10 You can't carry it with you if you want to survive
-O-
The Exalted convened.
From behind their metal helms, they spoke. Thin hands gestured from the folds of red robes.
The humans were...unruly.
Their reaction to the experiment had not accorded with the hypothesis, bore only the merest resemblance to any models. There was little consensus, and much disagreement. Indeed, it often seemed that their global information network was mainly developed to allow humans to efficiently disagree with more people than ever before.
As for their martial capabilities, their Mail-clad Fists had proven a decisive factor. It was not enough to win the war, of course, but they risked giving humans enough false hope that it might prove too costly to defeat them.
Costly to the humans, that is.
And if they put their faith in metal, they might not turn to the Gift.
And so, it was decided; old projects would be unearthed, pressure would be applied unto their main opponents, this "X-Com". As for Earth's Shield, the Collaborators would suffice. Indeed, they were eager to help, offering amusing trinkets as gifts, in the hope that they would be raised on high upon the aliens' inexorable triumph.
The Exalted dispersed.
-/-
Bradford found Schmidt in the chapel.
The place was non-denominational, of course, and she was halfway along, on the left side, her head on her crossed arms, which were themselves on her knees.
He sat on the other side of the scattered paperwork, and waited for a while, glancing at her occasionally. She looked a lot more relaxed when she was asleep, kind of like when she laughed.
Her nostrils flared.
"I hope you brought more."
"No coffee for people who sleep in church."
She smiled, opened her eyes, and sat up, kneading her back in a familiar gesture. "Ow."
"This isn't your office, Director."
"I noticed. Anything happened last night?"
"The Mayor of Vancouver held a press conference." He checked his tablet. "Pierre 'Pepe' Tucker. Because he has a white streak in his hair, like -"
"I get it."
"He wasn't too happy with us. Vowed to launch an investigation into this mysterious task force that was responsible for so many people killed and harmed."
The blonde's brow furrowed. "I'm pretty sure we weren't the ones shooting plasma at ourselves."
"Meanwhile, in Russia, I'm sure they want to give us medals. They've promised to increase their support, and are already placing orders. Along with a whole lot of other places. Spain and Japan aren't exactly happy with us, though some people are wondering if they pissed us off somehow."
It was interesting, to watch her face grow hard by degrees.
"What about Carlock?"
Bradford paused. "He didn't find anything."
"What? Then why would...would...oh. Of course." She cupped her face in her hands and sighed. "Misdirection."
"Recovery checked out the garage. They found that the trap that got Flint had been removed."
"Probably wasn't the parking attendant."
"Probably not."
Schmidt stared towards the table at the front of the chapel. "Wanna know why I keep using Greek myths for names?"
"Greco-Roman, and the Council -"
"They don't micromanage that much." She smiled. "I just wanted to actually use my degree."
"What did you do before this?"
"I was in the Army."
"Can you be more specific?"
"No."
"Oh."
There was a brief silence.
"Normally...about now, I'd be getting ready to go to Church."
"In America?"
She shook her head. "Nope. German Evangelical."
"You lived in Germany?"
"Well, I was retired. From the military, I mean. Frau Hoffer would make these little lemon Danishes, and tea, for after the service. The tea was weak, but the Danishes -"
"When was the last time you ate?"
"Um-" She thought. "Um."
"Director, we're getting you breakfast. Maybe you can ask Chef Baptiste to make you some treats and bad tea for next Sunday."
"What about the paperwork?"
"We'll do it over breakfast." He took his boss's hand, to help her up.
She held it a little longer than strictly necessary.
-/-
"I should have seen it coming," Masumoto said, staring at the floor.
The therapist raised an eyebrow. "You think you should've seen that a fire extinguisher was a trap?"
Sam said nothing, only shifted in her seat.
"I've talked to Doctor Rao. She said there was nothing anyone could've done."
"That she knows about."
"That anyone knows about. Not even you."
The Japanese woman opened her mouth, then closed it again.
"Let's talk about Moscow. How do you feel about burning down that school?"
The soldier was silent for a few seconds, her gaze distant. "I keep wondering...what if there was someone hiding in a closet? What if we burned them alive, trapped in a little box?" She spoke faster. "Pounding on the door, but it won't open, can't get out, can't get away, no one can hear me, kaso..."
"If it's any consolation," the therapist said mildly, "most fatalities are from smoke inhalation. How do you feel about Tokyo?"
"I'm from Osaka."
He waited.
"What do you want me to say?" the young woman burst out. "That I'm upset about my capital burning while I was on the other side of the continent? Yes, of course I am! But it doesn't change the fact that I had a job to do elsewhere."
"Saving lives."
Masumoto snorted. "Mitigating damage."
"Do you feel responsible for Flint's...incapacitation? Or those assassinated officials?
She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, got herself under control. "No. Of course not."
Softly, very softly, the therapist said: "but the dreams still keep you up at night".
Masumoto looked at him sharply.
-/-
Vahlen stood in front of the Muton's cage - for all that it looked like it was made of glass - and closed her eyes. She could almost feel its rage, like standing in front of an open furnace -
"Are you still getting those headaches?" someone said quietly.
"Yes," Vahlen said. Relenting, she added, "I am not sure which is worse, the pain or the dreams of fire."
"Maybe it is a good omen," Marceau said. "Maybe we'll be able to quit and go camping soon."
His boss smiled, opened her eyes, and the heat died down. She could've sworn the headache was slightly better too.
She looked around. A blond sentry hastily pretended he hadn't been staring.
"Well, we've learned all we could from passive observation. How long have we had him?"
"Or her. Since Marseilles."
"Well, it's certainly overstayed its welcome. Let's begin the interrogation."
"Tests have shown that this specimen is genetically identical to some of the ones in Moscow."
"So if they make extensive use of cloning, why would they have different variants -"
-/-
Eamon found one of the few clear spots on the desk, and banged the cup down a little harder than he had to.
Tony woke up - and sat up - with a bleary "whuh?" He had a diode stuck to his cheek.
"Morning, boss," Irene said. "Ahh, that's a fine cup of coffee."
"Mmrph," said the playboy, and scrabbled for the Iron Maiden mug. Eddie the Head was the last thing Irene would want to see first thing in the morning, but to each their own.
"Did you get the manual finished?"
"Did I..." Tony's eyes widened, and he frantically reached for his tablet. "Uh, tell me I didn't..."
"You didn't," Jocasta said. "The Director is reading through your draft over her morning coffee. Or, more accurately, over Bradford's morning coffee."
"You know, Chief Stark, you don't have to do this yourse -"
"Wait a second. Jo, did you say that Schmidt and the Hawk are having breakfast?"
"No, I said Bradford is having coffee. In the Director's office. Like they have every morning for some time now."
"She also squeezed his shoulder and told him to get some rest during the Moscow mission," Irene added.
"How do you know?"
"Because she did it in front of everyone. Maybe if you'd talk to your employees about something besides work -"
"Your girlfriend told you, didn't she?"
Irene raised her coffee cup, which just happened to cover her face. "She's not my girlfriend." She picked up the Kriss SMG and put down the mug, fishing her glasses from her pocket with her free hand. "What do you need this for?"
Despite the caffeine, Tony yawned. "I'm trying to copy their block...thingy."
"To reduce recoil?" She made sure the chamber was clear, and sighted along the iron sights.
"Yeah, but I was trying to figure out how to make it work with pulse weapons."
"Mmm. You know that if this war ends, they could sue you, right?"
"Sue us."
"Yeah, 'cause they're going to sue the military instead of the billionaire. As I understand it, the core of the system is the redirection of downward force. Jo, if you could bring up their patent -"
-/-
"-And we need to find out which of our personnel have holiday needs," Schmidt said.
"Throw a party for the troops and anyone else staying behind?" Bradford suggested.
"Mmm. Maybe we can get Lady Gaga. Does USO cover international task forces in secret underground bases?"
There were a few minutes of silence, broken by the rustling of paper.
"Jo's been doing some analysis," Bradford volunteered.
"Of what?"
"Conspiracy theorists."
Schmidt gave Bradford her full attention.
"She's gotten a few of our guys together with SHIELD's analysts, to look at some of the speculation floating around."
"So you're saying I need to authorize hazard pay."
Her XO snorted. "Ever heard the saying about the stopped clock?" He took a sip of coffee. "For example, there are some who say that Tony Stark is alive, and the government kidnapped him to make weapons."
If she had been drinking coffee, Schmidt would've spat it out over every bit of paperwork on her desk. As it was, she just stared. "You're kidding."
"Oh, it's a minority theory, but it's out there. Another is that we're working with the lizard people to create a threat so we can take away everyone's civil liberties."
"Someone had better tell those Infiltrators. They seem to think we're on different teams."
Bradford skimmed a sheaf of procurement request forms. "My favorite is the one that says that Captain America is alive, and working for us."
Schmidt froze.
"We're apparently farming his blood to make Super-Soldier formula."
Schmidt unfroze.
"Because some of the things we do are impossible for regular humans."
"Well, let's not correct them. We need disinformation."
"More than you know. A lot of people - not just these nutjobs - are trying their best to find us. Or the Thunderbolt Strike Force. Or X-Force. Or just 'the Defenders'. They don't even know what to call us."
"Why are they looking for us? To sue?"
"Well, some of them, but mostly they want to thank us."
The Director blinked.
"...And to volunteer."
The Director smiled.
"What's that for?" Bradford asked.
"Just thinking about something someone said once. About the most important battlefield."
"Hearts and minds."
"But it's 'Thin red line of heroes' when the drums begin to roll," Schmidt quoted, bending over her work again.
"Seems we've read the same books."
"You, me, and anyone else since the 19th century who's ever been saluted and called 'sir' or 'ma'am'."
"Of course, if we did recruit these folks, then we'd have even more paperwork." David looked at the mass of white filling the Director's desk sourly. "God."
"Language, dear," Schmidt said absently. Then her head snapped up, and she blushed.
There was an extremely awkward silence.
-/-
"How do you feel about Madrid?" asked the therapist.
The clock ticked a few times before Silva answered.
"It happened. Just like it happened in Tokyo, and Moscow."
"Except for the fact that you were in the latter."
The Spaniard said nothing.
"According to the reports, a member of the Royal family perished in the fighting. You were formerly of the Guardia Real, and your file says you were assigned to the Prince."
"The Infante. Non-heirs don't get to be called Prince or Princess."
"My mistake. The Infante. But you were assigned to his detail for an extended period, correct?"
"Si."
"Do you feel that XCOM should've been sent to Spain? That it would've prevented the massive loss of life before your countrymen were able to beat off the attack, including the life of the Infante?"
"It was not my decision," Silva said stiffly.
"That's not what I asked."
-/-
"Sarge," said Kakakaway.
"Kakakaway," said Laura to the Canadian.
"What's the main course?"
The Texan craned her neck. "It's brown."
"Very funny."
"Beef Wellington," said a man behind the counter. "Side of carrots and string beans. We also have a Caesar salad as the vegetarian entrée, and the usual selection of sides."
"Thank you, Chef, uh -"
"Greco."
"Do you have any burgers?" Laura asked.
The man from Monaco looked heavenward. "Americans."
Despite his eye-rolling, he whipped up some pretty tasty burgers. Laura hadn't had much deep-fried food since she joined XCOM - and was getting kinda homesick for the State Fair- but Mac had promised to throw a party, and show his peers what Scots could do in that culinary area.
Did Rao know? And didn't Doctors have a right to violate patient confidentiality if there was a threat of imminent bodily harm?
They made their way to the table, with a nod to Pena and Hale.
"I've been meaning to ask you something," the Canadian asked as they sat. "What were you yelling when we found those cornered civilians being attacked?"
A fallen grocery bag, melted by the heat from plasma passing by.
A man screaming at third-degree burns over half his torso.
The paint on a cherry-red car, bubbled and marred and blackened.
The crunch of broken glass under metal boots.
"Not sure."
"Sounded angry," the Canadian said.
"Probably was."
"So...where are you from?"
The penny dropped while her brightly-colored sports drink was halfway to her mouth. One would've had to have been watching closely to notice when she stopped for an instant.
He liked her, and thought she was interested. No, that wasn't right; he thought she could ever be interested. Which wasn't an unreasonable assumption, statistically, since he was a square-jawed, well-built, exotic-looking firefighter. But a man who charged into burning buildings for a living probably wasn't going to be put off by any excuse she could think of.
She needed to tell him the truth.
"Kakakaway, I think you should know that I'm a -"
"Laaaauuura, who's your friend?"
"Oh. Um, hi, Irene. Private Kakakaway, meet Irene Starkos, Assistant to Chief Stark."
They shook hands. As the only white person at the table, Laura felt outnumbered.
"Are those fries?"
The Texan blinked. "Yeah, but -"
The woman from Chicago leaned over Laura to get at her fries. And got way too close in the process.
"I thought you were on a diet -"
"I told you, I like salads, honey! You never listen to me! Even if I was, I can still cheat a little." Irene rolled her eyes, and looked at Kakakaway. "This woman."
She sat down - again, too close to be normal, even if it wasn't exactly uncomfortable - and slid the fries into her mouth in, eyes locked on Laura's the whole time.
Laura had never seen her without the glasses, actually. What would she look like with them off? Or wearing nothing but -
"I hope you weren't going to ask her out. Regs say that personnel in the same division can't date." Irene swallowed her fries and looked at the Cree. "Or...anything shorter term."
Oh, right, why didn't she think of that?
Laura saw his eyes narrow. In thought, not hostility. "So...are you two..."
"Just friends," Laura said hastily. Irene was fifteen years older than she was, after all, even if a part of her sometimes whispered so what?
"Yes." The expression on the engineer's face looked like it belonged on something scaly that floated on rivers, pretending to be a log. "Friends."
Laura's blush went all the way to the roots of her hair at Irene's alpha-wolf act. She needed to calm down. Didn't wolves mark their territory by pissing all over it?
"Ah." Kakakaway cleared his throat. "So...how's work been lately?"
Like a dog did with a hydrant, or tree, or couch.
Irene thought for a second. "Varied."
Laura imagined Irene, just peeing all over Laura's leg. While eating a salad.
"Sarge? Is something wrong?" Her subordinate had a worried look on his face, which she couldn't actually see at the moment.
"Just thought of something funny," Laura said, with her face buried in her hands, and shaking with laughter.
"Care to share it with the class?" Irene asked.
More giggles.
-/-
"Hale, could you pass the salt?" Pena asked, without looking up from the battered book of poetry he was reading.
"No problem...Big Bert."
The Argentinian got a very odd look on his face.
-/-
He could hear it.
Outside the bush, he could hear the mechanical monster that was hunting him. It hadn't caught on to his exact location yet, but it was warm, very warm.
The robot paused, and he listened closely. Eventually, he heard the sound of it turning away, and readied his weapon. If it was looking in the wrong direction, he could -
A second drone rolled through the bush and took aim at him from point-blank range.
Clever girl.
And then the paintball hit Washington in the face.
-/-
Elsewhere, Tony Stark said "that's my boys", and took a look around the lab. Sometime between kickoff and Washington's "demise", everyone had left for lunch.
That was getting to be a habit.
"Stark."
Tony nearly had a heart attack.
"Bradford, what - why did you - what -"
"Sorry. Just wanted to see if I still had it."
"Had what? Being a ninja?"
"Never mind. How much sleep have you been getting lately?"
"Enough. I've been busy. Setting up the sim for Tue Rovers, fixing the bugs in their AI, organizing my next, what's the word, pub crawl..."
"That's what you have subordinates for. Your team is good, Stark, and you're no good to anyone if you fall asleep on your soldering iron."
Tony resisted the urge to reach for the singed spot on his beard. "Perks of the job. I can stay up as long as I like."
"Unless your Commanding Officer says otherwise, at which point they can have you dragged off by BaseSec and put under sedation."
The engineer stared at Bradford. "Well, yeah, it's not like I have something else to do."
The light dawned. "Ah."
"Yeah."
The soldier looked thoughtful. "I'll see what I can do. So, how is work?"
Tony stifled a yawn.
"We got those repulsor afterburners and Arc Reactors retrofitted into the Interceptors, at least."
"And the new missiles?"
"They're on there too." Stark frowned at the gauntlet, then slammed his fist down onto the table and let out a short, explosive syllable. After a few seconds of awkward silence, he said "sorry."
"I was in the Navy," Bradford said. "I've heard worse." His brow furrowed. "Actually, I've probably said worse."
"When you got shot?"
"When I stubbed my toe."
-/-
"Do you think HYDRA's been too quiet lately?" Bradford asked, as his boss sat next to him.
Schmidt glared at him. "David, Fletcher went through all this trouble of setting up a nice Christmas-slash-Holiday party, and you're talking shop? I order you to not talk about work, or I'll find a rolled up newspaper and smack you on the nose."
They both went silent. Bradford was about as casual as he ever got, which meant that he wasn't wearing a tie under his sweater, had the top button of his shirt undone, and was wearing sneakers instead of dress shoes.
"And no. No they're not. They're just laying low."
They watched Dunayevsky try to twerk.
"Is he drunk?"
"I don't know, but I think I need to be."
The Director herself had heels, a cocktail dress, and a bolero jacket with a tiny gold and teal version of the XCOM crest on the lapel.
"Nice pin," Bradford noted.
"Starkos' idea. She also had some interesting ideas about merchandising, if we ever go bright."
"I see. I'm pretty sure that having company logos on the rigs would compromise any camouflage."
"Maybe we could do a product placement thing. Just fight aliens with big red Coke glasses."
Bradford snorted. "Or endorsement deals."
"Yes," Schmidt said, with an entirely un-Directorly lack of gravitas. "And then they'll send us free stuff!"
"After a long, hard day of protecting Earth," Bradford made an easily-misinterpreted gesture, "I like to kick back with a cold-"
Paula had a hand over her mouth, trying to stifle her giggles. "Stop it, you're killing me!"
"Director...you are aware of the fact that we're sitting under mistletoe?"
"You mean that sprig you can barely see?"
"Yes."
Schmidt picked up a knife from the table, tossed it in the air to get a feel for the balance, eyed the plant, and pointedly ignored the personnel trying to pretend they weren't watching her closely. "Give me a second."
-X-
Florence and the Machine - "Dog Days Are Over"
If you're familiar with Spacebattles, you may want to take a close look at Mayor Tucker's name. In keeping with Marvel's Stan Lee cameos, Mayor Tucker is played by Sid Meier.
In case it wasn't obvious, Masumoto has an illogical fear of being cremated alive.
Funny. For someone who criticized Fallout: Equestria for the writer's lesbians and teasing/humiliation fetish, I'm now writing a story involving lesbian romance, in which the two people in question have both been teased.
Then again, I don't get off on either of those. And no one in this story is going to, say, discuss their sex life on their highly popular radio station without their partner's consent. My only fetishes on display in this story are shotguns and competence.
Though I am trying to find a plausible way to work an Albanian Pudding Wrestling scene into the fic. Just a heads-up.
Vahlen is portrayed by Franka Potente. The therapist is played by Jeffrey Donovan, best known as Michael Westen from Burn Notice.
According to John Ringo, the military tends to like Kipling. Luckily enough, so do I, which is why I had that line from "Tommy" memorized. Originally, Schmidt's line was going to be a Napoleon quote about morale.
