I hear her slithering out into the hallway, aside from my beating heart and the constant, repetitive beeping of the many machines hooked up to my body, it is silent for only a moment after.
Then my thoughts begin drifting again. The past months gave me more than enough time to do so many times, always exploring what my situation could possibly result in. What strategy I could have for getting out, how much they would expect me to follow their instructions if they would just imprison me after I was no longer of use? Of course, they could, given the lack of government.
What kind of world would I be creating?
Previously, the only thing I worried about in my work was if I could rise higher and faster, not any of the potential consequences for the wider world. Why? Simply because I had no influence, I didn't work toward a larger goal or anything besides fulfilling the desires of the people a part of it. Now, however, I am basically working for the government.
And I still don't buy their shit about wanting to learn from every mistake, break down the concept of an enemy. Or whatever that Marshal was spouting the entire time.
I looked over at the clock, the constant ticking making every moment in which I was forced to lay and do nothing feel like an endless void of time.
I used to have despised this, dreaded every second I was aware of time passing with nothing I could do about it. Hell, I had done it for the past decade of my life, forced into a life of, well this.
I was used to this. It was nothing I should feel uncomfortable with given the amount of time I had spent in this state. Why couldn't I just be content with it?
For how long, I chased the highs of it all, never stopping to let it all catch up. And it was hard to come to terms with it, hell, I am barely managing the couple hours I have to wait between Isra and…
The lock to the door clicks and I hear metal boots stepping inside. 'About time,' I want to mutter but hold back, instead choosing to have my eyes closed for just another moment, just one more moment in which I let the lesson this waiting has taught me. Strangely enough, I am ready to let the following action wait a little longer.
Then the lights come on and I am forcefully ripped out of the calm sea of darkness I had settled in. "I can tell you aren't sleeping." The sharp, strangely Canadian-Noth American accented voice calls to my senses.
"You're late," I say as I pull myself up into a sitting position with the little triangle-shaped hook.
She looked the same, again with that scar across her nose and blue eyes, her white hair loose around the head. Her jaw made the polite smile, but the complex features didn't make it all too friendly.
"I am a very busy woman, Mr. Ringer," she replies without a hint of excusing herself.
"Then why do you still come to talk to me every week?" I don't particularly care about this question, but I still take the opportunity to be somewhat active. Perhaps it is because I was supremely bored, or I was keenly aware that every second I spent next to her was one in which I had to be in control.
She just looks at me, her expression neutral, frozen and unreadable. She saw right through my tone, unconcerned whether I would be cordial and cooperative. And suddenly, while I was looking into the black spots in the middle of the violet sea for just a moment, the entire room went quiet and alone.
All light sucked into the fine edge of her pupils, all sound numbed and thinned until it was only a constant humming pressure in the still, unmoving air. And despite any conviction, I could have produced to fight it, she was the singular, eternal focus of my attention.
She smiles, slightly raising her lips and the curve of her brows. 'There we go,' her expression reads.
"Mr. Ringer, we are approaching the date in which you will be combat-ready, according to Dr. Marks. So in accordance with your contract, this will be the last official conversation we will have."
"Huh, contract," I scoff. I signed nothing, only a mental agreement that I had no real choice in.
Her eyes squint for a second before she drops her cold demeanor for but a moment. "I know you don't see me as your ally, but I think you will soon change your view on this. Your experience with Isra has already proven very valuable in our understanding of potential rehabilitation of the aliens." She gathers herself for a moment then open a document on a tablet, reading what I presume to be the notes she took last week. "Now, as you recall, our last talk was about the influence of long-term psionic effects on consciousness. I asked you to think about the exact situation under which Isra connected with her own free will while with you."
"I still do not see how me telling you about it is in any way beneficial, seeing as you looked into both of our memories." Again, I try to keep my thoughts tightly sealed and focused only on the words I am currently speaking, hoping that it limits what she can glean from the obvious and constant psionic connection she holds.
"I have, but psionics on a being with its own will is either spotty and incomplete or intrusive and potentially harmful. I deliberately didn't expose either of you to the latter, "Fetra replies. Perhaps she is telling the truth, maybe it is just manipulation.
I sigh, knowing that the only way to end this is to comply, at least a little.
"Yes, I have thought about it. But why haven't you just asked her?" Or has she and is simply seeing if our answers will match?
She raises a brow," I believed it was in your interest to not inform her of our talks, was I mistaken?"
"No." I hate this woman and I do not attempt to hide my contempt.
She smiles again and pulls a chair to the side of my bed. She takes a seat and crosses one leg over the other. "Then shall we continue?"
I take a pregnant pause to collect myself, "What came to mind when you said that under the circumstances of isolation from the psionics, the present sectoids seem to produce a feedback echo of the last received command, making it so even if the main centers break down all units within range will still be under control, was what Isra told me about sectoids and their assimilation into Advent."
She looks down at her notes and ponders for a moment. "I believe I remember that. But please, do remind me, that memory is muddled with emotions in both of your minds."
"The sectoids were empathetic creatures, that's how they were conquered. The elders used it to their advantage to force the sectoid collective to submit, using brutality and exploiting their connection to the nature of their homeworld."
Before I can continue, I see a glint of recognition in her eyes, a tiny spark that shows she is drawing similar conclusions to my own.
"What if, after their assimilation, the elders kept the sectoids' empathy intact, in a way that would connect them with every other alien unit? As a contingency, perhaps they managed to alter empathy to something that would force the sectoids to echo the last commands, sharing their own mind with the aliens far enough to give them the same level of obedience?"
She types something, then puts the tablet down.
"Do you know the old definitions of consciousness?" She asks flatly, not expecting a real response.
"I have a feeling you are about to enlighten me."
"There are three relevant terms. Sapience, sentience, and consciousness. Sapience is feeling, and experiencing the world as it is by taking in stimuli. Every animal is sapient and even fauna may be, it could be more accurately described as awareness. Sentience would be the feelings, instincts, and intuition, which require more intelligence. Conscious is whoever possesses the previous category and its unique definition. Until quite recently, humans have never truly understood what makes something conscious, but we always knew we were."
"So what, you're saying you've solved one of the biggest mysteries in human history? Seems a bit self-flatuating if you ask me."
"Of course, you would say that, given that you can only ever experience your own perception of consciousness. But, with the help of psionics, I and my researchers have been able to see if there are differences in this between conscious beings. Mutons, for example, possess sentients but at a very basic level, barely above that of a wild animal. And while we cannot say if that was their state before their control by Advent, it certainly is that way now."
"You mentioned that mutons were possibly the first species to be conquered, maybe that's the reason," I theorize.
"That's what I believe at least, but it is currently impossible to tell."
"Then what about vipers?" I prod.
"Now that, Luis, is a good question." It seems I fell right into her trap once again. "The units we have been able to study and rescue show signs that their consciousness was suppressed heavily from birth. Consciousness is, among the other parts I mentioned, awareness of one's self, and understanding of one's individuality. But the vipers hatched within Advent control never had the opportunity to evolve it, until freed from the network."
A memory creeps its way from my mind into my thoughts and it is already too late to suppress it. I feel it slip, I feel her grasp it and pull it from me like a strand of fabric from clothing. She draws it from me and I cannot stop it.
"Interesting," she simply says, her eyes flaring with purple light. "Please, speak it."
I don't want to, not in the slightest. But she already knows, it`s too late to hide it now. So, as reluctantly as I can, I speak with a venomous tone. "But Isra wasn`t hatched in Advent control, she was alive before then."
"Exactly."
"But…why does that matter, are there no other vipers left from their home world? If that were the deciding factor, you would know this already."
"That's what I am trying to figure out. She is a single case, a unique situation where some unknown and known factors made her able to break free on her own and continue to rediscover her consciousness. What I want to know, what are those unknown factors."
"I'm not a psychic, I only know what she told me and she hasn`t spoken much about the time in Advent control."
"Of course, she hasn`t, I doubt she remembers much. But she has told you some things, and the way she has was through action, not just words." She raises her tablet once more, ready to take notes. "We were on the topic of empathy before and with what you told me, that may be a large part of figuring this out."
"But psionic empathy is universal, no? What does her experience matter in the face of being subjected to a sectoid's control?"
"Everything. psionic empathy, that's not too far off from what it is. But here is the part you don't know because you aren't psionic. All psionics are empathy. A being without empathy does not have the capacity to develop psionics. It's why the elders are so interested in humanity, we have great potential for them, perhaps even more so than sectoids. However, the vipers hatched within Advent retain very little of it, almost none until they are free of the network."
"And vipers born outside of Advent?"
"Is that really a question you need me to answer? Isra has risked her own life to save yours multiple times, shown great interest in seeing you as an equal, as a friend, as a part–"
"Don't." I interrupt her. I can tolerate these talks barely, being forced to talk about myself or Isra is already hard enough to endure, I won't have her making these comments.
"I apologize," she says, but nothing in her expression or tone matches the words. "Yes, it would seem that she is quite capable of feeling empathy toward someone else, even another species."
"So that's your solution, right? This seems rather simple to me, also like something you already knew." I don't hide my distrust, something is wrong here, she is playing with me. I feel like a fly trapped in a black widow's net, watching as I am being led to believe I am still free.
"No, not at all. It may be easy to understand with all the information you have and how I've explained it, but there is quite a lot more. Her reaction to my psionics was one. She, unlike any being I have questioned, managed to deliberately hide facts from me. For example, most of your conversations from the third day onward, after the incident at the waterfall were hidden and blurred from her mind."
"Do you not consider that rummaging around in other people's heads is quite the invasive process?" I say, knowing quite well she is currently monitoring my thoughts for any slipup on Isra's story.
"It's a form of interrogation, something that would have helped solve many mysteries in the old world. And it's not as easy as you think, Mr. Ringer. I often enough don't choose to observe another's mind. You can think of it as radiation, energy without mass, constantly leaking from everything that has a mind. I am simply a Geiger counter, in this example. I measure, I observe, I…"
Fetra suddenly turns her head, like a cat hearing the scurrying of a rat. The door opens and a woman I've seen before walks inside with a tablet. She goes to open her mouth but the psycho interviewing me already rises, her gaze focused and her body tense. "What is it, Kelly?"
Kelly, the dark-haired woman gives me a suspicious look before returning her vision to the tablet. "Our insurgency team has hit a roadblock. The alarm has been rung and reinforcements are inbound within the hour."
"Shit," Fetra cusses and grabs the tablet, going over the radar of red and blue dots systematically.
At first, I wasn't that bothered, considering it was just a basic hiccup in their constant war against a superior foe. But that's when I spotted the names on the side of the screen, their heartrate attached to a small camera showing their point of view. Isra.
At the same moment in which I made the discovery, Fetra turned to me with purple light in her iris. Before I can make the decision of hiding my thoughts or not, she has already seen them.
"Luis, listen to me," she starts, approaching me and reaching out a hand. My vision becomes blurry and my head pounds with pressure.
I slap her hand away, clenching my teeth to try to shut her out. She is trying to force her way into my thoughts, manipulating my feelings, taking my anger, and replacing it with calm complacency.
Finally, I manage to tear my eyes off her and shake my head, clearing just enough of my mind to grunt "Stop!"
She pauses, I still feel her at the edges of my thoughts, waiting.
"Isra is working for you, isn't she?" I ask, even if the answer is already clear.
"She agreed to it on her conditions, she also asked me not to tell you." If she wasn't ready to turn me into a drooling meat puppet, I would've maybe believed her.
"And now you're getting her killed!" I burst forth, accusingly pointing at the screen.
Kelly, the poor woman, looked back and forth between her commanding officer and the rambling madman, unsure if she was allowed to leave yet. She decides to intervene instead. "Her squad is not being assaulted directly, they managed to lock themselves in the command center and have control of the facility. The outside forces don't have the equipment to break through, but the incoming aliens will."
I look at her with a tilted view, seeing if there is any hint of deception in her words. Fetra remains quiet, she doesn't need to. She already knows what thought just crossed my mind.
"How close are we to their position?" I ask, the plan taking form within me.
"With a skyranger, we're about 40 minutes out. A dropship could make it in less than 30, but we can't bring many troops with it." Fetra replies and I hear just the faintest hint of a smile in her voice.
"Then what are we waiting for, you wanted a field test, right?" The offer to fight again was the first thing she asked me about, after all. As she was already well aware of my agreement before I spoke it out loud, her reaction was mute in comparison to the thrill of… excitement I felt from her presence at the edge of my thoughts. Her emotions, although contained and coiled like a spring, left me feeling like I was standing at the bottom of a mountain.
We hurried through the winding corridors of the skycarrier, every second that I counted in my mind flooding my thoughts with the idea of Isra being hurt, killed, or captured. I couldn't know what kind of deal she agreed to, hell, if she even agreed. Fetra could have made her do it, put her under control. Suddenly I went back into every interaction I have had with her since we got here.
But something else eventually pushed its way into the forefront, just as I stepped into the smaller, capsule-shaped aircraft. I have a criminal record, enough to be considered quite the threat to whatever government position xcom was currently trying to occupy. This wouldn't go away through legal battles or in courts or living away in a cell. No, the only way this would go away is with a good old-fashioned deal.
That's what Fetra offered me, a deal to make my past vanish.
I had never mentioned that deal to Isra.
'She offered her service for me…'
I strap into the seat, three others are in the tightly stuffed vehicle with me. I recognized one of them from the canteen but didn't catch his name. They all wore padded body armor, black metal alloy plates, magazines, internal radio equipment, and a camera. Two of them held modified magnetic weapons, some new tech I was unfamiliar with. None of them spoke, just quietly checking their equipment as the transport took off.
After a minute or so the pilot gave the clear via the hangar lights turning green. The soldier from the mess hall, a blond-haired man in his early 30s, a few healing bruises and scratches marking his face, handed me a tangle of wires with a hand-held device. The green handkerchief peeked from his armor slightly torn at the edges.
"Turn to 39, put the right bud in your ear and the clip on your collar," he yelled through the internal, deafening rumble of the engine.
I understand enough, fixing the microphone to the top of my shirt, and putting the bud into my ear. Twisting the dial of the receiver greets me with static, followed by screams, followed by his voice.
"You got it?" He checks over the radio and I give a thumbs up. "Stand up, let's get you outfitted."
The aircraft still rumbles with the air current and speed, but I am more than used to that. I follow him down the miniature amount of space to the locker. Everyone has to tuck their legs in as I squeeze past.
"I'm Markus, callsign Beak," he says before picking up a vest with a plate carrier. I put it on and strap in, inserting the plate of black alloy into the front and sides, while he secures my back. "Mags are here, your sidearm here, and–"
"Camera, medkit, grenade, knife," I interrupt, feeling the different objects on my body. It's a strange feeling, to be back in gear, working with others who at least seem to be professionals in their unit. Familiar but also tinged with the bitterness of being their captive.
"What kind of weapon will I have? I'm not too familiar with your… arsenal," I motion toward the bulky, alien-type rifles.
"I was told to bring something from the armory," he reaches into a compartment, pulling free a metal box. My eyes widen as he clicks it open. "Something from the old world, modified slightly."
He steps out of the way and I am left to gaze at the tool of war in front of me. The model was clearly once a Barrett M82, at least before the exchanged part of the handle and stock to that signature black, sleek metal. I quickly got to work assembling the parts into the beautiful rifle it was meant to be.
"What kind of modifications?" I followed up with Beak after I was done.
"Shock rounds, it what we use to subdue the aliens non-lethally. They hurt as hell but they don't kill. Just don't shoot them in the eyes."
I am about to comment that taser rounds are more unreliable than a pipe bomb, but hold my tongue as I consider the kinds of technological advances they've made without my knowing.
"R1, come in," Fetra's voice resonates on the radio.
"We're approaching LZ, ten minutes out," Beak replies.
"Luis, can you hear me?" She asks directly and the other three look at me.
"Copy, what's the plan?"
"We don't have communication anymore, the remaining hostiles have set up a jammer. The ground-to-air system is down so we are free to approach. But that's not your job, you'll be setting up on a nearby vantage point and providing covering fire and overwatch until our main forces converge for extraction. Berserkers have been sighted, so don't compromise your position unless necessary."
"Fox and March, you're going to prepare the evac site for our arrival, expect heavy fire," Beak directed the two soldiers under his command. The look he gives me lets me know he isn't particularly pleased with being at my side instead of by his comrades. I don't blame him.
I check out my sidearm, a boxy pistol with a barrel too thick to fire a regular bullet. I assume it was a laser projectile of some sort. My rifle has a clip to attach it to my vest, allowing me to get familiar with the weight of it again.
I feel the ship slowing down, gravity pulls upward for a moment, indicating we are losing altitude. With the small size of the craft and black hull, it would be hard to spot against the cloudy night sky.
"Have you ever fired something like that?" One of the men asks, his white hair standing upright similarly to Fetra. He wore some weird-looking mask made from black glass to cover all of his features except the mouth. If he wasn't wearing proper armor alongside it, I would've taken him for a Tron cosplayer. The question was directed at my weapon and although I couldn't read his expressions it sounded more like a joke.
"A few times, mostly for hunting," I reply, not letting him know if I was serious, either.
That invoked a small chuckle from the one on the right, his young features scarred on one side by a large shrapnel wound reaching from cheek to brow. He couldn't be older than 25, I think.
Soon enough, the pilot turned the lights back to red and the engine's constant whirring became quieter. Not even close to silent, but it was no longer deafening. With our approach being as stealthy as it could be, the journey comes to a sudden halt.
The cold night air replaces the heated interior atmosphere with the opening of the door. Beak hands me part of the rope the rest of the team is already attached to. I swiftly run it through the belt in my vest and line up.
The drop is barely ten meters, so our descent is fast and the landing hard. I feel something pop in my knees and am reminded of my age. I don't let it show, though, as I detach the rope and take aim into the surrounding underbrush.
The grass soon returns to its natural, softly moving state, the leaves on trees stop their push against the current of the small craft, and the sound vanishes into the clouds.
From this moment on, something in me snapped to life, something so deeply ingrained within my psyche and body that even breathing felt different. This old, comfortable feeling of heightened awareness sent adrenaline into every fiber of my feet, legs, arms, and fingers. The weapon in my hand felt lighter, the armor less constricting.
I don't even realize I've started walking, falling behind Beak and his green handkerchief while the other two split off. We quickly find a path that looks like it was made by animals walking through the bushes, and up a hill of dirt. The ground eventually turns into solid rock and the ascent grows steeper until we are practically climbing instead of walking.
Beak reaches out a hand when we reach the top and I grab it after a moment's consideration. The top of this small mountain is large enough for three, maybe four people to stand on, so more than enough space to set up. I look over the edge and see the structure about 200 meters away.
From this vantage point, I can make out three entrances to the main building, the front gate of the fence, and most of the southern perimeter.
The man next to me produces a pair of binoculars and goes prone. I unholster the rifle from its sling and extend the tripod. With minimal conscious thought, my fingers flick open the cover on the scope and start to adjust the zoom dial. With one eye closed, I fiddle with it until the details become sharp.
The radio's static gives way to the voice of another man, clearly talking through a headset given the muffled sounds of his speech. "Approaching landing zone, prepare for contact."
I look over my shoulder and see a faint blinking light in the sky, rapidly coming closer. No more time to watch the scenery, I focus all of my attention on the zoomed optics of my rifle. I spot a pod of guards jogging around the side, another commanding officer crouched by a panel controlling the door.
"March and Fox are approaching the compound, keep overwatch, 10 O'clock," Beak says, doing his job as my spotter.
I follow his direction and see the two men sneaking through the bushes, toward the fence line where I see a hole cut into the metal.
"Enemy just ahead, around the corner. Wait for my signal then run," I say, which Beak quickly translates.
I shift my sights, the optics a straight arrow. Lining up the tip of the arrow with the chest of a trooper. His only exposed skin on his chin, wrinkled and pale pink, grimaces as he scans the area. I feel the pressure of the trigger as my finger squeezes, while my shoulder tenses and legs press into the ground. One last inhale and–
There is practically no recoil, which somewhat throws my muscle memory off. The sudden blue light, however, hits my target square in the chest. I watch as his muscles contract all at once, causing him to fall face-first into the concrete.
Fox and March move quickly, taking the space I made hastily, pressing their backs against the wall. They skirt around the edge of the building, making their way to what appears to be a vent. One of them, I think March, gets to work with a small tool that cuts through the edges of the grate.
"Incoming, 9 O'clock," Beak warns me with concern in his voice.
I speedily shift over in my position and see both a viper and a sectoid, possibly checking out the disturbance.
"I can't take the shot, it will alert them to our presence," I say through gritted teeth. If I shoot the viper, the sectoid can mentally alert everyone, if I shoot the sectoid the viper can run for cover before I can stop her.
"Take the shot, get the sectoid," Beak orders.
I line my scope up with the red and black viper, silver scales on her belly. With the zoom of the scope, I can see the red glowing eyes, looking vacant. "How long until the carrier arrives?"
"Status, Lay 1, come in," Beak says over the radio while I watch the two guards getting closer to rounding the corner where the two men are still occupied.
"50 seconds until contact," comes through the radio.
"I'm not shooting," I say immediately.
"What?!" Beak says, louder than he wanted to, indicated by his hissing whisper afterward. "I am not risking my men because of your whims. Take the fucking shot."
"No, if I do they won't get far inside and the group has to fight their way out on their own. They're moving slow enough, trust me." I reply, calculating how long it would take the patrol to reach the corner at their current pace.
"I don't trust you, why would I? Move over if you're going to disobey." He tosses his binoculars to the side and reaches for the hilt of my gun. I pull away in the same instant and click the safety on.
The man wastes no time to jump atop of me, trying to wrench the gun from my hands but I hold firm. The first hit connects with the side of my cheekbone, stinging and sending warm pain into my face. Before I can bring up my hands, another fist slips past my arm and my head rings with a throbbing hot splatter of blood. Something in my nose breaks and blood begins to flow down to my mouth.
I finally manage to react to his attack and push his hand away, his fist landing next to my head. When he pulls his arm back to hit me again, I react first. I curl my fingers to make a sharp edge with my knuckles and strike directly at the base of her throat. I feel his soft tissue give way and he immediately makes the distinct noise of someone failing to inhale or swallow.
He grabs his throat and falls backward, his chest heaving but failing to draw air inside. I feel the blood run down my face and I spit some of it out.
"Calm down, you're not going to die, just relax." I pull up the binoculars and watch how close the two guards have gotten. Only a short distance separates the aliens from March and Fox who are almost finished sawing through the grate.
"Making contact, prepare for engagement," the radio chatters up again.
I look up and watch as the larger floating aircraft flies into view. Its floodlights illuminate the entire compound as the engines flutter and burn in the cold night air.
Beak, still grabbing his throat, looks up at me with tears in his eyes, a natural reaction. I once again go prone and take aim with my sniper, watching as the two men pull the vent cover away and crawl inside.
"They weren't spotted. Now, how about we make sure no one dies today?" I offer him a small glance, which he meets with disdain. I half expect him to pounce on me again, but it seems he has some rationale.
It doesn't take long for the entire base to come to life, shooting their laser and projectile weapons at the aircraft. Blue, green, and red lasers shoot sparks off the hull of the ship, bullets causing it to lose parts of its armor.
The aircraft does a sharp turn in mid-air as it deploys its flares, forming a perimeter around where it hovers. Outside the main gate, groups of xcom soldiers deploy from grappling lines. Once the floor was clear, two shapes jumped down from the carrier, as large as mutons but distinctly not. The soldiers wearing what looks like exoskeleton robotic suits, fully equipped with two extra arms.
Notably, no aliens were on Xcom's side. They move quickly, dashing for cover behind trees as they make their pathway into the compound. The troops coming from the inside position themselves in the prepared defenses, having full cover and high ground. However, Xcom prowls skillfully into obstructions, breaking line of sight constantly.
I watch as the aliens' shots tear through foliage and trees, but never able to pin anyone down for long, thanks to returning fire coming from allies. Shots are exchanged between each party, and a few soldiers take hits but shrug them off thanks to their armor, while the aliens are going down one by one.
I aim and find a target, a muton attempting to flank around the side of the compound. The first shot sends it reeling but doesn't stun it. The inside of the rifle clicks and hums and the trigger becomes pressable again. The muton dives for a chest-high wall but the streak of blue hits it in the shoulder. Its dive becomes a tumble, from which it doesn't get up.
Xcom soldiers duck next to the fence line and pause for a moment. Through my scope, I see one of the heavily armored soldiers activates his robotic arms twist, and turn into position. A small cloud of gunpowder shoots a grenade out of the top. It soars high into the dark sky, vanishing from sight until an explosion lights up the overcast moonlit night. One of the towers, which hosts an automatic turret breaks apart like a Jenga tower. Orange-red fire, tinted with green streaks of lightning billows within a cloud of dust that descends like a curtain on the entire compound – another grenade from the soldiers.
"Mech 1, come in. We are coming in hot, berserkers inbound!" The voice on the radio is that of Fox, sounding out of breath and hurried.
"Copy, cover is up," replies the soldier.
"Switch to thermal, give them cover," Beak commands.
'Right, thermal…' "Where?" I say despite my pride. This weapon was modified beyond my expertise, no reason to risk other lives for my stupidity.
Beak makes no comment and flips a pushes a small button, adding a secondary lens over the zoomed optics. The green filter allows me to see through the thick cloud of smoke, slowly descending on the base. The sectoids seem more or less capable of moving without sight, at least shooting wasn't impossible for them, as one shot a soldier dashing from cover square in the back.
I immediately shoot back and paralyze the alien, watching two soldiers carry the wounded man back to the evac site.
My sight is suddenly drawn to the large main gate into the compound, which the commander had attempted to break into before. The lock twists open and the doors slide open in three directions. The smoke rushes into the newly opened space, but through my thermal scope, I see the dozen Xcom soldiers rushing out. And with them, two vipers.
The first one out was smaller than the usual, sleek, plate armor making her heat signature almost indistinguishable from the ground. Just behind her, holding the rear, firing her plasma weapon, was Isra. Even without her distinct color pattern, I recognized her from her size and posture alone. Only once everyone is outside the gate does she slither backward, shooting into the hallway behind her. As soon as she is past the door, one of the soldiers in her group presses the door controls, shutting it.
Xcom's reinforcements have cleared a path, with some help of my targeted shots. I follow Isra's movements with my rifle, ensuring she is not fired upon by a trouper from high up, where the cloud is not as dense anymore. The large viper catches sight of the glint shooting from my weapon, the goggles on her eyes presumably also helping her see through smoke.
While I couldn't make out her eyes, nor did I think she could see me, I still felt her gaze linger on me. I wondered what she was thinking if she recognized me before Beak tapped me on the shoulder.
"We're done here, let's get out of here."
I attach the weapon to my harness once more and we make our way down the hill. My eyes do not leave the battlefield, however. I watch as through the smoke the humans and a few allied aliens come rushing out, sprinting through the torn-up forest toward the evac zone.
Each soldier grabs a rope and is pulled up at great speeds, so it can be lowered again. It takes only a few seconds for most of the troops to leave the ground. But when it was only the two armored soldiers left, the ship began to ascend again. Our team will meet up further away on a separate ship, but I couldn't imagine how those two would get out of there.
They fire their weapons into the base, suppressing a counterattack with sustained fire, but the aliens begin to surround them, flank them. They start taking fire and I take position behind a tree. I fire upon a few troopers before they realize my position and return fire. I'm suddenly pulled backward behind a thick treetrunk.
"What are you doing? We gotta get out of here, now!" Beak says and pulls me up.
"Is this how you treat soldiers? Leave them to die?" I motion to the two getting shot at from every angle.
"They're fine, we don't leave comrades to themselves, they're giving covering fire for everyone, us included. Now don't be an idiot and run!" He says and takes off running.
I turn back once more, only to see that both of the soldiers have activated some mechanism transforming their exoskeleton feet into two engines. Fire erupts from beneath them and after a second or so they are levitating. The fire increases in size and its color turns blue, giving them enough thrust to take off like the aircraft hovering high above. While shooting, they ascend far enough that their back touches the bottom of the ship, whereupon the robotic arms clamp around the undercarriage.
From the side of the base comes March, but without Fox. The man has a smoldering, blackened patch on the side of his armor at the hip. His staggering steps take him in front of us with a frantic expression painted on his features.
"Where's Fox?" Beak asks.
"He… he went with the other group, we got split," Fox replies through heavy breathing.
Something about him is off, but given we aren't being covered anymore, this is hardly the time to dig further. The larger transport is already taking off into the sky, flying high into the clouds to avoid the last few projectiles that can reach it. Our evacuation opportunity floats just above the tree line, a little farther out.
Beak and I support Fox's limping form, hearing the shouting of Advent officers behind us, with the blaring alarm from the base. When we make it to the four ropes, we clip in and are immediately pulled up into it so hard it pulls my stomach down, making me heave once I make it inside.
"Go, go, go!" Beak shouts and the hangar door closes. Gravity pulls down, the velocity of our ascend feeling like being pulled by a bungee cord but in the wrong direction.
While they tend to Fox's injury, I look out the small porthole window and watch the quickly distancing woods below, the fog grenade and fire drifting listlessly into the sky, where they form new clouds.
While the whirring of the engine fills my head, drowning most thoughts about Fetra and my contract, Beak and our disagreement, or my predicament with Xcom as a whole, it does nothing to draw my mind away from one desire.
I need to talk to Isra, openly and honestly.
Regret and hindsight… that conversation has not left my mind since it happened. What I said wasn't calculated or planned, but honest. Afterward, I felt closer to her than anyone ever before. And that warmth was something I was severely lacking, in the cold, relentless wind rushing through the gaps of the ship's armor.