A knock at the door. "Hold on." The peephole. I blink and squint, and then throw open the deadbolt. The door swings inwards. I stand at the threshold, my jaw slack. She has dyed her hair black. But it's the same; shoulder length and precision cut, straight and honest. Black. She is wearing contacts, the thin circles of plastic tinted brown, masking the green. But I can still see her pupils. I can still see her soul. There is fear in her eyes. "Come in," I say, quietly, for my breath has already been sucked from my lungs. She moves awkwardly, and I can see that under the big shapeless grey canvas cloak she wears, Grocke holds her left arm with her right. Pain--or annoyance--flashes in her face. Gone is her beret, gone is her neat trenchcoat and polished synth-leather boots. Her thin legs are clothed in a soft blue cloth; hospital scrubs. Her feet are bare. "What happened?" I ask. She wavers in her step, reaching out for a cane chair. Her cape falls open; she is dressed in the same scrubs. An osmosis sack wrapped in gauze bulges her bare left arm. There is blood on her shirt. I pull the seat around and help her into it. She collapses, a sole tear of exertion rolling from the corner of one of her eyes. "Fucking set me up," she rasps, the tension draining from her body. "What?" "Water," she orders. I shuffle into the corner of my apartment that is my kitchen and haul a large plastic bottle from the refrigerator. I return and hand it to her. Her hand shakes so violently as she tries to drink that she spills a good deal of it into her lap. "Here," I say, grabbing hold of the bottle and helping it to her mouth. She looks up at me with tired fury . . . and drinks. "Now, what happened?" "Does this shithole have curtains?" she asks, almost groggily. "Not that it fucking matters. If they know where I am, they'll have scanners on us." "I'll polarize the windows," I offer. She achingly turns her head to me and smiles wryly. "Don't fucking bother." Grocke closes her eyes. I admire her lips. "Don't even think about it, fucker," she whispers. An intravenous needle, trailing a few centimeters of plastic tubing suddenly appears in her right hand. I chuckle and mutter, "I love you too." She smiles again. I walk over to the wall switch and black the windows to any chance observers. "Now, how the hell did you-" "Fucking set up. Special Weapons had me doing a little covert work for them. Real fucking unusual request, not the shit I'd expect Megapol to pull. But I did it, figuring what the hell, new gal on the job gets to do all the dirty work. You know, pay your dues and all that shit." "What exactly was the job?" Something inside of me is leaching ice into my blood. "Nothing you need to know about, fuckhead." Black beret, trenchcoat, boots--and something else. A long, tan briefcase . . . My cheek twitches and I sit down. "Did you shoot Simon Bolivar?" A pause. "Fuck you. Why the hell would Special Weapons give a fuck about some SELF jew? Probably another fucking walking dildo who wanted to become their head harddrive or whatever. Yes, I was in the area at the time--you fucking saw me. No . . . I didn't do it." I want to believe her. I glance down at her eyes. They are closed. Fuck . . . "So if you didn't shoot Bolivar, who did?" "I'm fucking telling you I didn't!" "I'm not accusing you of that. I'm just asking what you think of it." "Think of what?" "Of who shot Bolivar!" "Can you fucking SHUT UP!" Grocke is up in the blink of an eye, bowling me over and winding up with her right hand--with the needle. I stumble and trip backwards into my futon bed. I reach for my plasma pistol--but it's not under my belt. The desk--shit. Throwing up my hands at the last moment, I somehow catch her arm, staying the two centimeter chisel of machined alloy and pulling her down with me. "What the fuck?" I am yelling. "Shut up! Shut up! Fucking shut up, fuckstick!" Grocke babbles. She struggles, feebly trying to jab me with the needle. A moment passes before Grocke realizes that she hasn't the strength to fight. Her body turns to jello in my arms, her crying gradually reducing itself to muffled moaning. She drops the spike. I pat her on the back and hold her, firmly but gently. She shot Bolivar. She was given a set of keycards, one of which was an office for rent across from the stage--a clear view from the third floor of the whole Concourse. She arrived thirty minutes prior, a few minutes behind schedule. She put on a pair of thin synth-leather gloves, sighted up her rifle, and waited. And then she shot Bolivar. We lay there, she quietly sobbing, myself vigorously contemplating the unsavory task of calling in Megapol on the poor thing. I reach over and palm the needle. I chuckle, somewhat thankfully. It's blunt, probably some connecting piece between hospital equipment. I gradually roll Grocke off to one side. I try to stand up. "Where are you going?" she asks in an all-too-timid voice. "Need to make some calls." Need to get some of those motherfuckers with the stun grapples in here, actually. I don't go for that praying mantis shit. Sorry. "Don't," she replies, pulling on me, squirming to the center of the bed. She coyly kisses me on the tip of my nose. I glance down at the back of her right hand. It is shaking. She tries to hide it, batting her eyes and kissing me. "What about the virus?" I whisper, lying down with her. She closes her mock-brown eyes, a wave of sadness rippling across her features. "That's where they found me, in the Clinic. Fuckers went to the wrong room and passed mine; my technician suddenly had a personal call. I figured it was time to get the fuck out of Dodge." "Who?" "Altacat Battalion. Black-ops Special Weapons. They fucking set me up, had me do their dirty laundry, and they were going to fucking finish me off. They killed my contact at the Senate. The fuckheads fucking double crossed me." "Do they wear black berets?" "Yes." I close my eyes as Grocke opens herself to me. "Why are you telling me this?" "Because I need your help." "What the hell can I do?" She brushes my hair with one of her hands. "Silly little rich boy. Went to school for what--five, six years? And you still don't have a fucking clue what you are." Silly little rich boy? Pretty girl--you smell vaguely of disinfectants and latex--you have been busy, haven't you? Paranoid--you've surely read my files, just as I tried to read yours. I wonder what you found--Lifetree, Marsec, and a little company from twenty some years back called Oort Ventures? You've known from the day you laid eyes on me, haven't you, right? Did you follow the umbilical cord back to Guam, to that hospital in Buenos Aires? Did you read my parents' files, too? My psyche evaluations? Did you like what you saw? I'll bet you did. I open my eyes and grimace, turning away from her. "You don't love me, do you?" Grocke does not answer. I feel her body tense up. Frowning, I catch a hint of movement in the corner of my eye. Shit. I roll off of Grocke and take in the situation with one slow glance. There are at least eight of them, black berets and tan trenchcoats bulging with weapons; brutally anonymous, each face bland, bored--the same crew which ambushed Andy and myself on the way to the Purple Lotus. The blond-haired motherfucker nearest me holds up my plasma pistol. Glancing around at his peers, he smiles evilly. "What say we come back in about thirty minutes? Give Casey dear some time to say goodbye?" It is the janitor, the janitor who shot Drewski. His twin blue laserbeam eyes are fixed on my forehead. "How?" I stammer. "Magnetic lockpick," whispers Grocke, her arms around my waist. She is shivering worse than I am. "O-la, mayhican," he sneers. "Looks like our paths have crossed again." He points my pistol at my forehead. I'm so desensitized to the sensation I no longer blink. Examining the plasma's handle, he says, "I see you're down by four rounds. Carlson, recharge the man's weapon." Four rounds? Shit . . . WHA-A-A-AM--thunder rolling off the concrete and ductwork of that parking garage corridor's walls and ceiling, the big Megapol man flipping backwards, his eyes hidden by a black riot helmet's visor but his mouth surprised, cursing. A spray of rich red blood. Snarling,--his lungs deflating, his heart a mashed smear of cartilage and muscle. I killed a man with those. Does he know? Our eyes meet, a thin smile on his lips, a wicked, evil look in his eyes. Oh God, he knows. Another pale man, this one with brown hair and brown eyes and an utterly forgettable face takes my pistol, pops the magazine, and fishes a replacement out of a pocket on his jacket. The janitor returns the reloaded gun to my desk. "Thanks," I mumble. "No problem, chico. Friends gotta watch out for friends, right?" What the fuck? "Isn't that right, Casey? You with us or what? Trying to run for the border with our mutual amigo here?" the blond continues. "Because you have a choice here. The organization needs manpower-- excuse me--we live in a politically correct day and age--people power-- but not so badly that we have to employ every lecherous little tramp that we find sleeping in the gutter." I can feel Grocke's nails digging through my shirt. "So you can join, and get your former friends off your back, or," the blond's eyes twinkle mischievously, "we can do their job for them." Grocke's breath comes short and fast. "Who are you?" I ask, my voice clear and defined at last. The seven other berets swivel their heads toward me, as if seeing me for the first time. The blond removes his ice stare from Grocke and cocks his head, his smile dropping from his face. "Are you acquainted with the phrase, 'Curiosity killed the cat?' It's an old English metaphor, not literally very relevant these days, but none the less fairly pertinent in this case." The ex-janitor lowers his eyes and polishes his right index finger with his thumb. "Kraus," he orders. One of the berets near the back of the crowd pulls out a small black box. It rests easy in the palm of his large tanned hand. He strides over and levels one of its faces at my head. "Kraus here has a neural disruptor. At close range, a short burst will wipe your short term memory. At longer ranges, of up to half a meter, it will trigger a massive seizure akin to epilepsy. "Do you know what epilepsy is, Karl?" I nod my head slowly, my eyes fixed on the ominous weapon. Blond looks up, his blue eyes burning holes in mine again. "Except that disruptor seizures are specialized. They fry your brain's pain centers." I feel Grocke move out from behind me. "If Kraus hits the switch, you will shit in your pants. You will shit in your pants, flop like a fish, and then you will die." I nod. The blond janitor leans back to the man named Carlson. "Will he die?" he whispers, his eyes still fixed on me. "I don't know," shrugs Carlson. The janitor snorts. "Only one way to find out. Kraus, give him a two-" "No." The blond and myself turn to my side. Grocke, clutching that useless metal shard, rolls off the bed. The nearest trenchcoats go for their weapons--but she's already pitching a chair at them, rushing for the door. The man named Kraus twists and tenses his hand. Grocke shrieks and goes down in a heap. Kraus moves in for the kill. "Hey, hey--watch that thing! Somebody could lose an eye!" yells the janitor. Kraus give him puzzled look and steps back. The berets' leader crouches down next to Grocke and helps her up--promptly putting her in a full nelson. "You've got nerve Casey-" "Leave me alone, fucker!" she squeals, struggling to break his grasp. "-I'm sorry, I can't do that. You are coming with us." "Get your fucking hands off me!" "You're either going to leave walking-" "Fuck you!" "-or in a bag. I don't want to put you in a bag." "Fuck you, cocksucker!" The janitor rolls his eyes and sighs. "Kaufman," he orders. A lean, unhealthy-looking man steps over to Grocke and grabs her jaw. He shakes his wrist and a butterfly knife flips open. The blond presses his face into the short black hair around Grocke's ear. "Now hear me out, bitch," he spits, "the organization needs cannon fodder and I'll be damned if you aren't fucking fine raw material. You have nerve, and lucky for you, we happen to like that. But don't play games with us, or we will cut your pretty little body into rat food. You wouldn't enjoy that, would you? Nobody would give a fuck, you know. Dead little whore, nobody would give a God damn about that." He relaxes his hold on her. Grocke is crying, her eyes red and tears darkening her hospital gown. In a somewhat gentler voice he continues. "You wanted to make something of yourself, didn't you? You wanted something else, didn't want to wind up an old maid in the projects. So you chose Megapol. It was the best you could do, considering that Marsec requires high school diplomas from their recruits. You chose Megapol, and by the word on the street, I hear that you've been making quite the name for yourself." The janitor releases Grocke, and she collapses to the floor, her tear and sweat streaked hair brushing my wall. The blond goes down on his haunches to stay close to her ears. "But what's the price? I know you're pulling thirty thousand dollars annual, but what do you have to give them in return for it? Loyalty? Fine. That's a just price. But Megapol didn't stop with that, did they? They took your sense of shame, too. Took your virginity and put you on a street corner all in the name of the law. That's bullshit, pure and simple. Bullshit. "The organization will not give you bullshit. We will not take away from your pride. We will not make you whore yourself out. We will not do that, because we respect each other far too much for that. Respect. It's what you want. It's what we're going to give you." The janitor leans over Grocke, nearly kissing her in the ear. "Are you with us?" She nods her head. "Let's go." Two berets crack open the doorway and exit. Two more flank Grocke and gently pull her to her feet. The three of them gingerly walk out of my apartment. The blond turns to me. "There are some things dinero can't buy, mayhican." I snort and frown. "You still haven't told me who you are." "And I won't," he replies, touching my pistol, "because you don't need to know." He glances up at me and smiles, almost kindly. "What you do need, however, is a lesson in humility. Kraus?" Grocke lies beside me, her hospital garments shed. We are back in Petrograd block, sleeping on a futon of crushed bamboo leaves. I touch her in the small of her back, and she responds to my touch, rolling onto me, resting her shoulders against my shoulders, her hips against mine. "I too have killed," she says, all the effort and fatigue gone from her voice. I nod my head knowingly. "Did you kill Bolivar?" She is silent, her green eyes hidden from me--"My eyes? My fuckin' eyes always give it away." "I love you," I reply. Her arms go around me and we kiss. "Jack Rawlings ordered his ship's crew to the sole escape capsule. Forcing them aboard the small launch, he cast them off," she states with undeserved innocence. "You don't love me, do you?" She answers me with a kiss. Then I feel the sharp pain in my back, all my muscles contracting out of my control, a full body cramp, I twitch and squeal and black out . . . I touch my back and roll over on my bed. Glancing at the clock, I've been out for upwards of two hours. I feel thirsty and not at all rested. The bastards stunned me. They stunned me, and then drank the last two cans of my beer. Fucking bastards. I wonder if they fucked up my computer, too? Probably copied my pornography archives and then deleted them. I check my lapcomputer. It seems in decent shape. I plug it into the wall and send it for the SELF webpage. I fetch a glass of water in the meantime. Returning to my seat, my screen reads: DOMAIN RESTRICTED, UNDER VIOLATION OF MEGAPRIME TERRORISM/CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE ACT, CHAPTER 14, PARAGRAPH 1. Oh boy. Not good. Oh boy. Out of curiosity, I check the Church of Sirius domain. It too is defunct, a similar notice plastered on my screen. I run over my bookmarks of related sites. I finally reach the ACLU website, near the bottom of my list, before I get anything more than a blank screen. "SENATE DEMANDS LAW AND ORDER, CRACKS DOWN ON TERRORISM IN WAKE OF MOB VIOLENCE." According to their headline story, "a number of heavily armed Sentient Engine Liberation Front (SELF) supporters attempted to storm the City Senate chambers after being incited into a bloodcrazed frenzy by their fanatical leader, Simon Bolivar." The American Civil Liberties Union has never been known for its radical views. My stomach fills with cold bile as I scan the rest of the article. ". . . Bolivar's location unknown . . . most likely fled after Megapol scrambled their forces . . . timely intervention . . . renewal of contract assured . . . a shocked and horrified Senator Yuan . . . issuance of a new, zero-tolerance policy . . . a new age of anti- terrorism." Lies, lies, lies, I want to scream. Lie after lie, piled upon a solid foundation of lies. Pictures of dead Megapol officers. Promises of vengeance. Raids upon six different SELF headquarters, dozens of illegal artificial intelligences captured, their memories scanned for clues to Bolivar's location . . . A wall of lies, behind which is the truth, strangled and naked, beated, raped, and left to die. 5/9/98 Bonus: A Summary of the Major Characters of Apocalypse Arc. Natalie S. Hawthorne, aka "Thorne": Samurai Eye color: Dark, dark brown bordering on black. Weapon: Paired lawpistols. Life on the streets has been good to Nat. Adopted daughter of Enrique Oscuro (quite the incestuous relationship, eh?), her rank in this 'criminal' organization is second only to 'Los Cuatro Caballeros'-- the Four Horsemen. These were the men who founded Diablo . . . rest assured that Nat's tiny toes will more than fill their boots. Prediction: That middle initial stands for something. Warren Opal-Learner Fangman, aka "Wolf" or "Mike Force": Pimp Eye color: Blue. Favorite toy: Marsec Flight Shotgun. Wolf is an old friend of Karl Williams from Buenos Aires. Under a life-debt to Nat and Diablo, he's in charge of 'servicing' Nat's physical needs. Previously a high-ranking SELF member, Wolf is going to jail for a variety of crimes against the state. Note: This guy is modeled after your best friend who happens to be more handsome than you. Prediction: This joker is the highest card in a certain organization's hand. Hap Reynolds: Fallen Angel Eye color: Melancholy brown. Favored weapon: Megapol Autocannon. Also under a life-debt to Diablo, Hap is torn by his conflicting loyalties. Luckily, his enemies--and friends--do not recognize this. Only one thing remains constant in his life--a base desire to watch a certain grey Valkyrie go down in flames. Prediction: Hap will find a way out. Casey Grocke, Lieutenant (Megapol): Whore Eye color: Green. Favored weapon: Laser rifle. Ex-Vice Squad, Grocke killed Simon Bolivar . . . or did she? And why is she hunted by the mysterious black berets? Set to disappear for a good while, Grocke will be back, but she won't be on Megapol's side and she definitely won't be working the corners. Prediction: There is a reason this is an XCOM story . . . Karl Williams, aka "Peace Umeda": Pawn Eye color: Brown. Unfortunately necessary weapon: Plasma type two. Normally ungodly rich parents would translate into a cushy lifestyle of pleasure. However, Karl wasn't born to that kind of family. "The easiest way to wreck a kid's life is give him a trust fund," his dad once said. "We're going to spend it all [your inheritance] before we die!" said his mom. With parents like that, who needs enemies? Note: This character is based on someone very close to myself. Jack Rawlings, Sergeant (XCOM): The Bodyguard Eye color: Utterly forgettable brown. Favored weapon: Modifed heavy plasma (plasma type five) with under barrel grenade launcher and sanded sights. There's Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and Jack Rawlings. Guess who got to kick the aliens' asses at Cydonia? This is the man who killed the alien brain at Cydonia. This is the man who founded Marsec. This is the man who suicided his ship at T' Eleth so a small XCOM force could take down the aliens forever. He is dead, as dead as all his comrades from the First Alien War . . . Yeah, you're probably wondering why the hell I'm including this guy in the major characters list. Well, if I get around to finishing this set of stories, I will tie these into my wonderful Kansai Arc. Which, if you haven't read, makes a great way to waste an evening. Prediction: What is a samurai without his master?
X-COM (and XCOM) are trademarks of MicroProse Software. Get yourself a copy!
X-COM: UFO Defence is copyright 1996 by Microprose Software, Inc. All rights reserved.
X-COM is based on characters and design by Mythos Games.