farewell. The sight of his back as he left the base was the last I saw of the man.