The Loyalty Test

After XCOM: The Hades Contingency | Chapter 20: Absolute Terror

Author: Vivat Musa

Abby turned in her bunk.

Pulled the covers to her chin.

Then kicked them back down again.

...This was going to be a long night.

She'd been accustomed to deep, dreamless sleeps since medical school, where she'd spend hours reciting the bones and chemical makeup of the body, until her mind felt like hospital pudding. That hadn't changed much after joining XCOM. A full day of training and handling the outlandish medical emergencies required by XCOM caused her to fall asleep as soon as her eyelids shut.

But the past few nights, she'd stay awake, her mind buzzing like a bee. She was becoming proficient at distinguishing the snores of her roommates: the soft puffers; the occasional sleep-talkers; the insidious teeth grinders; and the loud, rumbling back-sleepers whose apnea made Abby cringe.

Finally, Abby yanked off the covers and sat up. She wasn't getting sleep, so why pretend? Shifting out of the bunk, she gingerly lowered herself down the side. The sound of grinding teeth was missing from the bottom bunk tonight; Carmelita hadn't gone to bed. Abby's chest tightened at the memory of the woman's face after they'd finished their mission. Despite being bunkmates, she didn't know Carmelita that well. But she had liked Shawn; he seemed to be the only reliable sense of humor this place had.

But the lump of butchered meat they'd brought in bore no resemblance to him. Abby shuddered, her stomach churning, as she pushed the thought away before more could flood in. She already carried too many ghosts tonight.

She padded her way past the rows of sleeping bunks to the door. The rec room's lights were dimmed for the night, but she still had to squint before her eyes adjusted. If nothing else, XCOM at least tried to make its recreational areas relaxing. The common living area was perpetually washed in warm light, though dimmed for this late hour.

While the walls and floor were made of the cold metal sheets that composed the rest of the XCOM base, a few large, fuzzy rugs were placed here and there to make it feel homier. One or two people always sat at one of the saggy couches to read or watch TV, but tonight, only one person's shadow fell on the floor.

"Couldn't sleep either?"

Liam's head tilted up at the sound of her voice, but he didn't look surprised to see her. "Not particularly."

She glanced at the chess board he sat at, a game already in progress. "So this is how you spend your nights?"

"Shooting range was full."

"Ah. I thought I heard less snoring."

His lip quirked up, and he gestured to the chair across from him. Abby hesitated for a moment, but eventually sat down. Not like she had anything better to do, anyways. And misery loved company.

Someone had taped pieces of paper to the side of the chessboard; the left column numbered the squares, while the bottom row alphabetized them. The side facing her had predominantly white pieces. "You give yourself the disadvantage?" she asked, surprised.

"You play?"

"Barely. My dad taught me when I was little, but he always let me win."

Liam made a cough that sounded suspiciously like a snort.

She allowed a small smile. "My house had a 'let the Wookie win' policy. He believed children that always lose grow up with a defeatist attitude."

"He could have taught you how to improve."

"He could've, but that required him actually knowing strategies, too. I'm guessing you learned differently?"

"Yeah. My father believed that no one in real life would let you win that easily, so he didn't see the point in pulling punches."

"I'm starting to understand that." She frowned, and curled her toes into the carpet, her beaten mind appreciating the simplicity of the softness between them.

"They'll stop."

He didn't speak up, but his voice sounded too loud in the empty room. "Your thoughts. Eventually, they'll stop."

Her gaze flicked up to him. She was going to ask how he knew...but of course he would. "Are you going to tell me again that I just need to let out whatever I'm feeling? Because I don't know what I'm feeling right now. And I don't know how to stop thinking." She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead. "How do you make them stop? "

"Drugs. Alcohol. Sex. Meditation, maybe." The corner of his lip quirked up. "But personally, I don't think those are your types of poison. No offense on the second to last one, though."

That won a single hard chuckle. "Is this your professional opinion?"

"Definitely not. My professional opinion is that something physical usually helps. I prefer sparring or the shooting range, but since those aren't open…" He flicked a hand at the chess board. "Mental stimulation can help, too."

Abby pursued her lips. At least it was more entertaining than reciting anatomical facts. She moved a white pawn back to its starting position. Once the board was reset, Liam settled back into his seat.

"Your turn."

Hopefully she remembered how this worked. She moved a pawn to the tile labeled e4. "How are you so collected?" she murmured. Despite his numerous missions, she'd never seen his composure break, even when the Sectoid had psionically attacked him.

"This works in the short-term," he said, moving his own pawn to e5. "Time and conversation do the rest."

"And the occasional drink." Pawn to f4.

"Wouldn't know. I don't drink."

"Really?"

"Really." Bishop to c5.

Abby peered at the board. Two surprises. She'd expected him to accept her King's Gambit. Shame that was the only opener she remembered… And she didn't know why him being a teetotaler surprised her. While she hadn't pegged him as a heavy drinker by a long shot, she had that Russian stereotype in her head of him sitting at a small table in the corner of some dimly lit place, nursing a drink on ice into the wee hours.

Well, maybe he just took a coffee instead.

After a long moment, she made her next move. Liam responded instantly. She frowned. "I'm sleep-deprived, you know."

"So am I, so we're on equal footing."

She glared at him over the top of the board. But her thoughts had quieted some. They were less like a hive of bees and more like the occasional cricket. She picked up her king and turned it over in her hand. The wood felt smooth in her hand, the paint white and unblemished. "The thoughts," she said slowly, "they keep circling over and over in my head. My dad cried when I became a doctor. How am I going to face him again?"

"You will," Liam said softly. "The boy's death wasn't your fault. He came at you armed."

She nodded, but the words slid off her like droplets, the boy's face a reflection in her mind. He couldn't have been much older than her. "I'll have to kill again before this is over, won't I? On purpose."

"Yes. Are you surprised?"

"I guess not."

"You were in the Marine Corps. I would have thought they would have prepared you better."

"I wasn't there long enough for the repetition to kick in, I guess."

"I see."

She placed the king down. "Killing aliens...that's different. Maybe it shouldn't be, but it is. They invaded Earth, and they started the fight. They didn't even try for peace first. But killing a person…" She couldn't help but glare at him, as if he was the one she was arguing with. "I came here to be a medic , not a soldier."

But he wasn't looking at her; his brown eyes were thoughtful as he scanned the board, his voice quiet when he asked, "Do you want to leave?"

"No—I mean, yes...but no." She broke her stare, looking away. "I know there's plenty of medics out there, and a lot better than me... But I've already seen too much. I can't just let the aliens invade us and know that I chose to quit. Not when I could've helped."

"But you don't have to be on the frontlines. You could be doing your part somewhere you feel more comfortable."

"I could," she admitted, then finally moved another piece, with Liam's following directly after. "And I have thought about that. But...I think I'd feel the same, like I wasn't helping out as much as I could. XCOM's a lot of things, but it's the only place taking this threat seriously. I want to help. I'm just...afraid of what I'll turn into along the way."

This time, Liam did look at her. He leaned forward in his seat and held her gaze. "Let me ask you this: do you think most people at XCOM are good people? That I'm a good person?"

Abby pursued her lips, wondering if this was a trick question. It sounded like it was, but Liam wasn't the type to do that. He was a bit too straight-laced. She looked down, moving another piece before answering. "I think you are, yes."

"And yet I've killed people. Intentionally. Methodically, and slowly."

"What's your point?"

He reached across the board to make his move. His hands weren't overly large or meaty like she pictured a soldier's might be, or even that fine and tapered like an artist's. Just...normal. If it weren't for the thin white scars criss crossing over his knuckles, she might've thought he'd never touched a gun before. "I'm letting you know what it's like when you do pull the trigger, and mean it."

She hesitated. She had a sense of where he was going, and wasn't sure she wanted to hear it. But plugging her ears and looking away wouldn't help her, either. If she was going to do anything, she wanted her eyes to be fully opened. "And what's it like?" she finally asked. "Your first...planned kill?"

"It wasn't theatrical or filled with guns blazing, for one. It was more planning and waiting than anything."

"How'd you do it?"

"Antifreeze."

"...What?"

Liam slid another piece into place. "It's a long story."

"It's not like I'm getting sleep tonight anyways."

"Alright," he said. "But if you want me to tell you, you'll have to hear all of it."

Abby moved a piece in reply.

"Okay." Liam's gaze focused on some point past the board, on something she couldn't see. "I was halfway through my training to become part of Russia's GRU. Our 'loyalty test' was just announced. All we received was a name and a picture."

"I had just finished at the shooting range when we were called in. The shooting had helped my nerves, but they were rattled again by the time I got to the building. It was all made of metal, kind of like this one, and every sound was amplified as soldiers started to shuffle inside. Less than a dozen were already lined up. Which was good for me. I wasn't the first to arrive, and I wouldn't be the last. The worst thing to do in the military was stand out in either extreme.

The drill instructor stood at the front of the line. That wasn't a surprise—but the woman standing next to him was. She was a new face. I knew from the rows of badges shining from her lapel that she was perhaps the highest-ranked person I'd ever interacted with. The assigner, then.

The two of them didn't speak as the rest of the soldiers arrived. Their boots stomped in the dirt as they herded into their places, but you could sense it in the air, the need for silence. You were expected to be quiet any time you lined up, but this was different. No one spoke or even coughed, but the air still buzzed with energy.

The drill instructor stepped forward. Usually he would've been shouting his head off at us already, but when he opened his mouth, he kept it to a dull roar.

'The day has come,' he started, eyeing us sharply, 'and you know why you're here. And unless you pass this next test, this is as far as you'll go.'

With a nod towards the assigner, he moved back as the woman stepped forwards. 'You each have an assignment you must terminate.' Her voice was crisp and hard, but every sound was enunciated. I'd heard enough accents to figure out she had one, just very suppressed. Likely grew up in an immigrant community, similar to me. 'You may use what resources are available to you, but your targets are to be kept classified . It must look like an accident. When I call your names, step forward and take your assignment. You have one month.'

She drilled off our names. Each person strode forward, received their assignment, then fell back into line. We were too trained to fidget while we waited, but I could still sense the tension. My breathing was faster than usual. I counted deep breaths, fixing my eyes on the wall behind the instructor, until they finally called my name.

'Liam Jaster.'

I stepped forward—ten steps. I counted. She handed me a plain envelope. I glanced down just long enough to see the seal stamped on the flap of it; the only thing making it noteworthy from any of the other millions of envelopes. It wasn't the GRU one, though; it was one I'd only seen rarely. Counter-Terrorism. What we were all here for. It became real then.

I turned, took ten steps back, and faced forward.

The woman listed off the rest of the names, but I tuned them out. My thoughts were already racing.

Finally, the list ended, and we were dismissed.

The soldiers scattered off to their hiding places where they could learn their assignments in private. I immediately headed to the restroom, the only place where anyone could get some peace. Once in a stall, I pulled out my pocket knife and slit through the seal. The paper I pulled out was plain and white—no markings that could lead back to the military.

Typed in small but unmistakable print was one name and number.

Lada Lisov, 22.

Clipped to the back of the paper was a picture of a woman. Brown hair, brown eyes. I didn't consider until then that the name could've been someone I knew. But it wasn't. The last Lada I remembered was back in grade school, and her last name had been different. Something with a "K," I think, but it didn't matter. I suppose Lada could've gotten married and changed her name, but the picture confirmed it. I didn't know this Lada. She was a stranger.

And I was relieved.

I had one month.

Like any person in the twenty-first century with common sense, I headed first to the internet, provided by the public library's computer. I hadn't been to this library before—I preferred a small, quiet one like in my hometown—but the library was one of the largest in the city, with several rows of computers. In my regular clothes and a notebook in hand, I could've passed like any number of the college students around me.

I typed in this Lada Lisov's name.

The first results to come up were of course from VK and Facebook. I would've preferred something more...professional...but I had to start somewhere. I scrolled through the websites' suggested profiles until I found pictures that matched my photograph.

Lada Lisov, it turned out, lived in the next city over. Convenient. I wouldn't have to waste time taking a plane when I could be planning instead. But in the back of my mind, I had a nagging thought. Who decided who my target was? I knew it had to be more than just random chance, like some lottery. This test was supposed to test our loyalty, to challenge us. Whoever picked Lada Lisov as my target had the decency to make sure she was in close proximity.

Decency. Ha.

I knew there would be something about her that I wouldn't like. Or maybe like too much. But I tried not to think about that. I didn't look too long at the smiling photographs. I skimmed past them, barely taking the time to process them. But I can still remember the pictures. Hugging an older woman with the same eyes as hers. At a party dancing with two friends. Walking her German shepherd.

But none of the pictures were too incriminating. Just...her life.

On one of her profiles, it said she worked as a reporter for RZ 26, a news station, for the past two years. That would've done it. I had tried not to think about the reason someone wanted this Lada Lisov dead. But I knew; she must've dug up something the government didn't want public. I'm sure I don't have to tell you, but being a reporter in Russia doesn't have the best job security. Especially not then, not after the Caliphate fell. A high risk of accidents .

I should've stopped digging then. What good would it have done knowing more than I had to? But it was hard to resist, sitting right there at the computer, the screen in front of me. And, I reasoned, it was for research. Collecting all the information I could to get into my target's mind.

So, I clicked on her link to the news station's website where she worked, and found a list of all her published articles. Mostly political pieces analyzing officials and their positions, but some military articles were scattered around. Most of them were straightforward expository pieces—stuff that anyone could look up—but a few seemed like information the government wouldn't have wanted out. A sighting in a small country they shouldn't be in, several real names of active GRU operatives, or a failed weapons test too close to a civilian town.

Any one of these could have been what signed her fate.

But then I saw one that could've compromised the country's security when it got out. I believe in the people's right for transparency, but not when it risked the safety of those same people.

I stopped looking then. I was curious, but I wasn't an idiot. I couldn't shake the feeling this was a loyalty test in more ways than one.

"But she was just doing her job," Abby argued. She had been listening quietly up to this point, but she couldn't keep from interrupting now. "People deserve to know what their government is doing."

"Like how people know about us and XCOM?"

Abby pursued her lips.

"I may have been in the Russian military, but I'm not a blind jingoist, either. I know Russia's government is extreme and callous. But they aren't unique, regardless of what the West perpetuates. All governments are to some extent. But I also know its people. Most are innocent. And what she leaked would've put them in danger."

"What about the Commander's contingencies?" she argued. "His plans would sacrifice the lives of many for this ambiguous 'greater good.'"

"We're at war, Abby. There are no morals. There's just survival."

"But you weren't at war when you killed her!"

"No, but I was, and am, a soldier. I knew that not every order I was given I would like or even agree with. But I knew the end goal would be protecting my countrymen. All things should come to light eventually," he clarified after a few seconds, "but there's a time and a place. If transparency does more harm than good in the moment, then it should wait."

Abby bristled. She had heard this argument dozens of times since joining XCOM, but almost no one seemed to agree on how much humanity they were willing to sacrifice when protecting that humanity.

But she bit her tongue. This wasn't an argument she had the capacity to win tonight, and if she was meant to judge his story, then she'd have to listen to all of it.

"Go on," she finally said.

Liam nodded, then continued. "I wrote down the name of the news station, its address, and any other information I could glean."

"Then I dug deeper, going to less savory websites. The closest brushes she had with the law were two parking violations and one for trespassing. The parking violations were explained easily enough—the city had shit parking. The trespassing was probably from her reporting, if I had to guess. The fact she only had one either meant she was bad at her job or she was great at it—her work history indicated the latter. Otherwise, she seemed the typical upstanding citizen.

But when I looked into her parents… Well, there was a reason only her mom appeared on her social media. Her dad was the type my dad would've locked up.

I had only taken one course in psychology back in high school, but I put it and my common sense to the grindstone. A reporter and an abusive father. That must've put a chip on her shoulder. She was bound to have a weapon and other safety guards in her home. But whatever her level of skills, I doubted hers would match years of military training. While I could break into her house and make it look like a robbery gone wrong, targeting her at her own home could still be risky, and leave behind too much evidence. A break-in means wondering if the victim was targeted for a reason, and would involve digging into their contacts and work. But eliminating her in public exposed me to too many witnesses. A far-off weapon, then?

Not a gun, though. Hard to make a bullet in the head look like an accident.

You're staring at me. Am I scaring you?

It's okay if you are. But this is how I thought. How I still do. And nearly everyone else in this base. It becomes a habit over time, like it or not.

XCOM has made it easier. More like the regular military. You get your orders, go on a mission, and shoot where they tell you to shoot. Not a lot of thought required; just enough to not get you or your comrades killed.

Intelligence work is more complicated; the thought process of being not just a trained killer, but a specialist , is hard to break. Analyzing your target. Collecting information. I imagine it's not that different than being a doctor. You're about to protest, but think about it: you have to take a step back and see your patient not just as a person, but as a system that needs to be fixed. A blocked artery, a spinal fusion, some sort of problem with data you can analyze. In the end, though, doctors get to step back in as a human, and treat their patients like one again. Trained killers don't. You figure out how to fix the system, I figure out how to break it.

And to do that, I needed more information.

My stakeout skills came in handy earlier than I thought.

I'd found Lada Lisov's address after some searching. She lived in a small town house, on the second floor. Sometimes I could see her through her window, when she'd open them every morning and before she closed them each night.

Across from her house was a little cafe. I'd practically taken up residence by the window table, looking out into the street. There were usually one or two regulars, but after a week, no one batted an eye at me. I got to know the waitress pretty well.

Thankfully, Lada Lisov was always too much in a rush to stop in. She preferred the Starbucks two blocks down.

I technically didn't have to stay in the coffeeshop. One of the first things I did was plant a tracker on her car and a camera facing the house to track her comings and goings. She was out of the house Monday through Friday, often staying out even longer for work. A serious worker, then. Some nights she saw friends, other nights she frequented the night clubs. The weekends were quiet. Her time to regroup, if I had to guess. During the days, she took hikes through the national parks. I was grateful I'd been in shape the days I decided to follow her. Her German shepherd barked whenever the mailman dropped off a package or a visitor stopped by. A few times, I saw her take a man home. The dog barked then, too. I was grateful she was the type who kept her curtains closed.

But all of that was routine. Data-collecting. I was still a little bothered, but the work was mundane enough that I could shove down any reservations if I didn't think about it too much.

But what got to me were...the little things. Like when she'd put a pot with a green, leafy plant by her windowsill one day, and watching it slowly brown and dry up, only for it to go missing by the end of the next week. Or seeing one of her friends I recognized from her online profile come to her house, holding a little girl with chubby legs sticking out a yellow polka dot dress. Lada Lisov and the woman would talk outside on the small lawn they called a front yard, watching as the little girl tried to clamber on top of the German shepherd's back each time it laid down.

When you get to know someone's routine so well that you can tell what someone will do before they do, you also feel the significance of anything that disrupts that routine. Monday morning, at seven-fifteen, Lada Lisov would be out the door and in the car for work. But one Monday, about two weeks into my stalking, she was late that day. She was outside her front yard, trying to lure a stray cat. I'd seen it before, hovering around the neighborhood. The cafe owners would put a bowl of food and water outside for it. The cat was a pathetic thing, with the tip of its ear torn off and pale, bald scars lining its face. It was skinny, too, with shaggy fur. But at seven thirty, with a thirty-five minute drive to a shift that started at eight, Lada Lisov was wasting time to lure inside a damn stray.

I didn't know why that of all things got to me. I don't even like cats. But it did, and that gnawing feeling in my gut kept growing.

I called my dad that night. He was a retired police officer. I called him maybe once every few months, but since my assignment, I called maybe twice a week.

And he noticed, too. Said if I was calling that often, something must've been getting to me. He didn't ask if I'd gotten into any trouble—he knew I never did—but he did know the gist of my occupation.

I kept my conversations vague and brief whenever it came to my job, but this time, I had to know. I asked him what he did the first time he had a case he wasn't sure about.

'Well, I've had my fair share of difficult cases, but… do you remember when you were six, and your aunt threw that Easter party for you and all your cousins?' he said, in that slow speech of his. I can still remember it. I said I didn't, and how did this relate to my question, when he'd already started talking.

'Your Aunt Lorraine's cousin, Nick—although, I think he spells it with a 'q' now—was pickin' on one of the little girls, just a toddler now. I can still see her frilly pink dress, and that diapered bottom peeking out." At this point, I'd settled down with my coffee and prepared myself for one of my dad's stories. Most of his stories—and some of my favorites—were his infamous cop stories, but my dad had many others. "He kept stealing all her eggs and pushing her down. I was about to get in there when you tackled your cousin—this beef ball twice the height and thrice the width of you. You tackled him right to the ground, you did. You got in real close and whispered something in that meatball's ears. Didn't know what. Your Aunt Lorraine was furious—spewing everywhere, like that lil' rat dog of hers. I had to drag you off by the cuff and look like I was furious, but I was almost dying inside. Only six years old, but I was never prouder. Niq with a 'q' never bothered you again, that was for sure. You know what you said to me, when I asked you what'd you whispered?'

'What?'

'That if he didn't leave that lil' girl alone, you'd force her diaper down his throat.' He laughed, and I could just picture him wiping a tear away. 'Now you're asking me whether you're doing the right thing? I don't know, son, I don't know, but I know there's one thing about you that's never wavered. You always protect. When you grow up, the faces of people who need protecting change, and so do those who threaten 'em. But just keep thinking of who you want to protect. Just keep holding onto that, and you'll get through.'

I made up my mind, then. Lada Lisov might not have been shoving anyone, but she was inevitably going to get someone hurt. And I couldn't let that happen."

Not long after, I followed her to a bar one night. Her favorite one, seeing as she frequented it at least three times a week. The establishment wasn't dingy, either. A classy bar, like the sort you'd find in a hotel. I parked my car a few blocks away, then changed into another sweater I'd kept in the back of the trunk. Training has taught us to always bring a change of clothes, if not for emergencies, then for disguises like this.

I brought a book with me and a pair of glasses I didn't need, taking a seat in the far corner with a view of the exits and of the bar, where Lada Lisov sat. Mission or not, I didn't care for unnecessary attention. I ordered a whiskey on the rocks, and she had one of those frilly, fruity drinks. Too sweet, for my tastes.

She talked to the bartender, then the woman to the left of her, and then the man to the right. A social butterfly. Although, one that preferred to listen. While I couldn't make out what she said, she seemed to say more questions than answers, judging by the ratio of conversation. She'd say something short with a smile, and the other person would go on and on. She was a good reporter.

But the last person, their conversation was even. She talked as much as he did, and he was the first one who made her face light up when she smiled. I wasn't surprised when they left together.

On my way out a few minutes after them, I noticed a HELP WANTED sign taped to the bar's window.

I freshened up my resume that night, and a day later, I was hired. I had to use my real name, but I didn't mention my military record. As you can imagine, the qualifications weren't high, and I was hired right away. The waitering was easy. I'd worked in the food business part-time in high school, and if you worked in one place, you've worked at all the rest.

I waited tables for a week before I executed the next step. The plan had already taken shape in my mind. One of my friends in the military was a chemist. Let me tell you: never trust a chemist. I was one of the few people who would talk to him. Everyone else found him creepy. Probably because he knew half a dozen ways to slip you a poison you couldn't taste or smell. He'd rambled a bit sometimes, and once, he started talking about antifreeze. He was convinced that one of his friends hadn't died of alcohol poisoning like all the reports said, but of chemicals.

I bought a bottle of antifreeze at the store. And I made sure my shift was at the same time Lada Lisov came in that Saturday evening at nine o'clock. I served her usual drink. The fruitiness was so sweet I could smell it just from holding the thing.

'Thank you,' she said. I watched her take a sip. My heartbeat was pounding in my ears when she smiled. 'Delicious.'

I had the composure to mutter some pleasantries, but when I started to turn away, her voice called back.

'I don't think I've seen you here before?'

I said something about being new to the bar, having started last week.

'Ah, I see. Well, if you ever want to know which ones are the pesky customers, come talk to me,' she said with a wink. The photo didn't capture her eyes. They weren't just brown, but flecked with amber, sparkling with vitality. I don't usually notice stuff like that, but I had trouble looking away. The memory of her voice stuck with me; that this was the voice of the person I was killing. And she didn't even know it.

I nodded my head, then walked away, her eyes bright as she drank.

I brought her two more drinks that night. By the time she left, she had to hail a taxi. I was standing close by when she tried walking out, her heels clopping awkwardly on the tiles like a newborn deer. I managed to catch her. She looked up at him with dim, glazed eyes.

'Thank you,' she said.

Thank you. She thanked me.

No one noticed as she almost fell into the taxi. While she stayed in control of herself most nights at the bar, I had seen her drink too much once, and that night and this one, she looked like any other young drunk.

A day later, I watched from the cafe as an ambulance came to Lada's house. A sheet was pulled over her head when they lifted her into the ambulance.

That was almost a decade ago. I can tell you her name now, since no one else remembers it."

Abby was quiet when he'd finished speaking, the chess game finished and forgotten. He'd won, of course, but at that point, Abby hadn't even cared.

"The antifreeze was in the drink," she murmured finally. "It would've broken down as alcohol in her body. She wouldn't have even known she was dying."

"I made sure of it," he said.

"It would've been faster if you'd use a bullet."

"Yes, but it had to look like an accident. And I thought stairs would be too stereotypical."

"God forbid you were stereotypical," she muttered, and shuddered, even though the temperature hadn't changed. "What'd you do after that?"

Liam had taken to playing idly with the white pieces he'd captured, balancing the king on top of the rook. "For about a week, I was so sick I couldn't show up for training. Almost no one did after their missions, from what I heard. After that…" he paused briefly. "I became part of Counter-Terrorism. Ironically, nothing was as difficult as that mission, much less ambiguous when you're dealing with people planning on blowing civilians up. By the time I joined XCOM, I hadn't gotten sick in years. Joining this place was one of the easiest decisions I've made. Fighting aliens seemed more important than fighting the occasional terrorist, so I signed up."

"You…" she hesitated. "Do you regret it?"

"In a sense. I'm sorry that it had to happen, and that it had to be her. But in the end, it was for the best. She might've been a good person, but she knew the information she had would have harmed people, and she still chose to leak it. Truth over lives. That is a cost I don't believe in. Not everyone I've killed was a devil or a saint, but for each one I had a reason for it. A decision I made, not because of orders. I won't absolve myself of responsibility just because I wore a uniform." He placed the king back on her side of the board, then leaned forward in his seat. "Now tell me, after hearing all of that, do you still think I'm a good person?"

Abby was silent, his words churning in her head. Liam waited patiently. His expressions were usually mild, but this time, his features seemed purposefully neutral, only the intensity of his gaze giving away his interest in her answer. She wondered if she would've even detected the difference before.

"I don't think the world's that simple," she started tentatively. "We may be fighting aliens, but even that isn't straightforward anymore. But," she said, "I think what we're doing for XCOM is right. And I think you're a good person, too. Just...complicated."

His expression remained solemn, but his eyes had a hint of playfulness when he tipped his head in a mock-bow. "Glad to have your approval. And you may say a lot about the Commander and his Big Brother, but at least he's willing to listen to controversy, no matter who it's from. That's more than you can say about most leaders. So if you do have a complaint, bring it up to him. He'll listen."

Abby nodded. "I think...I think I will talk to him."

"Good." Liam leaned back in his chair. "Now, shall we play again?"

She smirked, but helped reset the board. "Next time," she said, "let's get to the shooting range first."