Somewhere in Europe

XCOM Headquarters

February, 2015

Two weeks after the activation of the XCOM project

The mess hall was abuzz with voices, as varied as they were numerous. A mild tension hung in the air, but the people were still remarkably calm, considering the global crisis they were collectively tasked with facing. Earth's best and brightest had been gathered by a mysterious higher power to combat the alien invaders. So far, half of the organization's missions had ended in the partial or total loss of its field teams. Those who were skilled or fortunate enough to survive would find themselves permanently assigned to a squad. This quickly led to a saying among the members of XCOM: "There's only one way to leave, and that's feet first."

Despite this bloody start, the results couldn't be denied. The response to the invasion had been lightning-fast, and the greater objectives of each excursion were completed more often than not, slowing the advancement of the invaders. Two squads had quickly been assembled from the survivors of such missions―both showing immense potential for the future―with more in the works. In the short time since the project's activation, XCOM had made multiple small but impactful advancements in technology, from armor modifications to weapon enhancements, that provided an edge and vastly increased the survivability of the field teams. And today, they had acquired a particularly valuable asset; one that had been changing the world from the shadows for several years, one bullet at a time.

"And here we have the mess hall," the Commander gestured to the room, "Pretty self-explanatory, I think. It's lunchtime right now, so we can grab a bite if you're hungry."

"Don't mind if I do," I answered with a grin, "Y'know, considering you lot nabbed me before I could eat breakfast!"

As we walked across the room, heads turned to look at the newcomer. Everyone had been informed that they were getting another member, but it was unheard of for the Commander to give anyone a personal tour of the base. Of course, I wasn't just anyone; I was the Ghostwalker: boogeyman to anyone who thought themselves to be untouchable. I'd been all over the world, working for all kinds of people―from private interests to federal governments―to kill anyone who needed killing. Those who could find me paid top dollar for my services, and for good reason: I was the best shot money could buy.

A tall, stocky man with rich brown hair stood up and fell into step next to us. "Who's the new blood, Commander?" he asked with a friendly smile.

"Ah, Titus," the officer responded in kind, turning to me, "This is Titus, leader of the Centurions: our first and highest-performing squad so far. You'll be joining them going forward." He then turned to the Centurion, continuing: "This is Captain Cutter. You might know him better as the Ghostwalker."

Titus paused. "Shit. For real?" Seeing his leader's serious expression, he was able to deduce the answer. Without missing a beat, his smile returned. "Well, let me be the first to say that it's great to have you here. I don't know much more than the next guy about who you are, but I know enough to appreciate what you bring to the table. Might I ask where you served?"

"Eh?" I cocked an eyebrow. "I was never in the military, mate. I'm a freelancer. A mercenary." I chuckled. "Well, until today, that is! And since we're doing the whole codename thing, you can just call me Ghost; fast and simple, since I suspect that we'll be talking fast more often than not."

The Centurion was visibly confused, but not upset. "So… are you actually a Captain?"

"As of today, yes," the Commander answered plainly, "He's your Captain, to be precise. What he lacks in military service, he more than makes up for in field experience. Making that many high-profile assassinations over that many years without getting caught requires skill beyond most human comprehension."

Titus took a moment to process this, then nodded. "Alright, I respect that logic. Certainly unorthodox, but I'll just be glad to have my squad back at full strength; we need a replacement for Vapor."

"May he rest in peace." There was a short moment of silence after our leader uttered these words. Even humanity's best could meet their match when fighting an otherworldly enemy, as XCOM had so thoroughly discovered in the past two weeks. It was a new challenge for me, but I wasn't scared; I truly was the best. In half a decade of working as the deadliest hitman money could buy, I had made kills at distances thought to be impossible, and under circumstances straight out of a movie. No living human was a better shot. If the aliens thought that they had seen all that humanity had to offer, they had another thing coming.

As we stepped into line to fill our trays with food, Titus― apparently going for seconds―shook himself from his thoughts and addressed me. "Things definitely work differently here from what you're used to, but I think you'll like it. We've got some serious scientific and political firepower backing us; our Research and Development guys seem to churn out some new discovery or advancement almost every day. Or at least, that's what it feels like. Big change of pace from the Marines, let me tell you!"

"You were a jarhead?"

"Hoorah."

I chuckled, cocking an eyebrow. "I guess it's my turn to ask where you served, eh?"

"Did three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan," the Centurion answered proudly, "Hated every second of it. Would've gone back if the invasion hadn't happened." This clear contradiction didn't surprise me; most soldiers that I had met over the years seemed to share this love-hate relationship with their wartime duties.

I, on the other hand, loved my job. It was diamond-hard and extremely dangerous, but always worth the paycheck. People were willing to pay six or seven figures for a single kill, and thanks to this, I had the privilege of picking my contracts. I had gained a reputation for targeting the rich and powerful, but only if I felt they deserved "removal" from their position. From tyrants, to corrupt politicians, to resource barons―for the right price, I could hunt down and brain-hole anyone powerful enough to think themselves to be above the law. Of course, such assassinations rarely made the news; someone always had a cover-up prepared, conveniently covering my tracks.

If what Titus claimed was true, he had completed four tours of duty. Given his burly build and genuine attitude, I was inclined to believe him; he certainly looked like he could fight through so many excursions, and it would explain why he had been selected for the XCOM project. Though, frankly, I didn't see why I was being made the squad leader; my experience was mainly with solo, clandestine operations at long range, not open combat. And, by all means, it seemed like that was exactly what was in store for us. On the other hand, I had been told that the Commander himself was the one to give orders during missions, so perhaps the title of Squad Leader was simply a formality.

My train of thought was broken as my new teammate nudged me. When I looked up at him, he smiled and pointed with his chin to something on my other side. I turned to see the Commander, standing in line next to me, whispering something to…

"Moira?" I breathed.

The good Doctor was grinning like a schoolgirl at whatever her companion was saying. He was standing far closer to her than any officer should have to his subordinate, but she was apparently unbothered. On the contrary: they both seemed to be having a grand time with whatever it was they were talking about. Moira looked up for a moment and caught my gaze. For a moment, she seemed to not register this―but snapped back up to me with wide eyes. "You!"

I smiled. "Long time no see, doc."

The Commander seemed taken aback, but was trying to hide his shock. "You two know each other?"

Vahlen jabbed a finger at me, unable to hold back a smile of her own. "I know this schluckspecht better than anyone! He's ended up in my care so many times that I could list every detail of his medical profile and history from memory!" She lowered her hand and raised her eyebrows. "Some of which are more impressive than others."

I wink knowingly at my bewildered comrades. "Not every mission goes off without a hitch. I could make a necklace from all the things our doctor here has pulled out of me."

"And build a house from all of your broken bones!" Moira quipped. Ever since I had made a name for myself, I had been afforded the best medical care money could buy whenever I got hurt, and that came in the form of Doctor Vahlen. She had been willing and able to work discreetly, without any paper trail or records. I shouldn't have been surprised to meet her here; a portfolio like that made her a perfect candidate for a black project like this.

Over the years, she and I had developed an odd friendship. We rarely saw each other outside of an operating room, but I established early on―when she had yet to earn my trust―that tranquilizers were off the table. Call it paranoia, but I had no desire to let anyone root around in my insides without my supervision. This turned into a habit of keeping me awake for my operations, allowing us to talk while she worked on saving my life. It never bothered her. Sadly, it had always seemed like I was one of her only friends, which might have been why I grew on her so easily. It was nice to see that she was making new friends here―especially in such high places.

"I guess you'll be seeing a lot more of him!" Titus laughed, "He's a Centurion now, and we aren't exactly known for staying out of trouble."

Moira rolled her eyes and sighed, but still grinned. "I know that better than anyone. As long as you keep coming back alive, I won't complain. Besides: medicine is my secondary practice; xenobiology is my main specialty. I'm here as Chief Researcher."

The food being shoveled onto our trays wasn't exactly world-class cuisine, but it looked palatable; some kind of meat nuggets drowned in barbecue sauce, with vegetables that seemed freeze-dried. It was the kind of low-end, relatively nutritious meal that was to be expected of a military base, though this gave the impression that they had thrown together a hundred MREs and sent it to the mess hall. For all I knew, that might have been exactly the case; given the rapid and rocky start to the project, logistics were primarily focused on bringing in new people and replenishing combat supplies, not food. Such a setup, or something similarly simple, would ease the logistical strain until we had our feet under us. In fact, this stuff might have been stored here preemptively along with ammo reserves and such.

Stepping out of the line with full trays, Titus and I parted ways with the Commander and Doctor. The Centurion led me back to the table he had originally risen from, where the rest of the squad sat. I was quite hungry, so I tucked in while my new friend handled initial introductions. There were only two other squad members at the table: an enormous man by the codename Tower, who was the heavy weapons specialist, and a stout woman who went by Bear, serving as the team's medic. Titus himself was a CQB specialist, and filled a shock-trooper-like role in combat. They had recently lost their marksman―a man named Vapor―whose role I now filled. And they had already been briefed on who I was. Tower was a man of few words, content to listen to the conversation and only speak when directly prompted. Bear, on the other hand, was blatantly outspoken, unreserved, and obviously eager to acquaint herself with her new squadmate.

"So tell me, Captain Cutter," she asked, "How did it come to be that you're our new leader?" The medic spoke with a thick Russian accent; a strong reminder that XCOM was pulling talent from all over the world to fill its ranks.

"I'm still wondering about that myself," I answered with a shrug, "I've never been a soldier, and I've never tried to hide that. By all means, I'd say Titus is far better-qualified for that position, but the decision's been made by people well above us."

"It's mostly a formality anyway," Titus explained, confirming my earlier suspicions, "In case we ever lose contact with HQ in the field, we resort to classic chain of command. I suspect you've been made top dog since you're most likely to have a bird's-eye view of the battlefield." He leaned in, whispering: "Plus, promotions work really weirdly around here. I've heard they're basing it on number of kills."

I cocked an eyebrow at this. "That's rubbish, even if it's true. I can think of a dozen better ways to handle that, not including the normal mil-spec methods."

"Mil-spec methods!" Titus laughed, "I'll have to use that one."

Bear grinned, drawing my eye to the scar crossing her mouth. "How many have you killed, mister super-assassin?"

I took a moment to count. "Thirty-five. Not including security."

Tower let out a low whistle. The actual number was something approaching sixty, but it was hard to keep track of all the secondary kills; I could recall each target clearly, but their respective guards all blurred together. Sometimes I killed a few, other times I fired one shot and left. And if I was taking out anyone but my contracted target, it was because they were shooting at me. Of course, this was always chalked up to a "crazed gunman" with some poor sucker's body turning up as the dead perpetrator.

"How have you avoided capture for so long?" The Russian was full of questions, but I was happy to answer.

"With how much my services cost, and the kind of people I've been hired to kill, my employers tend to have a lot of connections." I leaned in, grinning maniacally. "I'm still waiting for a contract to kill your President."

Bear gave me a hard look for a second, then burst out laughing. It wasn't the kind of laughter that came from disbelief or disrespect―this came from a place of surprise and delight. "Could I convince you to do it for free?" she cackled, "I'll even give you a pike to mount the rat's head on!"

"KGB asshole," Tower nodded in agreement, "If you don't kill him, the aliens will."

"But then I'd be out of a job!" I joked, "Do you have any idea how hard it is for a man of my skillset to find a career in this economy?"

That was enough to elicit hearty laughter from everyone. So much so, that a man sitting at the next table turned around to scold us. He was wearing an officer's uniform, and looked like the stereotypical green Lieutenant. The uniform was pressed and clean, and his boots looked like they had never stepped foot off a washed floor. "Keep it down, you four!"

I shot a dangerous smile at him. "C'mere, Butter Bars; let's see how you handle some real dirty work! Or are you afraid your mother won't do your laundry if you play with the other kids?"

The officer turned beet-red. "Don't speak to your superiors that way!"

"I'm a Captain, mate," I retorted darkly, "So how about you follow your own advice, or I'll show you what the inside of your skull looks like."

He quickly turned away, not wanting to incur my wrath―or that of those above me. I had been a Captain for all of fifteen minutes, and I could already tell that I was going to enjoy the power that such a position brought. While I had never been a military man myself, my job had taken me close enough to various armies and their battlefields to know that, no matter how advanced or fast the force was, the bureaucracy behind it was always as slow as it was chock full of incompetent morons who thought far too highly of themselves. I was far from a four-star General, but I at least had jurisdiction over some of this system and the people in it. The fate of the world was at stake; I wasn't inclined to follow the guidelines of pencil-pushers who had never set foot on a battlefield. If they had a problem with me breaking their stupid etiquette in favor of effectiveness, then they would have to come down from their ivory towers to stop me.

The Centurions, at least, certainly didn't seem opposed to my… unorthodox methods. When I turned back to them, all three were smiling like kids on Christmas morning. I was making a strong first impression, and they liked what they saw. This was certainly good news; I had no desire to work with a bunch of brown-nosers in the field. Whether this kind of deviance from standard expectations would be necessary during missions had yet to be seen, though. The Commander had struck me as the kind of leader willing to play fast and loose with accepted strategy when needed, but such a thing could only truly be gauged through hard experience. Either way, running with the Centurions was going to be a nice change of pace.

"Something tells me you'll fit right in, Ghost," Bear chuckled, "Oh, and you don't mind if we don't refer to you by rank, right?"

"Not at all," I grinned, "So long as you don't mind my leadership."

Titus clapped me on the shoulder. "Save people, kill aliens, and watch out for each other. If you can do that, we'll get along just fine."

A nice change of pace indeed…

A/N: Been a while! Again! Life is bent on not cooperating with me, but I'm still kicking. I'm quite late to the new year, but as January comes to a close, I hope it's been going well for all of you, and that the next eleven months are even better! Slow as I may be to upload, work continues! Stay tuned!

As always, have fun and stay safe out there! -VV