Ballistic Medicine

Kafkaesquire: Oh, thank God. Hey, Probe.

Kafkaesquire: I hope you don’t mind, I just reeeeally need a break from my family right now.

DiscountProbing: that’s why im here man

Kafkaesquire: Good... good...

Kafkaesquire: >Hugs

DiscountProbing: >returned

DiscountProbing: wanna boot up tfi or something?

Kafkaesquire: Nah, not really in the mood right now. I’d rather just talk, honestly.

DiscountProbing: k. start talking.

Kafkaesquire: Well... my uncle came over today.

Kafkaesquire: I told you about my cousin Rudy, right?

DiscountProbing: the child support bloke?

Kafkaesquire: Yeah, him.

Kafkaesquire: Well, this guy, he’s Rudy’s father. He’s got Rudy wrapped around his little finger, and he’s even dumber than Rudy.

DiscountProbing: ouch :(

Kafkaesquire: Yeah.

Kafkaesquire: He came over today to see if he could borrow some money from my dad.

Kafkaesquire: Y’know, because we have so much.

Kafkaesquire: But he’s got the money now and he’s been here all morniiiing D:

Kafkaesquire: He’s just sitting in the living room eating our food, and he and Rudy won’t suht up about their stupid conspiracy theories.

DiscountProbing: oh that’s where rudy got it?

Kafkaesquire: Yeah.

Kafkaesquire: And... well, you know how dumb they can get when it’s just Rudy, right?

DiscountProbing: nazi ufos ooooooo look out 2spoopy

Kafkaesquire: Yeah, like that.

Kafkaesquire: Well, somehow, when they have two brains to rub together, they get even dumber.

DiscountProbing: like what?

Kafkaesquire: Well, apparently America was invaded by aliens back in the 1960s.

Kafkaesquire: But only America. Nowhere else.

Kafkaesquire: And these aliesn could turn invisible and shapeshift and take the appearance of anyone they wanted.

Kafkaesquire: And they spread some kind of waterborne pathogen, started aggressively terraforming, killed J. Edgar Hoover, parked their mothership right over the planet and started shelling the world from orbit.

Kafkaesquire: And the only reason you haven’t heard about any of this is that a top-secret military organization fought off the invasion and destroyed all the records of it.

Kafkaesquire: And then they waited a few years and used the aliens’ stolen technology to... I dunno, kick off project MK Ultra or something.

Kafkaesquire: It doesn’t make sense, even by THEIR lofty standards. This is the crap I have to put up with.

DiscountProbing: your family sux m8

Kafkaesquire: Yeah...

Kafkaesquire: >Sighs

Kafkaesquire: I need to take my mind off this. What’ve you been up to lately?

DiscountProbing: not much

DiscountProbing: just waiting for something exciting to happen lol

Kafkaesquire: I see.

Kafkaesquire: How’s your job?

Kafkaesquire: ...Hello?

DiscountProbing: yeah still here

DiscountProbing: there was this big project we had to do last week with some french transportation company

DiscountProbing: and it went tits-up reaaaaal fast

Kafkaesquire: Oh, boy.

Kafkaesquire: People got fired?

DiscountProbing: hell yes people got fired

DiscountProbing: i mean usually i try to give my boss the benefit of the doubt

DiscountProbing: hes doing the best he can with the resources he has and all that

DiscountProbing: but dude this operation was a DISASTER

DiscountProbing: basically my entire team got fired

DiscountProbing: and i almost went with em

Kafkaesquire: Oh, damn, I’m sorry to hear that...

DiscountProbing: you dont need to be sorry

DiscountProbing: i didnt lose my job lol

Kafkaesquire: Yeah, good point.

DiscountProbing: i dont really wanna talk about it tho

Kafkaesquire: Well, you don’t have to.

Kafkaesquire: ...Speaking of your job, though, there was something I’ve been meaning to ask you...

DiscountProbing: crap my boss wants me to do sumthing i g2g

Kafkaesquire: Huh?

Kafkaesquire: Isn’t it like... midnight where you live? DiscountProbing: a little after but yeah

Kafkaesquire: ...

Kafkaesquire: Your job sucks, mate.

DiscountProbing: oh but dont i have fun?

Ask anyone who’s spent even a minute in the XCOM Genetics Lab to describe it in one word, and they will invariably settle on “yellow.” Important scientific equipment is scattered all around the room, including a custom MRI machine ringed with inexplicable yellow lights, a few open canisters of golden, crystalline Meld, and huge, ten-foot canisters of fluid which were designed to fit human beings, all of it somewhere between bright, golden yellow and sickly greenish-yellow. It’s very yellow. There aren’t an abundance of places to hide in the lab, but there were a few pipes to hide behind, and there were always the large, comfortable-looking armchairs that had been hastily set up in front of the containment tanks. They didn’t exactly look like they belonged in the Genetics Lab, especially due to their clashing eggshell-blue color, but then, they weren’t usually there.

The door to the Lab slid open with a hiss, and a cloud of footsteps began to make their way down the metal corridor. They were led by the Commander, who, true to his word, had put on some pants. He’d also put on an XCOM-green military jacket with a sash of medals pinned across his chest, with a tie and everything. Coupled with the tablet tucked under his arm and the headpiece over his ear, it was all a very professional look. Let it not be said that the Commander didn’t dress as though he commanded the respect of his men. Assuming he wasn’t wandering around drunk and half-naked. “No no no, it makes perfect sense,” he was saying, trying and failing to suppress his laughter. “I mean, you’re already an egomaniacal, nigh-immortal gravel magnate, you want to secure your father’s legacy, and instead of doing so by legal action, you’ve already decided to build an army of robots to take what is rightfully yours by force. So... why wouldn’t you power said robots by having them burn giant piles of money in internal furnaces? I mean, that’s just the logical progression.”

“See, zhat’s vhat I’ve been trying to tell zhem!” chortled the Medic, waving his gloved hand through the air to punctuate his remark. “You know, I’m glad ve see eye to eye on zhis, Commander. I can see vhy you vere put in charge of zhis little Project of yours -- you obviously have a keen eye for strategy.”

“Ahhhh... thank you, Doctor,” the Commander chuckled. “Anyway, welcome to the Genetics Lab. Have a seat. We’ve set up some chairs over there for you.”

“Ah, zhat vas kind of you.” One by one, the men walked down the metal hallway towards the chairs. The Scout was the first to reach them. He hopped over the one in the middle and landed in the one behind it, immediately settling into it. The Engineer reached them next, and settled into the back-left. Pyro sat beside him, but the Commander wasn’t too surprised by that -- the Pyro hadn’t strayed far from Engineer’s side throughout most of the walk down here. They all filed in pretty quickly after that. Medic sat in the front row, between Soldier and Heavy, and Demoman and Sniper settled down to either side of Scout. Spy moved towards the pack-right seat... but after a few moments, it became evident that he wasn’t going to sit down.

“...Well, then.” The Commander clasped his hand over the top of his tablet. “Um... as I said, welcome to the XCOM Genetics Lab. You wanted to see it, here it is. In all its... yellow... glory. Oh, and by the way--” He jabbed a thumb to his right, indicating another large, circular metal door. “--we’ve got a Cybernetics Lab right next door, in case any of you were interested. So basically, this whole floor is just a string of rooms where we spit in the face of God. Or something like that, anyway. I’m not too religious myself.”

The Medic chuckled, adjusting himself in his seat. “I zhink ve’re going to get along just fine, Commander,” he chuckled.

“Thank you again, Doctor,” the Commander responded, smiling sheepishly, “but really, I just signed off on these facilities. Dr. Vahlen was the one who conceived of this facility, and the lab next door was thought up by our Head of Engineering, Dr. Shen. They’ll be dropping by a little later, and I’m sure you’ll have an excellent opportunity to get to know them. But until then, I’d be happy to explain how this facility works. ...Once you’re all comfortable, I mean. Spy, aren’t you going to sit down?”

The Spy shook his head and adjusted his baklava. Up to that point, the Commander hadn’t even realized he was wearing one -- it fit him so tautly that it had seemed to be a natural part of his skin. “I’d rather stand, Commander, if it’s all the same to you.” He then reached into his suit pocket and plucked out a white metal case. “Do you mind if I smoke? I seem to have left my cigarette in New Mexico.”

“Ah-ha... Actually, I do mind. This is highly sensitive equipment and we use it a lot,” the Commander replied. As he spoke, he held his tablet out in front of him and began to tap a few times on the screen. “And also, I’d... really prefer if you sat down. I’d feel more comfortable talking to you people if you had the higher ground. Please... sit. I insist.”

Spy hesitated, then slowly placed his case back into his pocket and lowered his hands. “...Hm. Is there any particular reason that you insist, Commander?”

“Aside from what I literally just said?” The Commander placed one arm behind his back, glanced down at his tablet and let out a nervous chuckle. “No, not really. I just like my honored guests to be comfortable, is all.”

“Honored guests?” the Spy repeated. “We appeared as if from nowhere and attacked you. How does that make us your honored guests?”

The Commander glanced down at the assembled mercenaries for a moment, pursed his lips and then sighed. “Fair point, Spy. When you put it that way, I guess this whole thing is kind of silly.” Without another word, he reached down and tapped the screen of his tablet. Before anyone had any time to react, silver rings of metal shot up out of the arms of all the chairs except the empty one, locking around the arms of the seated mercenaries. The Commander’s eyes popped open, his spine curled over and his lungs released a long, wheezing laugh without even bothering to check with his brain first. “...Oh my God. I can’t believe that worked.”

“Oh, COME ON!” shouted the Scout, lashing violently against his bonds. “Handcuff armchairs? Are you freakin’ Australiumfinger?”

“If he is,” Spy replied, “he certainly picked the wrong man to not properly secure.” Without another word, he reached down towards an invisible holster on his belt and pulled out a decidedly not-invisible gun. A handcannon, specifically -- gleaming silver with an engraving of a beautiful woman on the barrel and a bright red ebony handle... a very beautiful gun, all things considered. The Commander had no time to appreciate the exquisite craftsmanship that went into the gun, considering that the Spy had pulled it quite literally from nowhere and was currently pointing it right between his eyes.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The Commander scrambled backwards, somehow refusing to let go of his tablet. He threw his free hand into the air, pinched his earpiece and screamed into it. “Target’s armed! Move in!”

It all proceeded very quickly from that point on. The door between the Cybernetics and Genetics Labs swung open, and four people charged in. Three men in eggshell blue body armor, with assault rifles clenched a little too tightly in their hands, charged in behind a woman in bright red, carrying a shotgun. The Spy, in a single, fluid motion, whirled around and pointed his revolver at the woman in red. He fired a shot at her muscular, exposed arm, and she quickly stumbled back. She punctuated the attack with a wild cry of “Take ‘im out!” and all four agents trained their weapons on the Spy. They all squeezed the triggers as one, and a hail of bullets went flying towards the Spy. Before he even had time to scream, his head snapped backwards, and his spine followed shortly after. His legs were ripped off the ground by the sheer force of the bullets, and his corpse went tumbling backwards, head-over-heels, before slamming into the ground with a dull, unceremonious thump.

Needless to say, the eight surviving mercenaries burst out in raucous, gut-wrenching laughter. “Ohhhhh! Good death!” the Heavy roared, rocking his chair with his laughter. “Spy does not disappoint!”

The Commander turned and pointedly arched his eyebrow at the mercenaries. “I’m... glad you found that funny, gentlemen,” he said simply. “Everybody okay?”

“We’re fine, Commander,” responded one of the soldiers in blue, lowering his weapon. “Nobody got hit. He... He was aiming at Emma. I-I mean... Sergeant Gallagher, sir.”

“No... no no no, that’s alright,” the Commander said softly, lifting his hand. “You can... I’m lifting the name regulations as of now. They were... not my best idea. If she wants you to call her Emma, you can call her Emma.”

Emma crossed her arms in a way that simultaneously showed off her taut, toned biceps and caused the the silver implants embedded in her arms to glint softly in the dim yellow light of the lab. “Actually... since yer liftin’ the regulations, Commander,” she said through a thick, smarmy Irish accent, “how about ya start callin’ me the Lady in Red?”

The Commander glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, then smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at Gallagher. “Sounds good to me. I’ll make a note of it. And as for the rest of you, you heard the Lady.”

The Lady in Red smirked, slung her shoulder over her back and ran a hand along the base of her angular, painstakingly coiffed hair. “Thank ya, Mr. Compton.”

The Commander’s smile faded quickly. “Emma... I realize I just lifted the name regulations, but all the same, I... I’d really prefer... p-please don’t call me that.”

“Aye-aye, Commander,” Gallagher responded, still smirking at him.

Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by the pneumatic hiss of a large metal blast door sliding open. The Commander sighed and rolled his eyes again. “Y-Yes, Doctors, the room is clear,” he scoffed, turning swiftly around. “Thank you for a... asking.” In the time it took the words to leave his lips, the door had slid shut again, and it had become abundantly clear that no one new had entered the room. The Commander hesitated a moment, then pinched his earpiece. “Dr. Vahlen. Dr. Shen. Did one of you try to come in just now? ...No, I didn’t think you would. It’s just that the door opened. ...On its own. No one was next to it. Unless someone was on the other side, which is why I asked. ...Okay. I’ll have a maintenance crew look at it when we’re done here. But in the meantime, the Lab is free of hostiles. You two are free to enter. ...Good. See you soon.” The Commander then clapped his hands loudly, wiped what little smile there was off his face. “OKAY, CAN THE LAUGHTER!”

The laughter was not canned. The Soldier, in particular, doubled over in strained, wheezing laughter. “Hah! You call that Commanding? I’ve met GHOSTS that gave better orders than that!”

The Commander jabbed an indignant finger in the Soldier’s direction. “Well, too bad, Soldier, because those ghosts are not here right now. I am the Commander of the XCOM Project, and as long as you are in this base, I expect you all to obey me.”

“Now take off yer pants,” Gallagher interjected, her remark punctuated by a faint group of chuckles from the men behind her.

“Thank you, Sergeant Gallagher. That’s enough,” the Commander snapped. “Rein it in, mercenaries. We need to have a little talk.”

“Yeah yeah, sure, fine. Not like we’re goin’ anywhere, right?” the Engineer chuckled. “What was it ya wanted t’ talk about, Commander?”

“Oh, so many things...” The Commander clasped his hand onto the top of his tablet and stared down at the assembled mercenaries. “There were quite a few interesting things in that little story you told me on our way down here, gentlemen. However, there were a few things you said that didn’t quite... stand up to scrutiny.”

“Oh, uh... really?” The Engineer’s (admittedly nervous) smile faded. “Like what?”

“Well... I had my Tactical team scour the planet on the way down here. We searched everything -- historical records, census data, outside satellite imaging, not to mention our own fully comprehensive military-grade tactical spy satellite array, and--”

“Fully comprehensive?” Gallagher interjected.

“Okay, mostly comprehensive. The point is,” the Commander continued, “there is no Greater Badlands region in New Mexico.”

The room descended into saturated silence once more. Eventually, the Engineer managed to get out a low, shaky “...what?”

“You heard me,” the Commander sneered, bobbing his head up and down with the rhythm of his speech. “There is no region in New Mexico called the Greater Badlands Region.”

“...Wh... Wha?” The Engineer slumped back in his seat. “...But... That’s not possible. We... We live there. We work there. How could it not exist? D-Did you... ah, don’t suppose ya could double-check?”

“Oh, we did.” The Commander scoffed lightly. “Believe me, we wanted to give you the benefit of the doubt here. We turned New Mexico upside-down looking for Teufort, or Dustbowl, or Gravelpit, or The Thunder Mountains, or any of those places you mentioned, but they’re just not there. As far as we can tell, they don’t exist.”

“Wrrl, yrrw crrnt hrrff brrn lrrkrrng frrr mrrr thrrn trrn mrrnrrtsh!” the Pyro interjected.

“Hey, Pyro’s right!” Sniper agreed. “We were only walkin’ fer that long! If they really don’t exist, ya’d never a’ heard the names before, roight? So ya can’t a’ been lookin’ for ‘em much longer n’ that!”

“Alright, alright. Fair point,” the Commander said, placing an indignant hand on his hip. “However, we also searched international census information. The results of that investigation were quite interesting, too. Let me give you a list of names of people who do not exist. Barnabus Hale. Bilious Hale. Saxton Hale. Radigan Conagher. Zepheniah Mann, Redmond Mann, Blutarch Mann, Gray Mann, Silas Mann, Olivia Mann, do I need to go on?”

“Okay, I’m no longer convinced zhat ve’re going to get along,” the Medic observed, leaning back slightly.

“Radigan Conagher was my grandfather...” the Engineer whimpered.

“Baby man is lying! You cannot check the census of several countries in only ten minutes!” the Heavy protested.

“Ah, perhaps that’s true,” the Commander replied. “But let’s talk about something else I’ve never heard of: these corporations you mentioned. Those huge, bloated conglomerates you spoke of, Reliable Excavation and Demolition and Builders’ League United... they don’t seem to exist either. And more to the point, how about Mann Co.? Mann Co., according to you, is a multinational -- no, omninational munitions and hat manufacturer, which seemed... oddly specific, but whatever. You can keep repeating ‘You didn’t have time to check’ all you want, and maybe it’s even true, but I know for a fact that Mann Co. does not exist. XCOM represents the very pinnacle of human scientific achievement, and if there was a munitions corporation anywhere on Earth that sold cloaking devices and short-range teleporters, XCOM would know about it!”

“Holy crap!” the Scout blurted out, his voice cracking in a way he would later vehemently deny. “It’s gotta be Merasmus! Dat freakin’ wizard shoved us inna’ da Twilight Zone!”

“Oh, the Twilight Zone! How appropriate!” the Commander laughed, shaking his head. “That reminds me, there are a few things that were wrong that I didn’t even need to check! One! Magic does not actually exist! Two! Australia is not the technological capital of the world! And three! It is not 1972, as you all repeatedly claimed it to be, but rather 2015!”

As one, all of the mercenaries reared back in their seats and gasped, looks of horror on their faces. “2015?!”

“2015!” the Commander repeated. Suddenly, he knelt down, dropped his tablet a couple of inches, and quickly kicked it away. “So!” he continued, emphatically clapping his hands. “Based on the fact that you have gotten so! Much! Wrong --” He slammed the back of hand into his waiting palm to emphasize each word. “-- about the culture, geopolitical balance, geography and technological level of the planet Earth, not to mention the fact that you broke into XCOM Headquarters by literally teleporting inside... and the thing with the skeletons, whatever that was... I am forced to conclude that you are not, in fact, who you say you are! And who are you, then? Simple...” The Commander suddenly swung his arm out and pointed an accusatory finger at the assembled prisoners. “You’re alien spies!”

“Whoa... what?” the Engineer asked, blinking behind his goggles. “That was a... darn big leap there, Commander Compton.”

“The Commander will do nicely,” the Commander snarled. “And no, it isn’t. Who else could’ve pulled off that fancy entrance, and who else could’ve gotten that much wrong about this planet?”

“Maybe,” the Heavy grunted. “How did you think of that?”

The Commander scoffed. “What’d you think XCOM stood for, Xylophone Constructing Oversight Marines? No! We’re Extraterrestrial Combat! We are humanity’s first, last, best and only line of defense against the ongoing alien invasion, and the nine of you have just blundered right past it!”

The Lady in Red let out a soft chuckle and slung her shotgun over her shoulder. “Eight, Commander.”

“Ah... yes, Sergeant Gallagher. Fair point. Eight of you.”

“Oh, boy,” the Scout groaned. “Where’s a crazy British guy wit’ bottomless pockets when ya need one...”

“Are we prisoners of war?” the Soldier asked.

The Commander lowered his head and grinned, his glasses flashing climactically in the dim light. “Absolutely.”

“You expect us t’ talk, Oz-finger?” the Sniper asked.

“Of course not,” the Commander shot back. “All we need is blood samples. You don’t have a problem with that, do you? A little blood? You’re either filthy aliens or bloodthirsty mercenaries, so I’m sure you’re used to spilling it.”

“Blood? Thass all?” the Demoman asked, rolling his good eye. “Well, ye dinnae hafta tie us up if thass all ye wanted, Commander.”

“It’s not that simple. It never is. Don’t you know there’s a war on?” The Commander crossed his arms behind his back and began to slowly pace back and forth in front of the mercenaries. “You see, gentlemen, once we have your blood, we’re going to have a team of our best scientific minds analyzing it. Thoroughly. And if we find a single fraction of your genome to indicate that you’re not fully, one hundred percent, pure-blooded human, one little A, C, G or T out of place, well... just a moment...”

The Commander stood stock still, lifted his hand and placed it gently behind his ear, staring up at the ceiling. He hesitated for just a few moments, allowing a mechanical and saturated silence to wash over the room. And then, suddenly, a loud tone came on over the base’s loudspeakers, and a female, heavily synthesized voice began to speak. “Alien Containment Facility online.”

“And not a second too soon! God, I love it when a plan comes together,” the Commander observed, chuckling. “Now then, I’m sure the good doctors will appreciate an excuse to boot the Facility up. They explained how it works in the proposal, you know. It’s... messy. There are probes involved. And I’m not entirely sure the team knows how to use them yet. They could all use a little dry run before they get to the real POWs.”

“Holy crap, he is Australiumfinger!” the Scout blurted out.

“Ya mean Goldfinger, right, kiddo?” Sergeant Gallagher retorted. “Wha’ the piss is Australium?”

“You do not scare me, maggot!” the Soldier bellowed. “Work on it!”

“Yes!” the patchwork soldier responded, as something resembling a smile clawed its way onto his face. “His name is Merasmus! We used to be roommates! I broke him ou--”

At that point, the man in the hard hat suddenly placed his hand on the soldier’s shoulder and stepped forward. “Whoa, whoa! Soldier, what’d we say?” he chuckled, pulling his associate back. “Uh, I think what my friend was tryin’ a’ say,” he said through a thick Southern accent, “is that we were tryin’ ‘a apprehend a dangerous wizard who escaped from jail, an’ in the conflict, he... sent us here, apparently. Where is here, by the way?”

The man in the pinstripe suit glanced around briefly, still analyzing his surroundings. “The most secure military facility on the planet,” he responded through a serviceably understandable French accent. “Of course, it can’t be that secure if you can simply teleport in.”

“I am willing to grant you that we... did not anticipate this eventuality,” the representative responded. “When we constructed this facility, we did so under the assumption that magic did not exist.”

The man in uniform -- Soldier, apparently -- let out a loud burst of laughter and threw back his head. “Hah! Sure, because that worked so well for the Nazis!”

The one-eyed man slammed his book shut and rolled his eye. “Oh, this oughta be good,” he groaned through a nigh-incomprehensible Scottish brogue. “Wha’ do the Nazis have to do with this, Soldier?”

“Didn’t you pay any attention to the newsreels, maggot?” Soldier snapped. “A squadron of time-traveling wizards was hired by the US government to go behind enemy lines and stop the Nazis before they could finish rampaging across Europe! The wizards stormed Hitler’s bunker and forced him to kill himself with mind control! That is a matter of public record!”

“That sounds remarkably like a film pitch,” the representative pointed out.

The man with bandaged hands chuckled, pulled a baseball bat out of a sheath slung over his back and balanced it on his shoulder. “Oh, ya’ve seen Sorcerer Squad II: Wizards vs. The SS?” he asked, his voice afflicted with a thick Bostonian accent.

“...Lucky guess,” was the representative’s response.

It’s at that point that there came a strained groan from behind the plastic table, and a wavering hand slowly reached out from behind it. “I’m... I’m still here, guys...” groaned the Commander as he pulled his way up above the table.

The man in the lab coat’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Oh, you’re still alive?” he said with a much more distinct German accent than the Commander was used to. “Okay zhen. I heard you stop crying, and I assumed you’d bled out. As it happens, I’m a doctor.”

“No no no, you stay away from me,” the Commander snapped. “You just jumped into this base and you attacked me. I’m not about to let you touch me, Herr Doktor.” He then doubled down over the table, his tattered robe flapping with the sudden motion. “Aaaah... Jesus Christ. Having said that, I am in a lot of goddamn pain right now.”

“Vell, alright, zhen,” the doctor said. He reached behind him and pulled out what looked like a repurposed fire hose linked to the proton pack he was wearing. “I mean, I vas going to heal you, but if you don’t vant me to touch you, zhat’s fine. You’ll just have to die a slow painful death of... I don’t know. Internal bleeding, probably. If you’re comfortable vis zhat, I applaud you.”

“And that’s all you were going to do?” the Commander asked.

“Vell I, ah, hm.” The doctor hesitated a moment, lowering his hose and rubbing his chin. “...Okay, since you brought it up, I do still have some spare hippopotamus liver on me, and it’s just going to rot if I don’t use it... It vouldn’t be a very invasive procedure at all, I promise.”

“You’re insane. Don’t fucking touch me,” the Commander snarled.

“Are you alright, Commander?” the representative asked.

“Since you asked, no sir. I don’t think so,” the Commander shot back.

The fat man in the back let out a soft chuckle. “You are Commander?” he asked incredulously, through a Russian accent that was just as thick as any of his peers’. “Heavy does not believe that. Commander must be strong and mighty, or scary enough to command respect of troops. Heavy could snap you like twig.”

The Commander hesitated for a few moments, then scoffed and jabbed an impertinent finger in “Heavy’s” direction. “You try it, fatass, and I’ll...” He trailed off after a few moments, then let out a pained sigh. “...Well, realistically, I’ll probably fucking die of internal bleeding. Speaking of which, I think I’m fucking dying of internal bleeding. Representative, I need to head back to my office. Keep an eye on these fat red dicks while I call for an EMT and a security team.”

“Yes, Commander,” the representative said, choosing not to bring up the fact that he wasn’t in the same room as the intruders and therefore had no tangible power to stop them if they tried to leave.

“Aw... c’mon, there ain’t no need for that kinda talk,” the man in the hard hat said, crossing his arms and chuckling nervously. “Look, we’ve got a doctor right ‘ere.” He gestured towards his friend in the lab coat to illustrate his point. “Medic might be a little... eager, but he’s the best damn doctor in the business. I dunno where we’d be without ‘im. An’ if internal bleeding’s the worst of your problems, it’s nothin’ a quick jolt from a MediGun™ can’t fix.”

The Commander groaned, then shook his head. “Nice try. I’m not letting Dr. Moreau over there touch me.”

“Who said anythin’ about touchin’ you?” the man replied, a grin coming to his face.

“He did,” the Commander answered, pointing to the alleged doctor. “When he said he needed to stitch some hippopotamus liver inside my body or else it’d go stale.”

“Zhat’s not vhat I said!” the Medic blurted out. “...I mean, to be fair, it is vhat I meant, but--”

“Exactly.” The Commander grunted and turned towards the exit. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really don’t even know how I’m still standing. I need to call an EMT before I keel over.”

The suit-clad man scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Well, that was worth a shot. If you’d be so kind, doctor?”

“Jawohl,” the Medic responded, pointing his hose at the Commander. He pushed a lever forward on it, and a stream of red gas began to spill through the air towards the wounded man.

“Hey hey, what’d I say? What did I fucking say?!” the Commander spat, jabbing a bony finger in the alleged Medic’s direction. “I am the Commander of the XCOM Project, and YOU WILL RESPECT MY AUTHORI--” And it was at that point the stream reached him. A pool of red gas swirled around the Commander’s body, flowing into his lungs, his eyes, every exposed pore. Tiny clouds of it occasionally coalesced into tiny red crosses before they dispersed again, sinking into his skin at particularly bruised or broken points. The Commander... well, to put it bluntly, he’d never felt anything like this before. The concept appeared to be similar to a standard Medkit -- bodily repair in a convenient aerosol form, apply directly to the wound -- but even XCOM’s most advanced, state of the art Medkit felt nothing like this. It wasn’t just that the pain was being blocked out, he could FEEL himself healing. He could feel his bones knitting themselves back together, his cuts sealing themselves shut... hell, even his whiskey headache was receding, and quickly. And it wasn’t just his body, either. It felt like his senses were being heightened. He could smell the dull, recycled air of the base, hear the distant clacks of keyboards in Mission Control, see every mote of dust floating through the blue-tinted air...

Medic chuckled, pulling the lever back to its starting position. “Vell, somebody’s having fun,” he chuckled. “Zhis isn’t your first time, is it, Herr Kommandant?”

As the gas began to fade, sinking into the Commander’s body, he shook his head and stared down at the Medic. “...H-How did you know, doctor?” he asked.

“Your arms are forming a T,” the Medic observed. The Commander blinked, cleared his throat and quickly lowered the offending limbs. “It’s no problem. Nozhing to be ashamed of. It happens to every man at some time in zheir life. Alzhough, for a man your age, I vould’ve expected it a bit sooner...”

The Commander blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Nozhing, nozhing,” Medic responded through a bemused chuckle. “Just glad to be your first.”

“Doctor, stop teasing baby man,” Heavy said gruffly.

“If you insist,” the Medic shot back. “But so ve’re clear, you’re absolutely sure about zhe hippopotamus liver?”

“With all due respect, Doctor,” the Commander said, “you should leave the physiology-mixing to the men in the Genetics Lab.”

The Medic’s eyebrows shot up. “Oooh... you have a Genetics Lab? Interesting. Might I see it?”

“No.” The Commander cleared his throat and adjusted a tie that he clearly wasn’t wearing. “Or... maybe later, but probably not. There are a few things we need to take care of first. I’ll start with the obvious question. Who the...” He hesitated, then cleared his throat and started again. “Who are you people?”

“Oh yeah, I guess that would be the obvious question,” the man in the hard hat chuckled. “I’m the RED Engineer. Most folks jus’ call me Engie, though. An’ in case you were wonderin’--” He jabbed a gloved thumb behind him, towards the man in the rubber suit behind him. “--that’s the Pyro back there. He doesn’t talk much.”

“Hrrlrrrw!” the Pyro announced cheerily, waggling its fingers in the Commander’s direction.

“I am the Soldier!” the man in surplus shouted. Well, of course he was. What else would he be?

“I’m the Demoman,” responded the one-eyed man, his voice slurring a bit.

The Bostonian kid twirled his bat in the air and grinned. “‘Sup? Scout ‘ere.”

The thin man with the sunglasses smiled faintly and tipped his hat in the Commander’s direction. “Oi’m the Snoiper,” he announced through a thick yet endearing Australian accent.

“I am zhe Medic,” the doctor said, “but I believe I told you zhat.”

“I am Heavy Weapons Guy,” the fat man announced.

Finally, the man in the suit scratched at the side of his head and nodded at the Commander. “And I am the Spy. And together, our roving band of misfits forms the RED Team.”

The Commander hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Follow-up question: do any of you actually have names?”

“That’s classified information, maggot!” the Soldier snapped.

“...Actually,” Engineer said, adjusting his hard hat, “he ain’t far off. We ain’t allowed t’ jus’ share our names t’ any ol’ body. Company policy. Our codenames’ll work just fine.”

“I... okay, fine, we’ll come back to that,” the Commander muttered. “Second question: Where did you come from?”

“New Mexico,” the Sniper responded. “Specifically, the Greater Badlands region.”

“Uh... speaking as something of a geography expert,” the Commander responded, “never heard of it.”

“Really?” Engineer responded, tilting his head. “...Well, maybe you’ll ‘ave heard a’ Teufort? That’s a prominent settlement in the region...”

“I’m afraid not,” the Commander sighed. “I’ll... have someone look that up later. Anyway, third question: This is a highly classified underground military base. No one on Earth who is not supposed to know where this base is, knows where it is. How did you get here?”

“I told you, a wizard did it!” Soldier shouted.

“Engineer,” the Commander said, crossing his arms, “you seem to be the voice of reason among your little party. Why don’t you answer the question?”

“He’s right about that, Commander,” Engineer responded. “We were went here as the result of a violent altercation with a wizard named Merasmus the Magician. As I said, we were tryin’ a’ apprehend him...” He shot Soldier a dirty look. “...and in the ensuing violence, he created some kinda’ portal storm to cover his escape, and sent us here.”

The Commander let out a soft sigh. “Gentlemen, you don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m... not lyin’, Commander. That’s what happened.”

The Commander sighed. “Alright, then. We’ll play it your way.” He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table in front of him, leaning down against it. “Gentlemen, I would not have been appointed leader of this project if I was stupid. I’m fully aware of the fact that magic does not exist.”

“Oi, ye were jus’ attacked by skeletons!” the Demoman pointed out.

“Fair point,” the Commander said, nodding. “However, I can still think of a slightly more... plausible explanation than magic.”

“Do I still need to be here for this, Commander?” the representative cut in.

“Huh?” the Commander glanced behind him and stared up at the representative above him. “Oh, no sir. I have this under control. Just send the monthly report to my desk, and I’ll go over it once this is resolved.”

“Understood, Commander. Remember, we will be watching.” XCOM’s logo flashed up on the screen again, and the image was soon replaced with the standard blue-tinted map of the globe. America was yellow, Russia was yellow, Germany was yellow, and France was bright red... but hey, at least everywhere else was blue.

“Hey, what’s that for?” Sniper asked, pointing up at the monitor.

“Tracking global panic levels,” the Commander responded. “But that’s not important right now. What’s important right now is you. Tell you what, gentlemen -- why don’t you all wait here for a few minutes while I get dressed, and then we’ll all take a little trip down to the Genetics Lab?”

“Ooh, ve do get to see it? Excellent!” The Medic cheerfully clapped his hands and began rubbing them against one another. “You all don’t mind, do you?”

The group began muttering quickly amongst themselves, apparently discussing the merits and demerits of the Commander’s offer. “Well, you all figure that out, folks,” the Commander said, smiling warmly at them. “I’m going to put on some pants. Don’t go anywhere.” He walked backwards away from them, towards the door leading to his office, and began punching in the combination without a word.

The man laughed, long and hard. “If that’s all the fight you’ve got for me,” he shouted, “this operation is going to go even smoother than I thought!” With that, he ripped his military jacket off his chest, tossed its tattered remains aside, and threw his fists into a fighting stance. “Go on then, you scrawny sacks of shit! Give me your best shot!”

And to their credit, they did. Nine bolts of green plasma from three advanced rifles shot towards him. Six whizzed past his head, not even bothering to singe his angular, painstakingly coiffed hair, while the last three slammed into his marbled chest. All he felt was a faint, comfortable warmth. Cackling like a madman, he charged forward through the twin clouds of green smoke his entrance had left behind. The toxins burned his eyes and lungs, but he paid them no mind. He swung his fist at one of the aliens as he passed it, and its body went flying across the room, trailing green smoke behind it. He snatched a plasma rifle out of the hand of another and clubbed its owner over the head with it, sending it crumpling to the ground. The toxic smoke poured out of its mouth and into his, but still he paid it no mind. The rifle he’d used to kill it exploded as its operator died, sending a shard of unearthly metal stabbing into the palm of his hand, but again, he paid it no mind. He didn’t have time to feel pain, not when there were aliens to punch.

Before the sixth and final alien could get a chance to fire another volley at him, he tackled the scrawny thing to the ground, knocking its rifle from its hands. “Nice try, soldier!” he shouted, wrapping a beefy paw around the alien’s throat and squeezing. “Your squad’s dead, and you’ll be joining ‘em soon!”

The alien coughed and wheezed, trying desperately to force a workable amount of air into its lungs. Its already pale-skinned face went even paler, then began to turn a shade of blue to match its suit. As it struggled to get out another breath, it pried open its mouth and, using all its training as an infiltration specialist, forced a single question out from between its lips. “Wh-Who... aaare... youuu?”

The man threw back his head and laughed again, then triumphantly threw his fist into the air. “My name is Xavier Compton! And you are trespassing on my planet! Any last words, invader scum?”

The alien coughed again, a line of yellow blood flowing from the corner of its lips. And as its last breath rattled uneasily in its throat, it softly whispered to Xavier: “Commander to the Situation Room. Commander to the Situation Room.” 

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The Commander’s eyes slowly fluttered open. For a moment, he was confused and disoriented by his surroundings. He wasn’t in a Mexican restaurant anymore. He wasn’t pinning a Thin Man to the floor and watching it choke to death. He was... lying in his bunk. In HQ. He rolled onto his back and pressed his hands against his forehead. “Weird dream...” he muttered to himself. He laid there for a moment, staring blankly up at the ceiling, then sighed. Someone had something for him to do. They must have. He must’ve been woken up for a reason. He’d better see what was going on. With a great deal of effort, he swung his legs over to the side of the bed and hauled his scrawny body up into the air. He reached down to his nightstand, retrieved his glasses and slipped them on, then began the arduous process of stumbling across the tiny, dimly lit room. He preemptively lifted his hand to block the light, and sure enough, the door slid open automatically as he approached it. If he hadn’t thought to lift his hand, he would’ve surely been blinded by the unforgiving fluorescents. He stumbled blearily into his office, squinting against what little light there was.

He let out a weak, exhausted groan and slipped into his chair, dragging his fingers across the wall-height banner hanging behind his desk as he passed it. He stifled a loud yawn, nearly dislocating his jaw in the process, and placed his fingers on his keyboard. “Godspeed to those we’ve lost,” he muttered to himself, punctuating the remark with a soft shudder. Okay. What did he have to do today? There weren’t any outstanding alerts from yesterday he had to deal with. Dr. Vahlen didn’t have anything important to show him. Neither did Dr. Shen. If Bradford had any new contacts that needed his attention, he hadn’t told him yet. But... he’d been woken up. Something had happened to get him out of bed. There must be something important he had to do today...

As if on cue, the base’s AI begain to chirp cheerfully through the loudspeakers. “Commander to the Situation Room. Commander to the Situation Room.”

The Commander groaned and snapped his head down, resisting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. “...Shit, right...” he muttered to himself, slowly hauling himself upright again. Something important was happening, and he had to get to the Situation Room. The Council probably wanted to talk to him about something or other. They probably had some assignment or another for his men. Another chance to save lives. Why else would they be calling? This is good, the Commander reminded himself. This is a good thing. This is a chance to do right by the Council.

The Commander nodded, stepping up to the door leaving his office and slowly punching in his combination. He had this under control. Every decision made in this base -- which alien incursions his field operatives would respond to and how, what new developments his science team had clearance to research, which of those developments his engineering team was allowed to build, where the damn bathrooms are... all of those decisions had to go through him, because he was the Commander of the XCOM Project. He was humanity’s last line of defense against the alien hordes. Humanity was depending on his efforts and his ability to make clear, rational decisions, but that was okay, because he was just that good.

“...Yeah,” he muttered under his breath as the door slid open, “you’re fooling no one, X...”

The Situation Room, unfortunately, was much brighter than the Commander would’ve preferred. It was basked in the blue light of the monitor that was as tall as the room itself -- so probably like twenty, thirty feet or something, he wasn’t sure -- and it was generally very bright. Much brighter than it was in the his office. They couldn’t shut off the monitor, of course. The monitor let them track global threats and panic levels. It was important. They couldn’t just shut it off. Still, it was really damn bright. And that was very unpleasant. “Can... Can we dim this monitor, or something?” he muttered, stepping up to the table in front of the monitor and slumping down onto it.

“Uh... yes, sir,” responded a familiar, but unusually concerned voice from somewhere off to his left. And sure enough, the lights rapidly dimmed to about half their normal intensity.

The Commander let out a relieved sigh and glanced over to his left. Sure enough, a square-faced man in his mid-thirties was standing beside him, glancing repeatedly between the monitor, his tablet and the man standing next to him. He nodded, then glanced back down at the table. “Thank you, Central Officer Bradford,” he muttered. He hesitated a moment, then looked back up. That was Bradford, right? He squinted, trying to force the swirling morass of images his eyes were sending him to align properly. Green sweater-vest with XCOM logo patch on the chest, weird dress slacks, headset mic stuck to the side of his head, white dress collar with a tie worn under his sweater... why would you do that? What’s the point in wearing a tie if you’re not going to actively show that you’re wearing a tie? And if you’re wearing a sweater, why would you wear a tie to begin with? What’s the point of --

The Commander suddenly realized that his mind was wandering. He vigorously shook his head, then realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. It felt like he’d just shook up his skull like a soda bottle. He let out a stifled groan and pressed his hand against his forehead, shuddering softly. “...Okay. Yeah. Thank you, Central Offic... oh, jeez,” he muttered, stumbling to one side slightly.

“You’re welcome, Commander,” Bradford responded, his eyes fixed on the map on the wall in front of him. If the Commander noticed that Bradford wasn’t looking at him, he didn’t say anything. He just moaned again, lowering his head slightly. Bradford hesitated a moment, then set his tablet gently down on the table. “Sir, have you been drinking?”

The Commander groaned and shook his head again, much more gently this time. “No, Officer Bradford... I have not been drinking,” he managed to get out. “I’m empha... emphatically not drunk. Not drunk. I’m in... perfectly fine shape to command this operation. I swear to God, I am. Pu... put the rep onscreen. Let’s get this over with.”

Bradford pursed his brow and placed his hand on his hip. “...With all due respect, Commander, I have a couple of things I’d like to say before we speak with the Council.”

The Commander hesitated a moment, then nodded. “...Permission to speak freely. But make it quick. Lives are on the line.”

Bradford sighed and slowly shook his head. “...No, they aren’t, Commander. The Council is calling us to give you the monthly status report about XCOM’s progress.”

The Commander blinked. “...They are? ...Oh, shit, it’s the the first of the month already...”

“Affirmative, Commander.” Bradford cleared his throat, glancing up at the monitor. “Incidentally... with all due respect, sir, I’m having a difficult time believing that you’re not drunk.”

The Commander shot Bradford a stern glare. “And why is that?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re wearing an open robe.”

The Commander said nothing. After a few long moments, he slowly tilted his head downwards. Sure enough, an XCOM-green robe was draped over his shoulders, unfastened in the front. It was the only thing on his body that could even be considered close to clothing. The Commander remained silent for a few long moments. Then he slowly inhaled, paused, and let out the heaviest sigh of his life. “You took that well, Bradford,” he muttered, slowly pulling the fabric across his body and fumbling with the sash.

“Thank you, Commander,” Bradford responded, finally glancing back in the Commander’s direction. He took a long, deep breath, swallowed, and then nodded. “Not to tell you your business, but would you like to come back and have this meeting once you’ve put on some pants?”

The Commander groaned, tugged on the sash and crossed his arms. “Fuck it,” he said simply. “I made this decision, and I have to live with the consequences. On screen.”

Bradford arched an eyebrow. “...Commander, if this is about Operation Dying Spark--”

The Commander’s hand tightened around his arm. “With all due respect, Bradford, I think I’d rather speak to the Council alone.”

Bradford hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Understood, Commander. I’ll be back once you’re done.” He turned and walked out of the room, leaving his tablet where he’d left it. The Commander hesitated a moment, then picked it up and began semi-randomly tapping it.

After a few moments of swiping, the wall-monitor went black. XCOM’s logo faded onto the screen after a moment -- a downward-pointing hexagon with an X across its center with the phrase “VIGILO CONFIDO” written in bold letters across the top. A few moments after that, the logo cut away, replaced by the darkened silhouette of the Council’s nameless representative, his interwoven hands resting gently on the table in front of him. “Hello, Commander,” the man said, his deep Southern drawl booming across the Situation Room, “and may I say, it’s nice to see that you’re taking this seriously.”

The Commander grunted, uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table. “Thank you, sir,” he groaned. “...Alright. Give it to me straight. How bad is it?”

“You've done an admirable job combating the alien threat over the course of the past month, Commander,” recited the representative. “However, we still feel that there is... room for improvement in your efforts.”

The Commander chortled and rolled his eyes. “You don’t fffffucking say.”

The representative hesitated a moment. “I... do not appreciate you taking that tone with me,” he eventually said.

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate aliens destroying major cities with plasma bombs,” the Commander snapped back. “With all due respect, sir, I’d rather not have the Council twist the knife any more than is necessary. Could we just skip ahead to the part where you tell me that France has withdrawn?”

The representative let out a short, nervous chuckle. “Commander, have you been drinking?”

“I have not been drinking!” snapped the Commander. “Why would I even need to be drinking? It’s not like there’s a big hole in the middle of Lyon that wasn’t there before OH WAIT.”

“Ah. I understand,” the representative responded. “Of course, you have every right to be concerned about the well-being of the French people, following the... unfortunate... results of Operation Dying Spark.”

The Commander suddenly slammed his fist onto the table in front of him with a dull, plasticky thwack. “Unfortunate? UNFORTUNATE?! That’s the strongest word you have for me is unfortunate?! They died! They all DIED! I KILLED THEM! There’s a giant fucking crater in the middle of France! Don’t just sit there and tell my complete, abject failure is UNFORTUNATE!”

“Commander,” the representative countered, “what is getting angry at me going to solve?”

The room descended into an awkward silence after that. It was impossible to gauge the representative’s response, as his face was perpetually shrouded in shadow, but neither he nor the Commander said anything for a few long minutes. The only sound in the room was the whirring of computers and the Commander’s heavy, frantic breathing. But eventually, the representative found it convenient to break the silence. “Do you feel better now?”

“...Yeah,” the Commander moaned. “Yeah, I... I’m good. I just... I lost my temper there for a minute. I... I guess I’ve been taking all of this a little harder than I thought...”

“You’ll be happy to know, then,” the representative replied, “that France has elected not to withdraw from the Council.”

The Commander’s head shot up. “Wait, really?”

The representative nodded, the backlight light glinting off his hairless scalp as he moved. “Do not misunderstand me. The people of France are very scared right now. You will likely learn quite a bit about the state of the nation in the coming weeks. But France’s representatives in the Council have evidently decided that, in what could be their nation’s darkest hour, the protection of XCOM is needed more than ever. However, you should not expect this continued faith in the Project to be... indefinite.”

The Commander nodded, then slumped over the table slightly. “I... I understand, sir. I have until... next month, right?”

“That seems likely to me.”

“Okay. I... I’ll try my best to fix it. They’re definitely getting a satellite...” The Commander nodded, shivered, and looked down at his hands. “...y’know, as soon as the new facility’s built... which should take a... couple weeks... oh, God.” He shivered again, then sniffed loudly. “I’ve really fucked up here, haven’t I? The Project’s only been active a month...”

The representative hesitated a moment, then sighed. “For what it’s worth, Commander, the Council does not want to place any more pressure on you than is necessary. We recognize that you have an important duty to perform, but we also recognize that you are human, and therefore as fallible as any other citizen of Earth. Quite frankly, your best is all anyone has ever expected of you. We do not expect perfection. This Council is willing to recognize, after all, that you are not a magician.”

The Commander let out a dry chuckle, then nodded faintly. “Thank you, sir. I... That does actually make me feel bett--”

Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and a voice, strangled by a thick Scottish brogue, rang out over the Situation Room. “--rtis animataris! Ohhhh, hell...”

Before the Commander had time to turn around, something slammed into his back. He whirled around, arms out in front of him, to find that he was no longer alone in the Situation Room. There were nine men in there who hadn’t been there before. No two of them looked exactly the same. The only thing they all had in common was that all clad in bright red, and they were all staring at him with an expression that clearly encapsulated the phrase “ohhhh, shit.” “Wh-What’s the meaning of--” the Commander started.

But before he could finish that sentence, all hell broke loose. An animated skeleton, its bones bleached a horrific crimson, suddenly burst out of the floor in front of the Commander. It threw its arms out wide and clacked its teeth, and in the time it took it to do that, four more skeletons burst up on either side of it, springing up in a semicircle around the Commander.

The Commander, in what seemed at the time to be a perfectly logical response to the situation, shrieked like a girl. “AAAAAAUGH! OH JESUS CHRIIIST!” he screamed, scrambling up onto the table behind him. “BRADFOOORD! BRADFORD, WE HAVE A BREACH!” The skeletons, chattering wildly, jumped up onto the table after the Commander and began slashing at him, their sharpened, bony fingers streaking through the air so quickly that they left red lines of light behind them, lasting only a few moments before they faded away. The Commander barely managed to duck out of their way, only to tumble backwards off the table and slam into the ground with a loud thump. And, of course, the skeletons followed him. They formed a semicircle around him and began to viciously pummel him with their bony fists.

“Oi, get away!” the Scottish voice shouted from somewhere behind the table. “No! Bad zombies! Leave ‘im alone!” But the skeletons didn’t care. They just kept pummeling him into the ground -- stomping him, kicking him, and generally beating him into the ground. The Commander curled into a ball, trying desperately to protect himself from the bony assailants who were beating him into the ground. He screamed again, and again, and once more for good measure. He screamed until he was hoarse, and when there were no screams left, he wept. But after a few moments of that, just as suddenly as they had arrived, the five skeletons crumbled apart, leaving behind nothing but piles of crimson bones. And just like that, there was nothing left but the whirring of computers and the soft sound of the Commander’s weeping.

Eventually, the Scottish voice decided to speak up again. "Uh... ye okay over there, lad?" it asked.

"I can't feel anything below my neck," the Commander whimpered. "...Oh... wait, now I can feel it. Owwww..."

The representative decided to take that moment to pointedly clear his throat. “Gentlemen,” he said, "the nine of you have just broken into the most secure military facility on the face of the planet, called up a squadron of... what appeared to be undead warriors, and savagely attacked the Commander of the XCOM Project. For your sakes, I hope you have a good explanation for this.”

A second voice piped up in response, sounding more American than anything the Commander had heard in a while: “A wizard did it!”

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