Wallace surveyed the wreckage from the viewscreen, his pale finger tapping it periodically to zoom in on some glowing piece of rubble. Much of the craft's ruin remained obscured by the truly terrific amount of smoke, but here on the edges, some of the hull lay steaming in a still glade, flung from the ship by incredible force.
Wallace could not recall ever activating the Citadel's suppression configuration before now. Put simply, there was a complete lack of realistic targets. The Citadel, well, any Citadel, could theoretically target any ground or air "obstruction" within 8000 kilometers. Unleashing that kind of power, however, made no sense. Resistance towns and buildings usually fell within mortar range or could be neutralized by air support, and xenian wildlife could be cleared out by any Overwatch team worth its salt. But … a UFO…?
The "filtration" system, as the dispatch referred to it, must have been designed for occasions like this. Their Benefactors surely had encountered extra-planetary invaders during their numerous extra-dimensional conquests. Equipping such a device to the Citadel as an intimidation tactic did not make sense either, given that merely shifting to the configuration took an inordinate amount of power. If only I could ask them. But they never took kindly to questions. They were the ones who asked the questions.
"Overwatch – monitor and suppress all movement around impact site." Wallace licked his lips, thinking. "Divert the XCOM unit, for the moment. Keep them on standby."
"First order confirmed. Second order requires advisory oversight. Apply?"
Wallace's breath came out hoarse as he nodded. "Apply."
He turned on his heel and made, for the second time in a week, for the elevator. He did not even need to tap the button to head down. It activated for him. That's typically not a good sign. Wallace gulped in the suddenly cool air. His stomach lurched as the elevator jerked into life, sending him spiraling into the dark blue depths of the Citadel's guts.
The doors opened, and the cold air became uncomfortably warm in a surge of pressure. The smell went from cold metal to the inside of a gecko's cage – arid and alien. Wallace entered the large still chamber with sweat clinging to the insides of his clothes. He adjusted the neck of his jumper with a grimace, trying to avert the urge to wring his hands. Up above, a crack of light opened between the sliding doors. They came apart with a whine of metal on metal.
Three pods clanked from the aperture high above. The smell grew a little stronger. Wallace shut his eyes, his breathing coming faster now. Three. Three? Until now, his audiences had only ever been one. Probably the same one, if he had any guess, although there was no way of telling. Now, three pods dropped down the railing, clanking loudly, life stirring within them. All three came to a halt, one before him, one to his left, and one to his right. The middle hissed as the pressure released, and something bulbous surged from within.
A question, red and hungry, hung heavy in the air. The Benefactor turned its featureless face to Wallace, the rest of its body still ensconced safely within the metal egg it lived within. It had no eyes, but still it saw him. It had no nose, but it still smelled him. It had no ears, but it still heard him.
But the sense of taste remains intact, whole and unmodified. Wallace could not say whether the idea came from himself or the beast that twitched and stirred within the metal pod. His features twisted into a smile borne more of anxiety than an effort to remain polite. The translucent tongue snaked out momentarily from within the Benefactor. It probed once, twice, at the air before it, as if stabbing with a finger to make a point. The question grew heavier.
"If we are to assault this UFO crash site and make off with its personnel and materiel, I would prefer to use a team with a reasonable chance of success," replied Wallace, secure in the fact that this response, at least, was a wholly genuine one. "We cannot afford to obliterate any more of the craft than we already have, so striders and air support are not an option. This will require the work of the Transhuman Arm of the Overwatch, and the Transhuman Arm alone. No one else has the required deftness of touch."
The Benefactor rumbled. Wallace could not help but realize, unpleasantly, it sounded like the rumbling of a human stomach. The question twisted and veered, becoming more specific.
"Yes, we were prepping a team of Overwatch, but given our current battle data, it would be cost-ineffective to swarm the site with several dozen troops," replied Wallace. "The scanners report that there is still movement. Ground forces will contain the area and restrict reinforcements and escape. All I ask is for one day to complete the necessary surgery for one of our soldiers – a surgery that will roughly quintuple its combat effectiveness."
Amusement. Mild and mocking indignation. The Benefactor rumbled again, feigning affront at Wallace's "extracurriculars."
"The aliens have afforded us an opportunity to bypass some of the human body's modification limits," confessed Wallace. He wiped his brow quickly before continuing. "It has been tentatively named Meld. It affords a greater connectivity between flesh and machine. With it, our Elites could be improved. I intend for this UFO to be our first MEC trooper's proving ground." The firepower of an armored vehicle, but only slightly larger than an Overwatch soldier.
And above all, wholly a human innovation. The framework is yours and the aliens, yes, but the creativity stems from us. Do you realize this? Do you realize what you will throw away if you take our humanity in whole?
The Benefactor chortled. Images hung in the air like smoke, almost indiscernible but still making Wallace's eyes water. The Benefactors possessed a familiarity with such concepts. Images of cyborg troopers of all stripes and profiles, quintiped, tripod, and bipedal, wormed their way into Wallace's minds. When all the universes are laid bare before you, it seems the only originality to be found is in the combination of derivative tripe. Wallace and Dr. Tygan trod on well-worn ground. The Benefactors understood Wallace's intentions. They accepted the decision.
But mostly because they didn't care.
The pod to Wallace's left hissed as it cracked open. The Benefactor gazed at him levelly. It did not flick its tongue out. It did not need to. Wallace flinched as he realized he had never spoken to this one before; how he knew this, he had no idea. But he was as certain about this as he was certain about the Suppression Field's total effect on human birthrate. This Benefactor did not express amusement. It snuffed once, entire body heaving. Impatience.
"My contact at Black Mesa East informs me that they are about to enter the final testing stages of their local teleporter," replied Wallace, bracing himself for the worst. "If you want that technology functional and intact, you will need to wait just a little longer. Given the UFO's proximity to Black Mesa East, there will likely be a delay as they cease all activity in order to give us the impression of all being well."
The Benefactor gave a low roar, making the fellow in the center turn, not in surprise, simply in acknowledgment of its accusation. The center Benefactor looked back to Wallace, tongue sliding out again, like a parent finger wagging its child. Naughty, naughty.
"My concern lies with the entirety of the human race, not a small band of desperate renegades!" Wallace's voice cracked at the last syllable. Despite himself, he found that he had taken a step forward. "This technology, if functional, can be leveraged to increase the efficiency of the Universal Union by a sizable margin. If you insist on killing the golden goose, I will not have you hold me, or by extension humanity, responsible. These scientists will not willingly work for us – I even have my doubts about our good mole of a doctor – and the only way to guarantee the quality of this product is to allow it to be nurtured within the bounds of their brilliance and ignorance. I urge patience, my friend, not for the good of this Resistance, but for the Universal Union."
The Benefactor chortled, surprised. It lay back, suddenly still and content, and the pod closed. Now, as Wallace expected, the Benefactor on the right to emerge. This one practically waved its tongue at Wallace before dumping its expectation before him, like a box full of belt buckles.
The specimens Wallace had brought them? Servants, brainwashed and heavily altered. They needed something else. A purple image materialized in the thick air; a lanky figure in a red robe, four skinny arms held aloft, an ornate mask adorning its face. Overseer. Warlord. Ethereal. The Benefactor seemed to not to itself, as if in anticipation. It … sees this thing as a peer. In a fashion.
The center Benefactor chortled. It knew live specimens were not yet an option, but it wanted one of these alive regardless. Oh, the wonderful things it could tell them. The point of origin of the invaders, where more of them might live. Troop numbers and deployments. The full extent of their own intel on the Universal Union…
They still did not see these things as a threat, it seemed. If anything, Wallace sensed amusement. These aliens, they seemed to say, something new. What fun!
They see this place as a backwater. This whole planet. My home. Our species. Wallace tried to slow his breathing. Something raw and hot built up deep in his chest. He forced it back down.
The Benefactors retreated into their pods. The pods ascended without so much as a goodbye; by their simple absence, he was dismissed. He could continue onward as he liked, until further notice.
Wallace beat a hasty retreat back to the elevator, not caring if they could hear his hurried footsteps. They know I'm terrified of them. It doesn't matter. The elevator jerked its way upward, and Wallace heaved once, only barely stopping the vomit from coming up. How many of them are back there? Will there come a day when they call me into the depths and nine of them surround me, each with their own questions … their own hungers…
The elevator stopped on the lab floor. He stepped out of it, the fear congealing to fury. Combine soldiers lay in various states of undress on tables, strapped into memory replacement machines on the walls. At the forefront of the room, presided over by the tall form of Dr. Tygan, lay Scythe 2, pale flesh burned and ragged in places, gaunt but unblemished in others. Its face remained entirely free of hair or memorable features. Mankind, reduced to its basest of denominators. Brought back to factory zero and reprogrammed.
Dr. Tygan looked up, forehead wrinkling a little.
"Dr. Breen-"
"Where is he?"
The wrinkles deepened. Dr. Tygan jerked his clipboard behind him, to a door just beyond.
"He still refuses to work?"
Dr. Tygan nodded and cleared his throat.
"I'm afraid so."
Wallace nodded, mostly to himself. He turned, raking his hand across his face, both palm and forehead lubricated by sweat.
"Without his assistance, would this unit be combat ready by tomorrow?"
"This unit is technically combat ready now, Dr. Breen." Dr. Tygan clicked his tongue. "I could integrate him into the suit. He would walk into battle into it. He may yet do some damage. But mobility is hampered. Targeting systems are nonoptimal. I need someone better accustomed to applying Combine servos and targeting systems."
Wallace sucked in a whistling breath through his teeth. He turned to Dr. Tygan one more time, nodded, and brushed past the man with a fire burning in his belly. The door opened at his approach. A square room, the walls festooned with glistening soldier parts, a storage closet for only the grizzliest of engineering, greeted him. A small man in a blue jacket, features weathered and sinking with age, posture slightly bowed, stared up at the parts. He turned at Wallace's approach. His features, softened from time, immediately hardened into something intractable. He did not speak. He only folded his arms. Wallace scowled, baring his teeth.
"I have tolerated your rebellion for too long, Dr. Shen. It ends today." The doctor smirked.
"Where are your honeyed words now, Wallace?" asked the doctor, his soft voice shaking with amusement. "Your talk of serving mankind? Or, is it too hard to maintain that pretension as we stand here, in this mechanical butcher's shop?"
Wallace jabbed a finger forward, stepping right inside Shen's comfort zone. The man did not budge.
"It is clear you will not listen to reason, but I will ask you one more time: supply your expertise to the Universal Union, for the good of mankind. Improve that soldier. Do what is best for humanity."
Dr. Shen mockingly brought a thumb and forefinger to his chin. He gave it an exaggerated stroke.
"No."
"Very well." Wallace motioned for him to follow. He then noted a distinct lack of footsteps behind him. "Raymond, that is simply being childish. Will you come of your own accord, or hoisted by the strong arms of the Transhuman Overwatch?"
Shen huffed once and then walked, slowly, up to behind Wallace. The two of them proceeded, slowly, past Dr. Tygan, who made a point of paying them no mind in favor of hooking up Scythe 2's cranium with another set of wires. As they reached the elevator, an unpleasant whirring sound filled the lab. It became worse when it muffled, coupled with the sound of flesh tearing. Don't look. He does only what he has to.
"Who was that soldier?" asked Shen, folding his arms. "You don't know, do you? You take away names, you take away genitals, you take away daydreaming … what is left? Could you call it human?"
"I knew that one's name," replied Wallace softly, staring at a wall. The features entirely stripped away. I would have no way of knowing if I hadn't been there. Wallace shook his head. "Do not think I am so detached from all of this, Dr. Shen. And do not pretend you are so invulnerable."
"Are you going to kill me, Wallace?" asked Dr. Shen, suddenly smiling, his yellowed teeth revealed as his lips pulled back in a wide smile. He stretched his arms wide. "By all means … just … memento mori."
Wallace shrugged. "Under the Combine, that need no longer hold true."
"If that soldier is what living forever looks like, Wallace, I want no part of it."
The elevator stopped. Wallace gestured for Shen to leave, which he did, scowling at Wallace's office.
"Busts of your own head. Why am I not surprised?" Shen scuffed his feet on the red carpet. "There are people down there living without functioning toilets. Starving to death. Being beaten without warning. And you're living up here with a rug?"
"We each of us have our station, Doctor. Our purpose." Wallace brushed past him and took up position at his desk. He steepled his fingers and stared at Doctor Shen. Will he break? If not…
Activating the "filtration" system on the Citadel was not something done lightly. Until today, it was not done at all. But, since the guns and mechanisms were already in place, it became a simple matter of taking advantage of an already existing situation. If he does not break … well. Whatever research they might have had pales in comparison to what is happening at Black Mesa East. And since Dr. Mossman was kind enough to tell me they've already figured out they have a mole … there's really no harm.
"Overwatch, designate sector for ground filtration: White Forest." Dr. Shen jumped, just barely. But Wallace saw it. He pretended not to.
"Confirmed, time to completion: two minutes. Activating filtration systems."
"White Forest," muttered Dr. Shen, doing a poor job of pretending confusion.
"Yes," replied Wallace mildly. "White Forest. Given the scale of what I have been dealing with, I almost forgot its existence. Our local Overwatch forces had to be pulled out of the Outlands to better secure the cities, and even given the relative aggression of its defenders under the command of Bradford, I judged the security of City 17 to be of higher importance." Dr. Shen's face paled.
"You know…?"
"I wish I could say goodbye to Dr. Magnusson in person," continued Wallace, privately relishing the steadily draining color in Dr. Shen's face, "but he is hardly the first Black Mesa employee to be forced out of my service without warning. And he always was a bit of an ass."
Wallace wiped his mouth, and gave Dr. Shen a hard look.
"And there's an engineer there. I forget her name. But it sounded a bit like yours."
"This is how you think I will work for you?" asked Dr. Shen, loathing etched into every syllable. Wallace shrugged.
"It could be. If not, it is simply the removal of a minor security risk. Followed shortly by your own termination at the hands of our Benefactors." Wallace lifted his hands. "This is not ideal, you understand, but I am under considerable pressure and time constraints. The Resistance will be permitted to continue its research into teleportation for the time being, but its more militant elements, in light of this invasion, must be … sterilized."
Dr. Shen's mouth became a thin hard line. Then, slowly, it began to tremble.
"Attention agencies: ground filtration systems activating. Designated sector: containment zone White Forest Base. Sterilization commencing in thirty seconds."
Wallace said nothing. He did not smile. He did not feel. He just watched this man, this old man, slowly collapse under a growing weight of guilt and panic.
"Sterilization commencing in fifteen seconds."
Wallace raised his eyebrows. Without warning, Dr. Shen screamed.
"Stop! Stop it! I'll do it!" He lurched forward, planting his palms on Wallace's desk, making the whole thing shake.
"Overwatch: cease all existing filtration commands."
"Confirmed. Reverting to standby."
Dr. Shen stared down at Wallace, breathing heavily, his breath catching once in a mild sob.
"I hate you…"
"I understand." Wallace smiled. "That's why you will be working under Dr. Tygan. Do as he says. No funny business. If we find that you have been sabotaging or-"
"I get it," replied Dr. Shen, straightening. "Fine. Just … fine."
"I'll take you to your new place of work, then." Wallace rose, only for the computer behind him to issue a high-pitched beep. "A second, please."
The normally blue monitor flashed red twice as Wallace approached it, making his heart skip a beat. More alien activity? He hit the buttons, opening the bulletin. His eyes widened at what he saw. Well, yes … but not the aliens I was thinking of.
An Overwatch bulletin. One of his leavings, deposited in the Outlands but retrieved by Overwatch. Only, they had been hit shortly afterward by Resistance. A hunter patrol wiped out as well.
He looked down at the name. It meant little. But it still stirred a little hatred in his heart. The Containment Unit only made things worse. And now the Resistance has a bona fide soldier, it seems. I wonder how much he knows?
It made part of him regret not pulling the trigger on White Forest. Still, he needed Shen more than he feared this Shephard and what he knew, which was likely little.
But there was something else.
G.F. Status: Contracted
"Because I need to worry about that, on top of everything else…" Wallace breathed. He shut off the bulletin. That little renegade's operation was a Benefactor concern. They would see the bulletin. If it was something he needed to keep track of, they would let him know. Besides, how much can one rogue physicist do, given what the odds are?
Indeed, that feeling only grew as he watched his two doctors work, Shen sullenly but compliantly, Dr. Tygan with a curious energy that came off as intense but somehow laconic. Hours later, he straightened and wiped his brow, looking down at the mess of cables, metal, and flesh.
Dr. Tygan plugged one last cable into Scythe 2's forehead. The meld ran fast and free. Dr. Shen looked away, but Wallace stepped forward, placing a hand on Scythe 2's arm. The soldier's synthetic eye opened, glowing with amber.
"You will be a god among men."