"So," Barry said, resting his bum against one of the Avenger's finely tailored barstools. "What're you all in for?"
Two people sat to his left: a Chinese man with a face like a Stalinist statue, and a bald woman with pursed, bloodless lips and hollow cheeks. Neither of them spoke.
"Want me to start?" Barry asked, filling the void. "'Aight. Name's Barry. Uh, that's two r's."
"Forget about 'em," said the man to Barry's right, Miguel. The slim, noodly Spaniard, Barry's newest friend, took a sip from his beer and flashed a yellowed grin at the Ukrainian. "They wanna act all fuddy duddy like that, they can. You got me around to keep you company."
Barry groaned. "As if you're better. I've already heard that shack story from you and your sister a thousand times!"
"Did she tell you how I ran over a whole platoon of Advent troopers in La Llorona?"
"More like she shot them, and then you ran over the corpses," Barry retorted. He scarfed down the rest of his beer, and sank to the table, a mellow grin rising from his rugged features. His eyes shot upward, shooting seductive gazes at the several hundred bottles that sat on the shelves above him. The gleam of those bottles, reflecting the ship's fluorescent lights, made it seem like they were teasing him, catcalling and tugging at their wrappers, giving him a glimpse of the luscious liquid within their glass confines. Barry didn't even know that so many brands of alcohol existed. The bottles he was used to drinking were plastic, covered in grime and torn bits of paper. The bottles that danced just above his drunken head were made from fine, amber glass, their labels a colorful array of purples, yellows, greens, and pinks.
Hell, the bar was only the best part about this ship, the Avenger. Barry remembered swallowing a nervous lump when he had seen it, nestled between two canyon walls. It was several tons of shiny ass alien alloy, with four massive VTOL-jets flanking its sides.
The inside, though. Mother of Mary, the inside was fucking beautiful. Sterile hallways filled with a blissful mixture of bright light and clean air. Spacious rooms that actually had four walls and a ceiling. A goddamn pool room. Even Petrov, stoic to the end, had admitted "Da, it was a good setup."
The staff wasn't too bad either. Barry had assumed they'd be a bunch of swanky know-it-alls, members of the earth's upper crust who would be popping at the seams with revolutionary slogans, complex ideologies and philosophies, and extremely complex words with multiple syllables.
Far fucking from it. XCOM's acting commander, John Bradford, was certifiably awesome. He endorsed a loose dress code, condoned pretty much any behavior short of treason, and had the yaichko to drink and party with the grunts. That set Bradford apart from every other authority figure Barry had in his life – a pretty tremendous feat.
The other soldiers were a fine lot too, aside from the two inanimate meat sacks next to him.
Miguel stood up, sliding his beer bottle across the counter. It clattered next to the dozen or so other empty bottles that awaited disposal.
"Where're you heading?" Barry asked. "Going to polish your motorcycle helmet collection?"
Miguel turned red. "What's it to you?"
"Dunno," Barry replied. "Kinda dumb to take care of twenty helmets when your crappy Harley got trashed years ago."
Miguel frowned, his mouth curling into a crooked, disgusted squiggle. "Don't you talk shit about La Llorana!" he warned. "She gave her life for me and mi hermana!" He shook his head. "Don't do any good to talk down about the dead."
"It's a fucking motorcycle," Barry said. "Not your goddamn mother."
Miguel's face took on a red hue. He opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut, figuring it wouldn't be worth the trouble. Instead, he stomped out of the bar.
"This has to be a joke."
Barry looked around, and saw that the burly Chinese guy had finally spoken up.
"Huh?" he said.
The Chinese man had barely moved. Instead, he was looking at Barry from the corner of his eye, as if he was some kind of ugly-ass bug crawling out from under the floor tiles. The man's hazel irises regarded Barry with a mixture of curiosity and disgust. Nevermind, just disgust.
"I said, this had to be a joke," the man said, taking the time to enunciate his words, like a particularly racist billionaire talking to his foreign hired help. "I thought an organization like XCOM had… higher recruiting standards," he continued.
"Oh, oh sure," Barry said, humoring the other man. "Miguel, yeah, dunno how he was able to get his ass on this ship. But you're looking at grade-A material right here, drook!" Barry patted a hand against his emaciated rib cage.
The man frowned, and put a hand against his forehead.
"Just great," he muttered. "34 years of my life spent in the Security Ministry. Now here I am, drinking with lowlifes."
"Just 'cause we're lowlifes doesn't mean we don't have grit," Barry shot back. "We can use a gun. Nothing else to this business."
The man's eyes widened, and he turned his face around entirely, revealing the rest of his spartan features. The only prominent detail on his face was a large, pink scar, running down the side of his head.
"I have planned operations on a grander scale than this," he said, soft and slow. "I have taken compounds without firing a single shot. Can I expect any more from a piece of wasteland shit like you?"
"Who the fuck needs plans?" Barry spat back. "You go in, get what you can, and get out. And you shoot any fucker who gets in your way."
The man crossed his arms. "Cocky, aren't you?"
"I got good reason to be," Barry replied.
The man grinned in response, only it wasn't a jovial "let's be friends" kind of grin. It was a grin that a snake would give to a field mouse.
"You see those?" he said, pointing a thumb at the wall. Barry followed the calloused digit, and found himself staring at dozens of steel picture frames, each one empty.
"Yeah," Barry said. "What, you put pictures of your sister there?"
"That's the Memorial Wall," the man said, letting the words sink in. "That's where they put cocky sons of bitches."
Suddenly, he lunged forward, grabbing Barry's shoulder and squeezing it with surprising force.
"If you cross me, or compromise the mission, I will put your picture in one of those frames myself. Got that?" he said, digging his fingers deeper into the Ukrainian's shoulder with each word.
"Mmhmm," Barry muttered, before spitting in the man's face. The brown projectile raced out of his lips, making a beeline for the Chinese man's face.
Incredibly, the man dodged. In the milliseconds it took for that condensed ball of enzymes to travel between the two men, the Chinese guy had twisted his head back, letting the saliva arc over his shoulder and land on the floor with a pathetic splat.
Barry's gut also dropped towards the ground, a cold, shuddering feeling that conveyed this basic idea: He was fucked.
Before the reshaping of Barry's face could occur, a loud alarm sounded in the bar.
"Attention," announced a digitized, female voice. "All combat-capable XCOM operatives must head to the command center immediately. I repeat, all combat-capable XCOM operatives must head to the command center, immediately."
The voice cut out, replaced by unending drone of the klaxons.
The Chinese man snorted, and let go of Barry's shoulder.
"Duty calls," he told him, flashing a sarcastic smile. "I'll see you on the bridge."
Bradford looked up from the inactive holographic console, his arms extended across its metal edges. Around him, technicians and other noncombat personnel scuttled about, tapping at computers, or carrying important equipment.
He smiled, feeling warm. It had taken a while to get the Avenger to this level of professionalism, but it was worth it. Watching this orderly scene gave him a tingle of nostalgia, as if he was once again standing in the center of XCOM's old mission control.
Claymore walked up beside him, also surveying the Avenger's command center.
"Whew," she whistled. "You did a damn good job at setting up this place."
"Yep," Bradford said. "Can't have a revolution without an orderly work place."
The clatter of boots interrupted the conversation, causing Bradford to look ahead of him. Already, the first recruits had entered the command center, and judging from the green leather jackets and the decorative motorcycle helmets nestled under their arms, they were the Rivera twins.
Miguel flashed him a big smile, while his twin sister gave a polite wave. Bradford nodded back.
The majority of the recruits came in right after them, pushing and jostling about like high schoolers called to an assembly. The first three, Mutt, Petrov, and Barry bumbled through the doorway, with the scrawny figures of Mutt and Barry being buffeted forward by Petrov's enormous bulk. Following them were the elderly British woman and the Chinese dancer. They were a peculiar couple – the old woman had already taken to the girl, evidenced by her frail, wrinkled fingers wrapped around her partner's hand.
They were chatting with someone behind them, a lanky Canadian man in a sweater and beanie. That operative, Bradford knew, went by the street name "Banks", and had been living in the Eurasian area when XCOM had recruited him.
Bradford recalled that event with fondness. The 20-something graffiti artist had been convicted of vandalism a few weeks ago, just after his latest piece (an amusing caricature of an Advent official with a sectoid's hand rammed up his ass – really, quite a sight to behold). With the law hot on his trail, Banks had booked it, burgling a convenience store for provisions and sprinting out of the Megacity outskirts.
Out of dumb luck, his wild flight caused him to bungle into the Skyranger, on its way back from another of Claymore's recruiting trips. Banks probably assumed that, wherever this strange plane thing was going, it had to be better than the back room of an Advent Rehabilitaiton Center.
Of course, with no way of actually getting on board the Skyranger, Banks's only option was to latch onto one of the Skyranger's landing struts and hold on for dear life. The image of that lanky guy, dangling several hundred feet in the air with a plastic bag filled with junk food swinging around his arms, made Bradford chuckle.
Five hours later, the engineer on refueling duty would be scared out of her wits, as she found XCOM's newest recruit sitting in the hangar, offering her a hot pocket that he'd roasted using one of the Skyranger's thrusters.
Based off the kid's expression, he was probably telling that story again. No other tale could make him so animated and excited.
The last of the operatives stepped through the door, his shoes treading lightly against the Avenger's hull. Bradford nodded at the imposing figure of Sún Shi, formerly Chinese black ops, and shot him a small salute. Shi returned it.
Shi had been Bradford's idea, although at this point he was unsure if he'd made the right choice. While Claymore had assured him of the other operatives' competence, a part of him had still yearned for some semblance of the military order that he'd been saturated in 20 years ago.
So, he had sifted through his old recruitment sheets, looking at digitally superimposed names that had once been printed, in neat, block letters. It took a few hours for him to find the name he was looking for, nestled in the middle of page 17, Section 6: East Asian recruits.
Shi was a good soldier, no doubt. He showed his superiors, and those whose skill was equal or greater to his, a great deal of respect. But, like Bradford, Shi was old-fashioned, crafted to fit in to extremely militaristic environments. He made no effort at hiding how much he detested working with unorthodox, civilian recruits.
"Is everyone here?" Bradford asked, looking to his left at Claymore.
The former EXALT shook her head. "We're missing Matilda."
Bradford gritted his teeth at the sound of that name. "Of course," he muttered.
There was a bit of silence after that, except for the chatter going on amongst the recruits at the other end of the room. A lump formed in Bradford's throat as he tried to bring up what was on his chest.
"You think she's…" he began, before choking on the rest of it.
Claymore waved away his concerns. "I explained it to her. She understands completely."
"You sure?" Bradford said.
"Definitely," Claymore reassured. "She's a rational-minded woman, Sweaters."
Bradford began to doubt that reasoning once the good doctor walked into the room. Dr. Matilda Fournier's face went from neutral to downright furious as soon as she caught sight of Bradford.
Bradford tugged at the neck of his uniform, and walked towards her.
"Er… Hello, Matil –"
The palm of the doctor's hand cut off the rest of Bradford's nervous greeting. A mercy considering that he actually had no idea of what to say besides the initial "Hello".
"Only my brother called me by my first name, John," Matilda replied.
"Of course," Bradford muttered, rubbing a hand against his reddening cheek. The room had gone totally silent, all eyes on the altercation occurring on the floor.
Matilda fixed her glare on Bradford, her cold, blue irises drilling into the central officer's head.
"I just want to make it clear," she said. "Things haven't changed between you and me. Tick me off and you'll see how good of a surgeon I am, oui?"
Mmhm. Message received. Bradford nodded, pressing his teeth together in expectation of another blow.
Matilda, thankfully, turned away, walking stiffly back to the rest of the recruits.
Mutt looked at her, mouth agape, his eyes almost bugging out behind his shades. Now there was a woman who could throw her weight around.
"Ma'am," he said, addressing the doctor. "Ya seem to be goin' through some rough times. If you're needin' someone to comfort ya –"
"Please, shut up," Matilda said.
Mutt recoiled. "Er, yes ma'am."
Barry, Petrov, and the old British woman burst out laughing. Mutt's cheeks turned bright red.
"Very funny, people," Bradford said. "If you're done enjoying today's show, we've got an important operation on our hands."
The laughter petered out, and ten pairs of eyes focused in on Bradford with pinpoint accuracy.
XCOM's central officer suddenly began to feel very, very nervous. Despite the small audience, their attention and serious demeanor made him realize the enormity of this operation. In old XCOM, the men and women he commanded knew the score. Fighting and dying was in the job description. But these people weren't soldiers. They were a mish mash of prostitutes, smugglers, and kindly grandmothers – in other words, civilian volunteers.
Claymore's words echoed in his head.
Bullshit, Sweaters. Anyone who's mad enough to try this is going to wind up dead.
Twenty years ago, when XCOM had the brightest minds in the scientific community, the best medical facilities and weapons that money could buy, and the backing of the world's most powerful nations, that would've been considered a highly pessimistic sentiment. Now that XCOM was a lone body, on the run from the same world it was made to defend, it was a grim reality.
Bradford swallowed back his doubts. It wasn't just the lives of his troops that were at stake, he reminded himself. It was the fate of their world, of their entire species.
"Glad I have your attention," he said at last. "But before I get into the details of today's op, I have an important question to ask you all. Does anyone know what day tomorrow is?"
Bradford grinned as he saw the ten faces in front of him curdle into scowls and frowns.
"That's right, people," he said. "Tomorrow's Unification Day."
"Fuck Unification Day!" cried Banks.
"Damn right!" roared Petrov, pumping a fist into the air. A few others in the crowd hooted and hollered along with him.
Bradford raised his hands, and the din quieted down. "Glad to see that your resolve hasn't been worn down since your stay here, recruits," he said. "Yes, today is when the governments of our world collapsed and handed our future over to the aliens. Today is the day when ADVENT rose and fucked up our lives.
"They call that the day we 'progressed' from our old, corrupt selves, and embraced the 'order' and 'peace' that is the Elders and their Administration. They look at it as the foundation of their iron grip over humanity."
Bradford took a few steps, letting the words hang.
"We're going to make that day the foundation of a new, free Earth. We will make them remember it as a testament to the human will to be free, to be masters of our own lives.
"Tomorrow is when we take the fight to ADVENT."
Cheers and whoops rose from the recruits, arms waving in the air. Even the nervous looking Chinese girl let out a high, manic titter, a rosy glow spreading across her pale cheeks. Mutt, Barry, and Petrov couldn't be more excited at the news.
"Excellent," Bradford said. "Claymore, could you bring up our schematics on Operation Gatecrasher?"
Claymore nodded, and tapped a few keys on the Avenger's holographic console. A low hum and a blue glow rose from the center of the machine as it came to life. Then, with a start, the large, concave divot in the machine's center spat out a holographic sphere.
With another button press, the shifting, unstable form of the globe dissolved, scattering into thousands of small, sky blue squares that buzzed about the air like a swarm of bees. In less than a second, the swarm had coalesced, melding together to form several tall pillars: an Advent city center.
"This is Novgorod," Bradford said, pointing at the image. "The current capital of the North European District. And it's been chosen to host this year's Unification Day celebration.
"This year's festivities are centered around two events." Bradford nodded to Claymore, who adjusted the console accordingly. The city center disappeared in a swirl of blue pixels, before reforming into an enormous statue depicting an inhuman figure with a flat, curving head and four crossed arms.
"The first is the finishing of this 'super monument'," Bradford explained. "It's been in construction for the past year, and is the main event today. That means a lot of cameras, and a lot of attention. It'll give ADVENT a perfect view of us blowing it up."
Smiles and cheers from the recruits.
"Squad Crasher will be inserted outside in the city slums, at least five miles away from the target. This team will commandeer a transport of some kind, and then make their way to the target. Once there, they will take out any Advent security forces, plant the explosives at the base of the statue, and extract."
The holographic image swirled once more, before being replaced with the models of several groups of Advent troopers marching around the area.
"Security's going to be very, very tight," Bradford said. "Ever since a small group of resistance fighters tried to bomb a gene clinic in Paris, the Advent Administration's been keeping a close eye on the populace. Reports indicate that the forces will consist of at least two battle squadrons, and one command squadron."
Bradford paused, looking over the recruits' faces.
"That means there'll probably be at least 15 of the bastards," he clarified. "And once Squad Crasher goes loud, the rest of Novgorod's garrison will be breathing down our necks.
"This is where the second part of the operation occurs," Bradford said. Behind him, the hologram shifted to form a long podium, with several figures sitting behind it. "In the southern part of Novgorod, several of Advent's highest political figures will be speaking at a rally, honoring the construction. Among these figures is the Advent Speaker."
A portrait emerged on the holographic projector of a longhaired, bespectacled man with a pencil thin neck. His high, rigid cheekbones and the slick grin on his face made him look more like a serpent than a man.
For most of the recruits, the guy looked like an absolute douchebag.
"He's the head of Advent's communication, and the face of the Administration as a whole. He'll be giving the main address today."
Five more faces appeared on the projector: an Asian man in a military uniform, a black man in a lab coat, a white man, also in military attire, a small, owlish white woman, and an Asian woman in a slim, fashionable suit.
"ADVENT has a weird tendency for censoring the true names of its workers," Bradford said. "So the only names we've gotten are these: Hades, Apollo, Zeus, Aphrodite, and Artemis, respectively.
"Hades and Zeus are the ADVENT military heads. They've been coordinating every Advent peacekeeping action in both hemispheres of the world since 2016. Apollo is ADVENT's second-best researcher, known for his work in digital security and encryption. Aphrodite, fittingly, is ADVENT's head of propaganda. Her hand is in every digital work floating in the city centers, and her voice rings from every speaker.
"Finally, Artemis is ADVENT's head of homeland security. In other words, the head of their 'secret police'."
Bradford paused. "Anyone want me to go over that again?"
Heads shook.
Bradford cleared his throat, and then continued.
"In order to keep ADVENT off of Gatecrasher, a second team will be formed. From the group standing before me today, five have been chosen to join this team, which has been dubbed 'Menace'.
"Squad Menace will be deployed a couple of hours before Gatecrasher, in a civilian vehicle requisitioned from a nearby settlement. After reaching the rally, they will focus on causing as much destruction and chaos as possible, before pulling out.
"Squad Menace's main targets will be the six officials I have just mentioned. Advent security teams on sight are also fair game. Civilians, on the other hand, are not, unless they try to obstruct your mission. Artemis, Hades, and Zeus take top priority – take every opportunity to kill them. But don't stay too long, otherwise you'll be up to your necks in security squadrons."
Bradford paused again.
"I have already chosen two people to head the squads," he said. With one hand, he pointed at Shi. "Operative Sún Shi will be squad leader of Squad Menace."
Shi stepped forward and bowed.
"And as squad leader of Squad Crasher, I have chosen Mutt."
The British smuggler stepped forward, a big grin on his face. "Shucks, boys," he said. "I won't let you down."
"Orders to the squads will be relayed by my colleague, Claymore, " Bradford said, gesturing to her. "Take them as suggestions if you will. Improvisation is encouraged, but don't make it a habit.
"I want to see you all up, and sober, with gear ready tomorrow at 7 am. We'll have to be ready if we want to bloody ADVENT's nose. Got that?"
The recruits cheered, suffused with energy. Bradford resisted the urge to holler along with them.
"Alright, then," he said. "Dismissed."