(A/N): Welcome one and all to another super-special, super-exciting DOUBLE FEATURE of Summer Declassified! Yes, you heard that right - once again, I got so excited to write the chapter following this one that I got a big chunk of it finished before I finished this one! So that means that, in addition to Chapter 18, you get THREE whole chapters this month! Don't you feel lucky?
Anyways, this chapter doesn't have much action, but it does have character dynamics and story developments that showcase the Bureau's rising capabilities. I hope you enjoy this chapter and the next one, and I hope you're staying safe and sane out there!
The weeks that followed her reintegration into the Bureau were some of the most hectic, and productive, in Summer's life.
News of her pardon spread through the base like wildfire, carrying with it severe changes for her social life. While some rumors still persisted about her and her true nature, the fact remained that her status as an Agent carried with it Faulke's tacit approval, which was enough to clear up most fears about her intentions. This, combined with the number of friends she'd made who ended up being extremely understanding and sympathetic to her plight, made reversing her sudden change in reputation easy enough. If anything, she was more popular than ever - apparently, people from both Remnant and Earth loved a pretty girl that knew how to fight, especially one as open and friendly as Summer Rose. The attention was almost overwhelming sometimes, but never invasive or stress-inducing, and Summer knew that it was coming from a place of earnestness and desire to have a symbol of hope. And of course, her combat prowess spoke for itself - whether she was storming alien facilities with a squad of agents or observing from mission control, morale was higher whenever XCOM operatives knew the silver-eyed warrior had their back.
The Bureau's focus also shifted from merely reacting to enemy threats, instead taking a more proactive approach by locating alien facilities and dismantling them. The risk was higher due to the new armaments the Outsiders used, but the treasures gained from clearing them out was most certainly worth it, often yielding several APCs worth of plasma-grade weapons, alien alloys, and Elerium. These supply and facility raids did more than just bring more technology back for the Bureau - it was also key to the organization's efforts towards the Avenger Project. It was Faulke's hope that if they could prove to be enough of a nuisance to the invasion efforts, the Shipmaster overseeing the campaign would get involved and step in personally...which would give them a chance to seize the critical implant for the phase plotter, and hopefully secure their victory for Earth once and for all.
When she wasn't advising or fighting, Summer kept herself busy in other ways. Sometimes she would help Quartermaster Webb run drills with new recruits or perform maintenance on older weapons. Other times she was down in the guts of Sector Zulu, helping the engineering team refine existing alien technologies and developing new ones. Her knowledge of Remnant weaponry and Dust served her well in the latter case - while Elerium wasn't identical to the elementally-charged crystals back on her homeworld, it was a close enough analogue for a lot of her experience to apply. The rest of the technicians had enough knowledge of both human and Zudjari engineering to fill in the gaps of her knowledge, and she learned almost as much as she taught. Every day seemed to bring with it a new discovery, whether it was reducing the size of an industrial-strength motor or being instructed on how to use a soldering iron.
Not every development was vital to the war effort...but there was one in particular that was no less meaningful.
"It's done!" panted Crawford as she skidded to a halt outside Summer and Penny's office, poking her head and flowing black hair in through the doorway. "I finally finished it!"
Penny looked up from her book in confusion, while Summer perked up instantly. "You did?! Yes! I hope it wasn't too hard to do…"
"It was an interesting challenge," said the seamstress-turned-Recon-agent as she handed a suitcase over to Summer. "The sketch you gave me was quite detailed, and very helpful and informative. Getting a material that was light and strong enough was the hardest part, but once I had enough fabric it wasn't too difficult to sew them together. I even stitched some weights and metals into the hem, so it doesn't flop around when you're doing your thing out there."
Summer squealed in delight as she peeked inside. "Crawford, you're the best!"
"I know," she said glibly. "Well, what are you waiting for? Try it on!"
Penny tilted her head. "Um...what are you two talking about?"
"You're about to find out," answered Summer happily as she pulled her dress shirt off. "Um...can you step outside with Crawford for a minute? Or just turn around…"
"Hey, it's okay, we're all girls here," said Crawford as she closed the office door and the shades. "Unless some of us are into that. In which case, I think that makes it even more okay." She shot a meaningful wink towards Penny, who blushed.
"Aww, but I wanted it to be a surprise…" whined Summer with a pout.
"I can look away," said Penny, burying her face into her book and trying to ignore how flush and hot her cheeks were getting. Crawford took a seat next to her with her back facing Summer, leaning over the glasses-wearing brunette's shoulder to read along with her (which was not helping matters for poor Penny).
A few moments of rustling fabric and snapping buckles later, Summer spoke with satisfaction in her voice.
"Okay, now you can look!"
Grateful to no longer have an excuse to try to work her way through a duller part of The Iliad, Penny turned around in her seat, took one look at her friend...and gasped.
Summer Rose stood there in the middle of their office amidst the discarded remains of the typical Bureau, dramatically transformed by the mere act of changing clothes. Now, instead of the three-piece suit all agents wore, the silver-eyed woman was wearing an olive-drab army jacket with a hem so long it resembled a short-skirted dress. A secondary skirt was worn underneath the coat, which ended an inch above the knee and left the rest of Summer's long, smooth legs bare for the world to see. Other striking details included the white dress shirt and black tie tucked neatly under the oversized collar, the belt secured around the waist and over the shoulder with silver buckles, and the deep, numerous pockets that lined the chest and "skirt" of the army jacket. But of course, the most striking detail of all was the floor-length pale white cloak that hung from Summer's shoulders and draped down around her, complete with a hood that rested loosely on her head and obscured half her face, but failed to hide her bright beautiful smile.
"Whoa…" whispered Penny, momentarily forgetting to breathe. "Summer, what...what is that?"
"It's my Huntress outfit!" said Summer proudly, throwing back the hood to reveal a bright, dazzling smile that made the poor operator's heart flutter. "Or at least, a recreation of it. I figured, since I'm not hiding who I am anymore, I should wear something in the field that's a little more 'me', you know? And I kind of arrived here without any clothes, so…"
Penny spared a single moment to process the mental image of Summer arriving in the nude, and immediately forced herself to think of something else before her entire brain boiled.
"...so she asked the best seamstress in the Bureau to make her a new one!" finished Crawford with a smile. "My finest work...it's beautiful."
"Yeah...she is…" muttered Penny, before immediately correcting herself. "I mean, it is. The outfit."
Summer paid no attention to her friend's slip of the tongue, swishing her cape and skirt while spinning and giggling. "Wow...of course, this isn't exactly like what my outfit was like back home. I doubt even Crawford could find lace and silk at this point. But I saw those old pictures of the uniforms worn by those women in the Motor Corps of America during World War One, and I just...oh! I was in love!"
"It's a classic, to be sure!" agreed Crawford with a nod. "My grandma served with them back then, and she'd always say how the outfit was still the most comfortable thing to wear decades later. 'They just don't make women's clothes like they used to,' she'd always say…"
There was a knock on the door, which Crawford answered quickly by opening. Penny blinked at the sight of what she thought was a gray hat wearing a man, when she in fact realized the opposite as Carter stepped inside.
"Summer? I hate to interrupt, but we've got a - "
The Rose smirked as her normally-stoic squad leader went speechless upon seeing her, even giving a little twirl on the spot that sent her cape and skirt billowing in all directions. "Like what you see, Mister Carter?" she asked in a husky voice, looking at him with eyes usually reserved for the bedroom.
Carter seemed at a loss for words, his brain trying to reclaim control of the blood that wanted to rush everywhere except his head. After a moment of what might generously be called a blush, he scowled and folded his arms across his chest.
"Why a dress?"
Summer's seductive mask slipped away as instantly as it had come, and Penny watched as her friend stomped her foot. "It's not a dress! It's a combat skirt! Huntresses have been wearing them for centuries with pride!"
"If you say so. And what's with the cape? Seems a bit impractical for a firefight."
Silver eyes rolled so hard they nearly popped out of their sockets. "Oh, like you're one to talk about impractical mission gear, Mister 'Yes, my hat is a necessary part of my mission outfit, no matter how loose the fit is!' How many of those things have you lost by now?"
"Twelve. And I'll have you know that each one died a hero's death. Anyways, Faulke wants Strike Three to run a recon mission around a possible Outsider barracks. You in?"
Summer flipped the hood back into place with a grin. "Of course. As long as I get to go...undercover."
Penny held back a giggle at the way her friend lowered her voice for the last word, holding the rest of her cloak to hide the lower half of her face. Carter, meanwhile, was less amused.
"The cape stays here, though."
"Noooooooo," whined Summer with a dramatic pout. "If the cape stays here, so do I."
Carter grumbled. "...fine. But if you get whiplash from snagging that thing on something, I am not wasting my healing power on you."
Summer mimicked her squad leader's words in a childish tone of voice before she smiled and left the office, white cloak billowing proudly behind her and smacking Carter in the face. After a moment of sighing and shaking his head, Carter adjusted his hat and followed suit, leaving the other two women behind in silence.
"...so, wait. Did he not like it, or…"
Penny sighed and looked at Crawford. "No, he did. That's just how they flirt with each other, by bickering." She shook her head bitterly.
"That sounds exhausting."
"It is." But not for the reasons you think.
"I like it better when people flirt normally," said the odd agent, "where they just say nice things that they actually mean. Like 'hey, I think you're really pretty.' Or 'your giggle is adorable.' Or even things like 'I like how your hair smells like lavender and cinnamon.'"
Penny nodded along, before freezing at the last example. Her hair smelled like lavender and cinnamon. Was Crawford seriously flirting with her now?
Given the blush that faintly glowed as the other woman tried to hide behind her long black hair, she had reason to believe that this was indeed the case.
"Welp, back to work for me," said Crawford as she gathered up the clothes that Summer had shed. "I should throw these in the next load. Or maybe I should leave them unwashed, and see if anyone would bid on them. Anyways, goodbye Penny. Maybe when the war's over, I'll make you a dress next. I think you'd look good in one."
With an awkward wave at the other woman as she left, Penny went back to her desk to try to read some more, but for some strange reason, her mind was incredibly distracted.
Piotr Zhedrev was a smart man.
At least, he liked to think that he was, given that he had managed to slip into a filthy United States secret military facility largely unnoticed. Sure, maybe his grasp of the English language wasn't the best, but he knew his way around electrical systems and explosives. And most people tended to give electrical engineers the benefit of the doubt, especially if they show up with a forged work order and an ID that hides your real name. Although, looking back, he spotted a few ways he could have avoided his current predicament, such as double-checking to make sure the flight deck was completely clear before he started pulling out panels on the base's strange helicopters. Or not slipping into his mother tongue when he saw one of the guards pull out a glowing red prop. Or making sure he brought an American weapon as his sidearm, instead of his beloved Makarov.
Regardless of what he could have done better, he was forced to accept the reality of where he was now - pacing the length of a prison cell deep in enemy territory, with little hope of rescue. (Escaping the ropes and handcuffs was no issue for him.)
Zhedrev was just about to begin planning his escape when the door opened, and two figures stepped inside. One of them was a man, muscular and tall with steel-blue eyes and a gray hat, while the other was a woman with silver eyes and a long white cape. The man had the aura of a soldier about him, while the woman...Zhedrev did not have a good grasp of the woman. Was she just here so that he had something pretty to look at before his coming execution? If that was the case, why did she have a cloak and hood and some kind of knife on her belt? And what was in the cage she was carrying? He chalked that up to being a weird American fetish, and thought nothing else of it.
"So you have come for the torture? Or are you here to deliver the death blow your leaders are too afraid to deliver themselves?" Zhedrev chose to speak in his native language. If this was his death, he would die a true Russian.
To his surprise, the man spoke to him in the same language.
"If that's what you want, I guess that's an option. But I was thinking we could just talk."
That gave Zhedrev pause. He raised an eyebrow, and sized up the man. There were few reasons why an American would speak fluent Russian, and all of them came with one clear implication: he was talking to an American spy. That made things interesting - Zhedrev had never met another spy before, and while he doubted this American pig would come close to being his equal, he could not help but be curious.
The man took the silence as permission to continue speaking. "Didn't expect to find a Russian down here. How did you know about this place?"
Zhedrev grinned, revealing his missing teeth. "We are always watching. There are more of us than you can know. Your security is pathetic."
The man grimaced, then looked at the woman with a pained expression, while she raised an eyebrow and shrugged in response.
"...yeah, I'm starting to agree with you," he said finally.
"Will you kill me?"
"Killing you would be a waste," said the American spy, "You've been hidden here for...who knows how long? You've got talent, and we need agents. The Outsiders are more than just an American problem."
Zhedrev cackled in disbelief. Others had tried to tell him about these...Outsiders. Men from space wielding "pew pew" lasers with scary faces and flying saucers. But he was too smart to believe them. He knew better. The Americans would come up with any reason to go to war, to develop new weapons and mobilize and muster up new troops. He would not fall for such a transparent lie.
"Do you really expect me to believe this children's story? Invaders from space? Ray guns and laser swords? How stupid do you think I am?"
The man paused, furrowed his brow, and then turned to nod to his companion. The woman set the cage down on the table separating Zhedrev from his visitors, and opened the metal door with the pull of a lever.
The Russian spy thought he could handle the sight of whatever crawled out of the small box.
He was wrong.
An unholy abomination scampered on all fours out into the open, a disgusting mess of deathly thin muscles and a wrinkled, rotund gray body and enormous head. Big almond eyes as black as coal stared into his soul, and a high-pitched screech rang in his ears as the little demon lunged at him and began clawing at his face. He hadn't been tied down, so his hands were free to grapple with the tiny monster with limited success, only managing to pry it away before it started scratching his wrists in desperation.
"Cyka blyat!" Zhedrev cursed. "What is this twisted demon baby?!"
"That 'twisted demon baby' is a Sectoid," answered the man without breaking his stoic expression, "and it's just one of those 'space invaders' you're so quick to dismiss. This one in particular came down with a stomach virus from right here on Earth, and it's been driven mad with pain from a sickness its immune system doesn't know how to deal with. Oh, and this is one of the less dangerous ones. Let's see how you handle this, comrade."
It was only now that Zhedrev noticed that the man had set a pistol on the desk. Not just any pistol, either - his Markov, with all the scratches along the handle that marked each life it had ended. Zhedrev threw the "Sectoid" against the wall and snatched up his weapon, firing four rounds into the little gray demon. Its huge head made an easy target, and soon it lay in a puddle of its own blood and viscera.
"Not bad," said the man with a nod. "Do you believe us now?"
Zhedrev pointed his gun at the man and woman. "Perhaps I do. Which is why I must leave immediately."
"Wrong answer."
The Russian spy let out a yelp as he suddenly flew upwards, then grunted in pain when an invisible pair of hands shoved him hard against the wall. The pistol fell from his hands, and he was about to retrieve it when it suddenly zipped out of reach, landing in the man's open, glowing palms. Growling, Zhedrev scrambled to his feet and grabbed the chair he had once been tied to, intending to use it as a bludgeon in his escape rush. The woman vaulted over the table and drew her sword, which glowed red as it extended. Before he could process what this meant, the blade slashed through his own improvised weapon like a knife cuts through butter, leaving only steaming steel legs that still bled heat at the tips. Undeterred, Zhedrev swung those metal rods like they were batons, only to react in shock as the woman blocked one with her forearm, caught the other with her free hand, and used his arm as leverage to flip him over and onto the table with a reverberating slam. She pushed down on him with surprising strength, bringing the edge of her sword to his throat and giving him a taste of the heat radiating from her weapon.
"That's enough, Summer," said the man in English as his hand stopped glowing. "I think he's gotten the message clearly enough." He looked back at Zhedrev with a stoic glare. "Isn't that right? You understand that you're not leaving?"
Growling as the blade signed the ends of his stubble, Zhedrev responded with a choked, "Da."
The woman's sword went cold instantly, and she let him up and retrieved. Zhedrev groaned as he pulled himself to his feet, feeling himself over for injuries. Apart from a few minor scratches, bruises, and a slightly-burnt chin, he wasn't terribly hurt. Only his pride had been wounded by the sudden display of force.
"You have two decisions, comrade," said the man as he emptied the magazine out of his Makarov, "Either you stay here and rot away slowly from starvation...or you join the Bureau and fight for your motherland on foreign soil. We will give you two days to think about this. The next time I come back, I want a clear answer."
The Russian spy just glared as he watched the man in the gray hat set his unloaded (and thus less dangerous) Makarov on the table, then shifted focus to the woman as she used the cage to scoop up the dead "Sectoid" with a scrunched-up nose.
Piotr Zhedrev thought he was a smart man.
But as he watched the pair leave his cell, he began to realize that maybe he wasn't as smart as he originally thought.
"Ow! Shit!"
Shen looked up from his clipboard as he heard the familiar voice over the regular din of the engineering bay, instantly spotting the culprits. Summer Rose was sitting on a stack of crates with a pained expression, shaking out her hand and pulling off her safety glasses. On the crate in front of her, a partially disassembled Muton sword lay smoking slightly; on her left, an ever-growing pile of scorched soldering irons, the number of which grew by one as Summer added the newest casualty.
He chuckled softly, picking up his thermos and his first aid kit as he walked over. "Burning the midnight oil, Summer?"
She looked up at him with an embarrassed expression, sighing heavily and smiling weakly.
"Eh, burning myself more like," she said as she stood up and stretched. "I've been working on this since after supper, and all I've got to show for it are six damaged irons and burnt fingertips. Sorry about the mess, by the way. I know supplies are tight right now, and I really should have stopped after burning out the first one..."
"It's fine," said Shen reassuringly, remembering a time not too long ago when he'd have been furious about wasted tools. "I'm sure they can be repaired or replaced easily enough. The same can't always be said for the tools we're born with, though, so let me see your hands."
Summer pouted, but begrudgingly held out her injured hands palms up. Shen opened the first aid kit and pulled out a cool, damp cloth, gently wiping down the scorched skin and clearing away the ash and soot. The silver-eyed woman winced and whimpered with each touch, but did nothing to pull away as the Engineer ran the water-soaked rag over her fingertips, wiping them down before binding them up with dry, sterile bandages.
"Thanks," she sighed after he was done. "You sure you're not a Support Agent?"
Shen chuckled as he snapped the kit closed. "Quite sure. I know for a fact I'm better with machines than medicine, I just know a few remedies here and there for common shop injuries." He looked down at the deconstructed sword. "So...what were you trying to do?"
The frown returned as Summer sighed yet again. "I was trying to upgrade Wandering Thorn's power supply and heat emitters, replace them with the parts from the sword the Infiltrator used. If the Outsiders are upgrading their armor and gear, I need to be able to cut through it without worrying about burning myself. Slicing through the Sectopod and Titan plating in Roswell pushed the heating elements in this thing to its limits, and the damn thing nearly burned out while I was inside the latter. I can't afford to let my sword fail on a mission - not when there are lives on the line."
With a nod, Shen looked to the other sword resting against the crate, which had been stripped of its main components and now served as an elaborately-sharp paperweight.
"If that's the case, why not simply use the Infiltrator's sword? It seems to match the rest of the plasma-grade technology the Outsiders use now, and would be easier than trying to…"
Shen trailed off as he watched Summer deflate, hanging her head sadly and squeezing her eyes shut. It was clear that whatever he'd just said had struck a nerve, even if he didn't understand why.
"...sorry," he finished apologetically, "Did...did I say something wrong?"
"No," mumbled Summer, though her eyes showed hurt all the same. "Well, a little, but you wouldn't understand why I can't just switch my sword. Or at least, why I don't want to."
"I can certainly try to understand."
The silver-eyed woman sighed heavily, fiddling with her hands. "On Remnant, we place a lot of value in individuality and self-expression. The same is true in some cultures here on Earth, of course, but it's a facet of daily life for my people. Art, stories, music, films...the world is full of darkness and despair, so we choose to fill it back up with works that display the beauty and emotions of every soul. This creativity and love of art is so important that the reason we even had the Great War - our equivalent to both of your World Wars - was because two kingdoms wanted to suppress that individuality, and the other two began naming their children after colors in defiance of this movement."
Shen nodded sagely, absorbing the info. So it seemed that Remnant wasn't immune to the same long-standing conflicts triggered by tensions boiling under the surface for too long. And the conflict between individuality and suppression of self for the good of the masses...that felt all-too-familiar to the young Chinese immigrant as well.
"Interesting," he said. "And this desire for expression and identity...it extends to the Hunters as well?"
Summer chuckled softly. "More than extends. We embody it. Every aspect of ourselves we show to the world - how we dress, how we fight, even the color of our Aura - is a reflection and extension of our soul. We are the light fighting against the darkness, paragons of virtue and glory standing against the tides of Grimm waiting to wipe out humanity. And that philosophy applies not just to us, but to our weapons as well."
She picked up the partially-disassembled sword in front of her, cradling it with the gentleness and softness of a mother holding a newborn. "Hunters spend years crafting and refining the perfect tool to keep by their side, to the point where you begin tying your identity to your weapon. I lost mine back on Remnant, and I didn't feel like a proper Huntress again until I found, and eventually named, Wandering Thorn here. This sword has been by my side ever since the Rosemont mission - I've used it to cut down so many Outsiders and other foes, it's helped ground me when I felt lost and overwhelmed, and even when faced against the Infiltrator and his superior swordsmanship, it served me well. And no matter how much sense it makes for me to simply trade it for another, better weapon...there's a part of me that just can't. Because it feels like throwing away my identity as a Huntress, when I already have so few ties to my old life left."
Shen was quiet for a moment, silently pondering what Summer had said. After a moment, he simply nodded.
"...I see. Then perhaps I can help. May I see it? I mean no disrespect to you or your culture, but I think I know a bit more about electrical engineering and thermodynamics than you might. Not that I wish to presume, of course…"
Summer smiled softly, then after a moment's hesitation, passed the sword to Shen. Handling the weapon with all the respect and care it commanded, the young Engineer cast a critical eye over the internal systems, over the grooves and heat channels lined with scorched filler metal. A complex yet solid-looking array of sliding sharpened plates in the blade looked worn down by battles and time, covered in nicks and scratches that Shen recognized as clear signs of metal fatigue. There was no way to tell how much of the damage was done by Summer's extensive use, or how much of it was the responsibility of its previous (now dead) owner.
"Hmm…" he hummed thoughtfully as he performed a sight analysis. "It looks like you tried to wire the new plasma emitter without completely removing the old one, inadvertently mounting the two in series with each other. This wouldn't normally be a problem, except the circuit wasn't designed to handle them both at the same time, resulting in an electrical overload every time you tried using a soldering iron. Not only that, but the alien alloys in the blade have been rapidly heated and cooled so much that it's fundamentally changed their structure - there's clear signs of thermally-induced fracturing in the now-brittle material. You can tell by these wavy-looking cracks along the fuller and edge - that's the result of thermal stress."
"Guess that explains those," mused Summer, nodding in understanding. Then she looked up almost pleasingly at Shen. "Can you fix it?"
"Not with the sword in this state," answered the Engineer sadly. "Even if we could rewire the system to accept the plasma core without overloading, the metal in the blade simply wouldn't be strong enough to withstand the higher temperature. It's no exaggeration to say this thing would literally melt in your hands when you turned it on."
"Oh…" said Summer, deflating on the spot as she looked glumly at the ground.
"However…" Shen continued, "We did recover a number of Elerium-based power cells from the Command Ship that are too small for the Avenger project, but too big and powerful for any of our other systems. And we've gotten the art of melting down and recasting alien alloys perfected to a science at this point. So if we make a sand mold of all the individual pieces using this as a pattern, and then melt both swords down to use as material for the casting process...we could create a brand new weapon entirely, one that is stronger and burns hotter than it would with either the laser or plasma-grade emitters. It would still be the same Wandering Thorn you've had all this time...but it would be reborn in a new form, given a new chance to fight. In that respect, it would be just like you."
The sheer speed at which Summer's expression reversed itself surprised Shen, and he couldn't help but chuckle at the size of her eyes and grin. "You really mean it? I...that would be amazing! Would you be able to help me? I don't want to take up too much of your time, if you're super busy…"
Shen smiled. "I am. But I'm never too busy to help a friend."
The shine in Summer's silver eyes intensified to near-blinding levels, and she thanked him profusely even as she gathered up the parts and headed over to the foundry. He chuckled as he took a sip from his thermos, watching her go with fire in her soul and hope in every bouncing step.
Never in a million years would the young Shen imagine that he would be helping a Rose from another world.
He suspected it wouldn't be the last time, either.
"Okay, Herr Nils...brace yourself. We are securing the connection now."
Thomas Nils grimaced as he felt long, cold needles slide through his flesh and into his spinal column, completing the circuit with the machine that harnessed his own bioelectric nervous system from the working half of his body. Those needles connected to a complex series of servos, motors, and steel rods that were bound tightly to his nonfunctioning legs, creating an exoskeleton of metal around his entire lower body. He still sat in his wheelchair as the newest prototype out of Sector Zulu was set up, but the sight of the technicians backing away meant that the easy part of the hour-long process was finished.
The next part was going to be hell.
"Implants are activated and we're reading psionic signals all across the board," reported Weir over the loudspeakers. "Transmitters are live."
"Go ahead and begin the clinical trial whenever you're ready, Herr Nils," added Dresner, "Remember - just do what comes naturally."
Internally, Nils cringed. Telling a borderline crippled man testing a new walking rig to just "do what came naturally" was like telling a fish suffocating on dry land to "take nice deep breaths". What was he supposed to do, just rise back on his feet like that poor bastard who hung around outside the temple every day until Peter and John finally came along to heal him? Maybe the Kraut could even drop the name of the Big Guy Upstairs himself, see if that got the Holy Spirit to give the paralyzed Recon agent a kick in the craw.
Not that he needed the name of Jesus Christ invoked to work miracles. The sight of Elizabeth Walters standing on the other side of the testing facility was motivation enough.
With a heavy sigh, Nils gripped the armrests of his all-too-familiar wheelchair with enough force to crush an apple, straining what little control he had over the muscles in his lower limbs as he tried to push himself up. The instructions from his mind were relayed through the Outsider implant at the base of the metal girdle, which was transmitted to the motors, which would hopefully translate into mechanical motion similar to what walking on his own two legs would be like. That last step had been the hardest one to get right, naturally - sometimes the motors would fight each other, or the instructions from his mind would be unclear, or sometimes one armature would just spazz the fuck out and nearly tear his leg off with its wild flailing. When that incident happened a few days ago, the clinical trial had nearly ended in Weir throttling the poor technician who thought it would be a good idea to increase the range of motion on the joints, and it was only Summer and Shen holding the good doctor back that kept him from going through with it. But so far, so good this time around - the left foot slid somewhat jerkily off the footrest, and his nerves didn't feel like they were on fire, so already things were going better than ninety percent of the other trials.
Nils even almost felt hopeful as said foot pressed itself firmly into the ground, emboldening him to try to do the same with the other leg. Amazingly, it also glided into place. Deciding to push his luck even further, he pushed forward and tried standing on shaking, wobbling legs, leaning over to the nearby steel waist-high railings and gripping them like a lifeline as he tried to get his feet under him.
"Strain gages are within acceptable limits," said Weir with that same optimism he always had in his voice. "No mechanical lockups so far. Everything seems to be working smoothly…"
"Do not tempt fate, Herr Doktor," chided Dresner, ever the contrarian. "Herr Nils, please take slow, deliberate steps towards Frauline Walters."
The young man nodded tersely, already feeling the strain in his arms as he struggled to support not just his own weight, but the weight of the metal cage he had to wear around his lower legs. He imagined himself taking one step forward with his right foot, watching as the real thing slid forward clumsily and unevenly. Shifting his weight from one leg to the other, he repeated this process with his left foot, then his right again, and then his left once more. He felt like a member of a Chain Gang, with their big metal shackles and iron ball that kept men like him from running away from their due punishment.
His streak of good luck had to end sometime, though, and it did so spectacularly when one foot twisted out from under him, leaving him free to pitch forward face-first into the concrete floor.
The technicians and nurses rushed towards him instantly, chattering and talking in what may as well have been a foreign language. Nils grit his teeth as he tried to focus through the pain, already aware of what would happen next. He'd have to spend another two hours in the damn thing as they ran diagnostics, another hour as they pried him out of it, and the rest of the night and next two days uselessly as the teams worked to fix the issue. All while the other agents were out in the field risking their lives, while alien assholes had free reign to fly all over his country unopposed, and while his own cesspool of negativity ate away at him from the inside until he was a lifeless husk.
Fuck.
That.
Nils shot a hand out from under him, extending it towards the people that came over to help.
"No."
It was less of a word and more of a growl, a primal response to his own stubbornness and unwillingness to be a failure to anyone else. The techs and nurses paused, looked amongst themselves for a moment, before Nils said it again, louder and more confidently.
"I said, no." He reached out blindly for the rails, making an effort to pull himself up. "I don't care how many times I fall down, or how many bruises I get. I am walking across this room today, dammit. And I am not ending this trial until I'm in Liz's arms."
There was a pause over the loudspeakers, before Weir chuckled. "In that case...continue on, Mister Nils."
As he pulled himself back up and moved the twisted foot back into place, Nils looked up at Liz. His Liz, who was on the verge of tearing up. Every muscle in her body was poised and ready to run to him, but she held herself back for both their sakes. As much as she wanted to help her future husband back up, she understood as well as him that if Nils was going to wear this rig into the field, he'd need to be able to stand on his own two feet. Literally.
And he did, willing his legs to make small steps forward and making sure that the feet were pointed the proper way before he put any weight on them. Beads of sweat the size of marbles dripped from his forehead, he felt aches and burning in muscles he'd forgotten even existed, and the simple act of breathing felt like pushing against a boulder that grew larger the more you fought it. He didn't care. He kept pushing, kept moving, kept making steps no matter how tiny they were.
He.
Was.
Going.
To.
Walk.
And just like that beggar from the book of Acts, he did indeed walk.
Before he knew it, he looked down at the rails to see that he had reached the end of them, and was only inches away from Liz. With a triumphant laugh he took a few more blind steps forward, predictably flopping face-first as soon as his balance was disrupted. Unlike the first time he fell, though, his beloved wife-to-be was there to catch him, wrapping her arms under his shoulders and showering his face with kisses.
Weir chuckled once again from over the loudspeaker. "Well then...I think I'd say this clinical trial for the Walker Servos, mark seven, is an overwhelming success."
"Ja. We will need to refine and strengthen the servos, but for now, this is good. Well done, Herr Nils."
Nils chuckled softly as he pressed his face into Liz's chest, securing his arms tightly around her waist and listening to her steady breaths as he tried to catch his own. "Hey, wasn't all me. Couldn't have done it without this angel here guiding me."
"Oh, Tom…" sobbed Liz, pulling him up by the chin for a deep, joyful kiss.
As he let himself be held by his fiancee, he couldn't hold back the smile that spread across his face as the warmth filled his heart, grateful that at least one thing he'd lost in this war had been reclaimed.
Now it was time to carry the names of his fallen friends with him as he prepared to rejoin the fight.
