#i'll update the masterpost when i'm not on mobile --- i haven't forgotten!

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance 10/?

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet. She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option. Read from the beginning here Chapter CW: Suicide allusion

 “Bullshit,” Gunda says. “Flip’em over.” Kelly smirks, revealing her four aces. “I’m almost offended you don’t trust me.” Gunda groans. “Let’s get it over with.”

Kelly pushes the piles of cards towards the woman and the Commander chuckles from her spot on the couch.

“You want in next round, ma’am?” Wallace asks.

“Oh, no,” she grins. “I am quite content to sit and commentate.” “Sounds like someone’s afraid to lose, ma’am,” Krieger sing-songs.

“More like, I’m afraid to give any of you a shot at getting a read on my tells.”

“Planning on some brinksmanship?” Kelly asks.

“No, but I am planning to beat all of your asses at poker, given the opportunity.”

“You play?”

“I had a life outside of commanding, Wallace. Stop looking so shocked.”

“Yeah, but poker?” Gunda pushes.

“It can’t be all eat, sleep, shoot aliens. Believe it or not, I had a whole existence before XCOM. How do you think I paid for beer when I was writing my dissertation?”

“You went to grad school?”

“Again with the disbelief, Wallace. I’ll have you know I have a Masters and a PhD, for all that those are worth now.”

“You’re not military?” Krieger asks, surprise audible.

She cocks her head. “They’re not mutually exclusive, but in my case, no. I’m not. Before I joined XCOM, I’d never held a gun in my life.”

“So, then, who taught you to shoot?”

“Three guesses and the first two don’t count.”

Kelly cackles. “Oh, man. Central? Really? I can picture it now.”

She nods. “Yup. I’m not sure who was more nervous.”

“Wait, so if you’re not military,” Krieger begins. “How did you end up joining?”

The Commander sets the datapad next to her. “It’s a long story, but it boils down to catching the right eyes and having the right connections. Write the right papers, present at the right conferences,” she shrugs. “Have family friends who set you on unusual career paths.”

The men stare at her.

“Alright, shorter answer: serendipity. I’d published a few papers that made waves in the right communities. When the project was taken out of mothballs, someone thought I had something to offer, and I got an invitation to the table.”

“You got your command based on papers?” Gunda asks, incredulity hanging from every word.

She smiles and shakes her head. “Not … not exactly. And I wasn’t the first choice.”

“Who was?”

“Three guesses.”

Wallace almost spits his coffee over the table. “Central? No.”

“Yeah,” she says, nodding.

“What’s so hard to believe about that?” Kelly asks and the Commander swears there’s something approaching offense in the ranger’s voice.

“Central,” Wallace says slowly.

“He’s more than capable,” the Commander counters. “I wouldn’t be here if he weren’t.”

“So, why didn’t he take it?” Krieger asks.

Again, she shrugs. “That’s his story to tell, not mine. You wanna find out, go ask him.”

“Ma’am, I’d really rather not be booted out the airlock.”

“I doubt that would happen. He’d have to go through Engineering, and I don’t get the sense Lily would appreciate her workspace being disturbed.”

“Shen versus Central,” Wallace proposes. “Who wins?”

“Not us,” she says, picking the datapad up again. “We’d be sunk without those two.”

“It’d be a draw,” Sally cuts in, poking her head out from one of the bunks. “Neither of’em would be able to throw the first punch.”

“How long have you been listening?” Kelly asks, craning her neck.

“Long enough to know none of you read personnel files.”

“It’s because we are too busy in the field, unlike someone, no?” Thomas quips as he breezes through quarters, stopping at the card table.

“It’s alright,” Sally smiles. “You’ll have plenty of time to catch up while you recover from that broken jaw you’re gunning for.”

“Easy, you two,” the Commander says. “Thomas, report to wherever the hell it is you’re going. Sally, aren’t you in enough trouble as it is?”

“Assez, non, chérie?” Thomas coos, already on the move.

“Not worth it,” Kelly mouths, shaking her head at the younger woman. “Not worth it.”

“I’m gonna light that stupid braid of his on fire,” Sally grumbles.

“Please don’t,” the Commander says, unlocking the device on her lap. “Burning hair smells awful.”

Five sets of eyes fixate on her. “How do you---“ “Sally, your hair is longer than mine. You’re telling me you never caught a bit in a candle or a campfire?”

“I thought that story was headed somewhere a lot darker,” Krieger mutters.

“It’s not all doom and gloom,” the Commander says, turning her attention back to the briefing the Spokesman had sent after his call. “Sometimes, you just have a mishap with a roommate’s candle. If I start talking about the smell of burning flesh, then you can worry.”

Sally shakes her head. “Well, given how bad this place smells already with all the cigarettes, I’m not gonna be the one to make it worse. I’ll be on the range if anybody needs me.”

“Wait up,” Kelly says, standing. “I’ll go with you.”

“Don’t trust me not to get creative?” “Don’t trust you to listen to your better angels.”

--

She sometimes laughs when she thinks of how well teaching prepared her for commanding. Certainly, the scale and severity of the consequences have changed, but fundamentally, her day still consists of crisis management, ego management, and a parade of faces through her door. Yes, essays have been replaced by intel briefings and After Action Reports, but at least she’s not expected to offer meaningful feedback on how to improve their construction and clarity. Instead of fraternity boys and sorority girls, she now has her men and all the questionable behavior that entails.

Bernard, Pukkila, and Lan are all crowded around the table in the Common Room, a pad of flip chart paper in front of them.

“No, you’d be crazy to make that a down your drink,” Lan insists. “We’ll all be out our livers by the end of the week. We’ll never make it to the ceremony.” “Means you need a stronger liver,” Pukkila counters.

“He has a point, no? It’s supposed to be enjoyable, not a suicide run,” muses Bernard.

“What are we sacrificing our livers for?” She asks, craning over Bernard’s shoulder for a look at the paper. “I don’t think Central’s forgiven you three for the safety briefing shots game yet.”

“Central Officer Bradford will be happy to know he’s not involved in this one,” Lan says. “This time it’s all for our favorite happy couple.”

“Oh no,” she groans. “Really, guys?”

“Ouai,” Bernard drawls. “We should have some fun too.”

“No,” she says, eyeing the three men. “Those two have enough going on with their families as it is.”

“Oh god, we know,” Pukkila groans. “Royston’s mom is having a bigger fit than mine did when I came out. And she’s marrying someone of the expected gender.”

“Martin’s father’s no better,” Bernard says. “Less shrill, though.”

“I don’t think they’ve gotten good wishes from either side,” Lan adds, shaking his head in sympathy. “I’m pretty sure it’s the most Martin’s heard from his dad since he got here, though. So, I guess that’s a positive.”

“Some line of communication is better than none?” The Commander asks. “Never thought of you as an optimist, Lan.”

“What can I say? I’m just sunshine and roses these days.”

“It’s cause he got laid this morning!” Molchetti calls down from the second level.

“Grazie, Isabella,” Lan calls, flipping the sniper off. “Prego, mio caro!”

The Commander shakes her head. “Try not to make it worse for Edouard and Steph, okay? They’re already in a crappy spot.”

“And so are we,” Pukkila insists. “We keep having to listen to it!”

She glares at the assaulter. “Good, then practice your empathy.”

“Yes, mom,” he groans.

She shakes her head and continues toward Mission Control.

“Martin,” she says, pressing a finger to her comm once she’s sure she’s out of hearing range. “You got a minute?”

“Commander?” “Is Steph with you?”

“No, she’s with Hershel.”

“You might want to have words with Bernard and company, then. They’re planning a sequel to their drinking game.”

“Fils de putain. Thanks for the warning.”

“Try not to put anyone in traction.”

“I won’t, but I make no promises for Steph.”

Mission Control is quiet. Scanning the day’s data, she spots two more energy spikes and her stomach twists. She knows Shen’s engineers are working as fast as they can, but can’t ignore the twinge of panic.

Come on, universe. Just give us a little more time. I know I screwed up. Don’t make everyone pay for it.

She’s not sure how the world would handle a resumption in hostilities --- or, more importantly, how the Council would. Obviously, there’d be a stronger push for the weapons specs and, she concedes, a stronger case in favor of it. She imagines, too, that there would be pressure for additional offensive development; with fully automated weaponry like the Sectopod running rampant, the push for a proportional response would be intense.

She’s not sure how the men would handle it either. Operation Avenger had taken place November 14th, and in the aftermath, life had tilted swiftly back towards normal.  Only three days after, they had celebrated Central’s birthday with beer and cake. Two weeks after that, Martin had proposed to Royston. They had gone from a state of near constant alert, a life lived on caffeine and adrenaline, to one of more sustainable vigilance, a life where six hours of sleep was an attainable goal. The strains, the cracks that had widened into crevices, had gone quiet, suddenly manageable once the onslaught had been quelled. Bernard’s smoking is back to a reasonable level. Hershel says prayers other than the Kaddish. She’s even fairly certain Royston and Martin manage to sleep through the night sometimes. The base personnel are starting to lose the dark circles under their eyes, and some are even beginning to show up for shift without firearms. She can’t imagine morale would weather a second storm well.

In their time spent fighting the aliens, they’d only had a single self-inflicted casualty, and even that had felt like one too many. They’d all gotten used to funerals, to death and the rituals of mourning, but still, it had rattled them all. It was impossible to miss the way no one quite left Martin alone for any real period of time, the way the sharpest knives went missing from the kitchen, and the sudden dry up of their liquor stores. She has always been impressed, and maybe more than a little touched, at the way XCOM manages to look out for its own.

She knows, though, on some level, that the holidays would be an ideal time for the aliens to strike back. Psychologically, it would be devastating, the sight of bodies among the cheer, the ensuing chaos as people sought safety in overcrowded shops and streets. Her mind briefly flashes to New York, to Times Square, hundreds of thousands crammed into a space far too small to ever be evacuated quickly. They’d all be slaughtered on live television.

No, no, no, she tells herself. We’re not doing this. We’re not playing what if. The comms are quiet. The comms have been quiet. Molchetti scattered their ship out of existence. This is not a horror movie. There is no gotcha. Rational. Be rational.

She draws in a breath and fights the urge to go search for a piece of wood to knock on. If she’s jinxed them, it’s sure to ward it off. Really. She just has to go, knock on wood, throw some salt, something, anything to ward off the sense that she’s just invited trouble.

She shudders and draws her sweater closer around her. You’re being ridiculous, she tells herself. You can’t control that. You can’t control them. No single thought, unaccompanied by action, has ever led to an attack. Never. It’s an explanatory fiction. You know this. Come on. Don’t go down the rabbit hole.

She goes to pick at the skin of her thumb, already rubbed raw, and is momentarily surprised to find a bandaid covering it.

Of course. That had been Central’s work yesterday, after he’d watched her tear at the offending flesh for the duration of a staff meeting. He’d waited until Shen and Vahlen had left, then pulled the bandage from his wallet, wrapping it around her finger.

“It hurts just looking at that,” he’d told her. “It’s gotta sting.”

She nods. “At least it feels like something.”

The worry in his eyes had said all he’d needed it to.

#xcom #Fic #every exit an entrance #commander/central #i'll update the masterpost when i'm not on mobile --- i haven't forgotten!