Dying Breath

From the journal of Adam White:

First day in the field, first day out of service. Fucker got me in the shoulder and it burns like hell. What else is there to say? 

Alright, they're telling me there's more to say, and I'm supposed to say it. "From the beginning." Whatever that means.

The beginning. 

Well, I was born in Sevenoaks, in Kent. Dosh clogging up the train to London. I spent my time at university pissed up, and graduated a stunning brawler. That was... seventeen months ago. 

What else. I'm a marksman, or near enough. My dear father was an officer of the law and liked the idea that I should be, too. Woe is me. I joined the Royal Army instead and was stationed in Cyprus and then Afghanistan before someone bothered to notice I have a head on my shoulders.

Mr. White goes on for a while, as instructed. I have been repeatedly shocked by the candor with which the soldiers write; they are made aware that their journals are used for psychiatric evaluations (though they are not told their commander will scrutinize every entry). Perhaps Armageddon liberates them to speak their minds. Or perhaps their training has stripped them of all dishonesty, even by way of omission. I would not know. For all my expertise, I have never dropped and given twenty. I have never stared determinedly past caustic drill sergeants  saturating my soul with violence by the pressure of absinthian words. I have never even held a firearm, beyond the plastic pistolas de agua I played with as a child.

All in all I am remarkably unqualified to judge. Nor am I qualified to explain the origins or mechanics of the facilities that house XCOM, whereby we have advanced our war-making. I may deem the logistics worthy of report en el futuro próximo. For now, I will merely note that circumstances in our first mission persuaded me that improving our soldiers' armor was of paramount importance.

Our first mission - yes - called Dying Breath, in bravado, perhaps, or exultant pessimism. General Hitori names the operations; I merely execute them.

White is getting to it now:

A few hasty introductions on the plane, hello and how do you do, not much small talk. I can't decide if it was an honor or a slight to be chosen for first contact - am I promising or expendable? It was clear enough what the others thought. The Aussie had a stern look, ready to chastise the ETs to death. Okindukawhatever's tail was between his legs already. And the girl - Mulder, for the love of God - I'm still not convinced she wasn't assigned to this mission purely for her name - well, American girls always look happier than they are. She winked at me after we landed, when the bay doors opened. I've since seen her without the armor, and fuck me if I don't get the chance to see her in even less before I die. 

Our corner of Beijing looks a hell of a lot like everywhere else.

Anyway I was expecting a little more hide and seek. Instead Kerrick kangaroos his way behind a car and there they are, a pair of them, grey and balloon-headed. I remember my first thought quite clearly: They look soft.

Kerrick, the Aussie, puts on a dour face and lobs a grenade at the Grey that doesn't scurry off. Turns out they look even softer on the inside.

OK scurries around the building while I cover him, while X-Files trips her way into three more ETs. They get a few shots off (I call dibs on the first gun of theirs we capture. Thick red jam - that's what the projectiles remind me of) and one of them does some kind of weird trance thing to one of the others. X-Files takes a hit but manages to stay standing. I'll give her this - she looks ace with a little blood on her. 

I'm against a building - things happen fast: I take a shot through the window (knicked my hand on a piece of glass, but it was worth it; looked damn safe) but the fucker dodges behind a bookcase. There's an explosion behind me - X-Files kicks the trance twins with a grenade - and OK lets fly on number three. Naturally he's too busy cowering to hit. 

Things are a little hazy after that. OK's bungled shot leaves me flanked, and the Grey he shot at decides I'm the bigger threat. I don't think I even felt the shot. Just saw a white light, like the snows over Newcastle. The late February gales. My wound looks more like April sludge. 

I do remember two things: First, X-Files' mad scream - I'd thought she'd been hit, at the time, but it turns out it's only the sight of me, deltoid wide open. ODE, the commander, tells her to hold steady, but she leaps from cover and shreds the bastard that shot me.  

And the second thing - Kerrick's charge, grim and silent, and the sound of his feet on broken glass, and the wretch of his gun as he kills the fucker behind the bookcase. 

Then the white became black, and here I am. At least the bed is comfortable.

Kerrick's corpse is somewhere around here - I saw them wheeling him in earlier. Apparently a sixth Grey had been circling around us the whole time. Got the Aussie in the back. 

They're starting a memorial. How romantic. 

That's not the worst of it. The worst of it, the real injustice, is that they're promoting OK and X-Files. Not me. Oh, no. Apparently they're giving ranks for Most Improved. OK has half a dozen misses and one lucky shot... and Mulder! Who panicked! In the middle of an operation! Who defied explicit orders!

Whatever.

I've been given two weeks' leave for my troubles. I've got company, too. X-Files and her bloody new sniper rifle, which she keeps by her bedside like a loved one.

She does look good with a rifle. And the hospital beds are comfortable...

Maybe I'll make nice. Two weeks... who knows what might happen between two people in two weeks, perched here at the end of the world.