Broken

Chapter 1

21st of October 2016, Chicago, Illinois

Mechanized Exoskeletal Cybersuit (MEC) Trooper Master Class Renzol (Discharged, Medical)

The musty scent of dried sweat permeated the bedroom. Dirty glasses littered the nightstand. Black garbage bags covered the windows. A sliver of dead October light flickered through where the tape had come loose, making dust dance in the dull cold rays. Baggy clothes buried a wooden chair in the corner, and a shapeless heap that was the blanket covered the foot of the bed.

She lay on the bed, clad in military issued skivvies. A sliver of light landed on her figure, striking a dull reflection. Where her limbs should have been there was only cold metal. Mock thighs and arms mimicked human bone structure, padded gyros served as knees and elbows, and hard shins ended in permanent boots of metal. The only difference was her hands. They were deft and well-defined, made of soft grey synthetics and retaining the tactile response of flesh and skin. The marks of someone who had sacrificed everything in the name of victory.

Sky blue eyes stared into nothingness. The woman's features were sharp and uncomely, something many would describe as plain. Her cheeks were sunken and hollow, unhealthily so, and further accented by high cheekbones. Her shoulder-length blonde hair was greasy and tangled, sticking to her face in messy locks.

Renzol's chest heaved. She reached deep to find the strength to face another day. With a labored sigh she pushed herself up. Pain responded. Searing agony bloomed in the flesh of her right shoulder, sending spikes of nerve pain down an arm where pain should have no longer existed. The arm convulsed, nearly sending her spilling out of the bed. She clawed at the seam where her flesh connected with metal. The torment brought to life her long gone arm; phantom pain of the limb she was born with, that she was supposed to have, that she had given willingly.

She bit down hard and screamed.

The convulsion could have lasted a minute or an hour. By the time the pain receded, Renzol was panting frantically and drenched in cold sweat. Nausea churned her stomach, climbing slow and steady up her gullet. The cybernetic interface in her shoulder ached with a dull fire, but at least the convulsions were over. For now.

Renzol gagged, her nausea demanding acknowledgment. She made for the bathroom but her augments refused to cooperate, one massive leg crashing into the other. The impact of her fall shook the floor, and her metal knees left new scars in the carpeting. Another gag, and bitter bile filled her mouth. She found her feet and barged through the bathroom door.

Stomach fluids and bile acids surged into the shower. Renzol's flesh trembled. Sweat dripped from her brow as heat roiled over her in waves. A deep, violent retch left her throat but nothing more came up. She fumbled blindly for the dial and a torrent of ice cold water came down on her. The shock pulled her back from the brink of unconsciousness. She leaned against the porcelain insert of her tub, wiping at her mouth. Dark liquid swirled around in the stream of the shower. The nausea was gone, but the ache remained.

Renzol spat the sick taste out of her mouth. She hated it: her sickness, the tiny apartment, the broken tiles of the bathroom, all of it. Her throat tightened. The beat of the freezing water made her shiver, and her anger burned into coals of despair, and the despair crumbled into numb acceptance.

Her eyes came across a shard of glass on the cracked tiles. She had broken the mirror above the sink ages ago, but she still found pieces of it here and there. Sometimes, she thought of clearing out the rest of them. But in the end, she never did. Another reminder of her past.

I deserve it, she thought, I deserve it all.

Once she had been strong like no one else. All the horrors of the war, the deaths of her comrades and pent up emotions hadn't been enough to break her. She had channeled them all within, locking them away inside a mental box. She had been unbreakable.

It had all been a lie. Renzol knew that now. The moment of truth had occurred just over seven months earlier.

XCOM Asia HQ

Eight months earlier

The auditorium was filled with excited and nervous chatter. Friends and comrades speculated over the reason of the meeting. Orgun's Irish accent rose above the chatter: "I'm tellin' ya! 'Tis a call for stand down! We've kicked t'buggers right off our rock!"

Kilroy turned on the rocketeer, her brunette ponytail bobbing with the motion. "Shut the fuck up you inbred! Don't jinx it!"

Drake's brow was furrowed above her eyepatch. The Indian-American agreed with the woman she called sister, "And if it's a second wave, you'll look real smart Orgun."

Orgun laughed. "Ye'll see, Debbie Downer! Trust good ol' Uncle Orgun on this one!"

The chatter halted with a call of "Ten-chut!" as Captain Medve entered the room. Seats slapped against their backrests as operatives jumped to attention. The officer turned to face the rising rows of seats, his face all business.

"Commander on deck!" the Captain barked, whipping up a crisp salute.

Commander Awo entered the room. He was neatly groomed and wore a pressed officer's uniform, but there was a slight limp to his stride. He returned Captain Medve's salute while Colonel Van Doorn followed behind. Awo stepped up to the podium and turned to face the operatives.

"At ease, XCOM."

The soldiers promptly seated themselves, tense. The room was holding its unanimous breath.

"At 2000 hours, we received new orders direct from the Council."

Operatives leaned forward in anticipation, backs straight and fists drilling hard into their knees. A grin broke Awo's face.

"XCOM is to stand down to condition two."

Deafening cheers filled the auditorium as people jumped up and grabbed their neighbors. Kilroy screamed and leapt at Drake, and the caramel-skinned assault barely caught her sister. Kilroy's hands closed behind Orgun's neck and she pulled him into the group hug, starting the steady chant of "Fuck aliens!" that was quickly joined by Orgun and Drake and the rest.

The long wait was finally over. Down at the front, Awo laughed as Van Doorn grabbed him in a bear hug. The two leaders slammed each other in the back, harder with every hit. Operatives cheered, laughed, and cried in joy as the long war was finally at an end. Everyone except Renzol.

The MEC trooper sat in the back row. Her fingers clutched tight at her mechanized thighs. She was shell-shocked. Over. It's finally over. She couldn't comprehend the thought. She had been certain the enemy would return; a second wave to wipe them all out if they weren't prepared. That's why she had kept up her training. Where others had complained over the increased training workload, Renzol had only grown sharper and sterner.

Kilroy's excited face appeared in her vision. "We won, Renzol! We fucking won! Get up and celebrate you magnificent, stone-faced bitch! Woooooo!" Kilroy jumped up on the table and pumped her fists wildly, any semblance of protocol gone with the news.

I have to get out of here, Renzol thought. She stepped out into the aisle and exited through the top, slamming the heavy reinforced door shut behind her.

The riotous merriment was left behind as she hurried through the corridors. The news echoed in her head, driving her on ever faster.

It's not over yet. It's a trick, she denied, unable to accept the truth.

Renzol didn't understand. She had dedicated all of herself to the cause: she was a living weapon, shaped in mind and body to kill alien life come to eradicate humanity. It couldn't be over.

Isn't this what I've been fighting for?

The thought brought her to a halt. A familiar uncertainty had settled in the pit of her stomach. The anxiety that she had banished ages ago was back, eating away at her from the inside. Rising panic threatened to take over.

Renzol broke into a run towards the access lift. She had to drown the anxiety. The personnel elevator took her down into the bottom level where the MEC trooper training grounds resided.

The training complex was empty. The control room behind the glass was supposed to be manned by at least one technician at all hours. Anger flashed hot within Renzol.

How can they abandon their post? What if there's an attack?

She grasped onto the thought like it would save her from drowning. She couldn't accept it. It wasn't over yet.

She stayed in the training complex for an hour, hoping a technician would show up. The MEC training suits stood at their assembly stations. Renzol ran her fingers over the armor; they weren't the cybersuits she had used out in the field, but she knew them inside-out regardless. They were the peak of bio-cybernetic engineering: the bulwarks of XCOM and Earth, killing machines created and fitted just for her. Their presence gave her solace and purpose.

This is all I ever wanted to be.

No technician answered her pages. Eventually Renzol conceded and left the training grounds. She needed the help of a technician to suit up, but the time spent in the mere presence of the cybersuits had calmed her down. The panic had disappeared, and the anxiety was but a distant ache in her chest.

I just have to do it like I always do.

The barracks was empty. The celebration in the operative's mess would continue for hours, maybe even days. Renzol made her way to the MEC trooper's quarters. She entered her austere chamber and placed herself in front of the covered mirror. The burlap cloth came off, and she folded it away onto the table like she did every night. It was getting late. She couldn't afford to miss her meditation and give in to everyone's fantasy that they were safe.

Five dents graced the unbroken surface of the mirror. Renzol breathed deep and relaxed herself. She raised her right hand and placed it on the mirror. The sensation of cool glass on synthetic fingertips always made her scalp tingle. It had become like a drug to her. She began slowly pressing on the mirror.

How far can you push something before it breaks?

She had pushed herself so far, surviving through countless deadly operations where others had not.

I'm strong. I'm unbreakable.

She increased the pressure, making the glass groan quietly.

Why are you still fighting? It's over. Renzol's heart skipped a beat. She hadn't heard that cold voice in a long time. She first thought it was Sergeant Foogleman, but she knew better. It was the Box. Her gut tightened into a knot. The glass creaked.

A jagged scar broke the surface of the mirror, cutting her reflection in two. Renzol's eyes widened.

No. It's not possible.

She denied the truth. The muscles in her shoulder trembled, shaking her metal arm. The pressure grew, and more and more cracks appeared in the mirror.

This isn't happening. It's not possible, I don't believe it.

Her nostrils flared. Unable to stop herself anymore, she pushed harder.

The mirror shattered. Thousands of tiny shards were released as what was once whole was broken. The glass would have sliced open a hand of flesh, but it merely clinked and danced over Renzol's synthetic fingers. She watched her reflection fall away. Only an untreated wooden backing stared back at her.

Renzol stood amidst the remnants of the mirror, her mind blank. She looked down at her hand. There was no blood. Of course there wasn't. She had willingly replaced her flesh and blood with metal.

She trembled. "I have to fix it", she muttered aloud as the panic rose. She fell to her knees and began picking up the pieces, but they were beyond counting. It couldn't be done. There was no longer putting back together what was broken.

"Because you're my best friend," Cell's words rang in her mind. The glass shards slipped through Renzol's fingers.

"No, you're not here. You're gone. The Box took you," she said, her rising voice full of fear.

Renzol saw Cell lying down at Delta Section, saw her broken arm and grisly shoulder splattered bright with fresh blood. She saw Hunterhr, sprawled across the cold floor of the Overseer, with tufts of hair and bone shards stuck to the open wound on his temple.

She saw Atlanton's smiling face as the blonde girl leaned over from her top bunk in jest. She heard dull strikes land on a punching bag as Foogleman sparred deep into the night with her all those months ago. She saw Hawkeye hit the ground under an endless wave of assaulting floaters; she saw Frag smile down at her in the Skyranger, reassuring her before his final operation.

A dark ocean crashed down on her as all barriers were torn down. Renzol screamed.

The Box was broken.

Renzol shivered uncontrollably as the cold water from the shower drew the heat out of her steel augments. Icy knives thrust into aching seams where flesh melded with metal. She slapped at the water dial, nearly tearing the plumbing out of the wall.

In the aftermath of her convulsion the darkness inside became endless. She lied in the shower, looking for an excuse to go on. The cold seeping into her bones was finally enough and she began to stand up. Something caught her eye.

A white medical bottle rested between the toilet and the wall. The phantom pain flared again, almost gentle this time compared to the intensity of the previous attack. The tissue surrounding the cybernetic interface was inflamed and swelling. Renzol didn't remember when the bottle had rolled there; it could've been yesterday. Or last week. Or last month. The drugs would help with cybernetic rejection syndrome, but only if taken regularly. On good days Renzol took her medicine, although she couldn't remember the last time she had strung more than two good days together. A spark of desperate hope lit within.

Go on, take it. Fix yourself. Live again.

The cold, mocking voice of what remained of the Box extinguished that spark.

No. I deserve this.

A welling whirlpool of dark emotions occupied the place inside her where the Box had once resided. From the depths, a tidal wave carrying the faces of the dead swept her away.

Frag. She had let him die, there was no way around that truth. If she hadn't been so incompetent back then, all would have been different.

Foogleman. Renzol had so badly wanted to be strong like the hard-ass sergeant. If she was to see her now… Renzol squeezed her eyes shut, but she couldn't hide from the leering phantom.

Hunterhr. She had refused his love, never even attending his funeral. The gentle man had deserved so much more from life.

Cell. Renzol had let the gunner die without ever telling her how much their friendship had meant to her. Cell had been her best friend; her only friend.

Renzol slumped down in the shower. Sorrow and guilt crushed her heart until nothing else remained. She had let down every last one of them.

Self-blame led to guilt. Guilt led to shame. Shame led to worthlessness. And worthlessness made her blame herself for it all, starting the never-ending circle anew again.

Quiet sobbing filled the bathroom. Renzol hated crying: it was the ultimate admission of weakness. She knew she had nothing left, but the empty shell she had become refused to let go of what she had once been. She wept silently for a while longer: the panic attack had subsided, and the memories had retreated back into the depths of the ocean. For now.

Renzol pushed herself up and peeled off her drenched clothes. She floated through the rest of her morning routine like a wraith before returning to the bedroom. There she changed into civvies; a pair of baggy blue jeans and an XL-sized hoodie. They looked awful on her, but at least they let her move about rather comfortably. And they concealed her limbs, not that she had any intention of going outside.

The hallway clock ticked on, its arms pointing to half past noon. Unopened letters lay in a pile by the front door. Dirty dishes littered the kitchen counters, a few plates even spilling over to the floor. Both the hallway and the kitchen opened into a tiny living room where the only pieces of furniture were a brown recliner and a small coffee table by its side. A flat screen television stood on a stand against the wall.

Renzol collapsed into the chair. She wasn't hungry at all; she put it down as one of the few pros of her augmentation. She turned to Netflix, a service she had spent countless of hours on. Sometimes, she would notice shows and movies in her history that she had no recollection of. Staring at the screen was the simplest means of escapism for her.

Today, Renzol found no respite in the red menus. She flicked through the pages: hundreds of shows and movies at her disposal, yet she couldn't find anything to watch. Eventually she gave up and switched to her cable subscription. A news talk show was on, and a female anchor smiled warmly at the camera.

"…With three weeks until the Third Quarterly Earth Independence Day, we will continue the countdown to the grand celebration with another interview of Earth's heroes. It is my absolute pleasure to welcome the Commander of XCOM himself! Commander Awo, welcome to the show."

The camera shifted to reveal Awo, sitting in a chair opposite the woman. The Commander was dressed in a neatly pressed uniform, and his chest was decorated by a plethora of bars and medals. "Thank you for having me," he said.

Their voices faded away as Renzol stared at the screen. Awo's hair was streaked with gray, and his right hand grasped a cane with a handle of solid silver. He shifted his legs, and the way his pants wrapped around his right leg caught Renzol's eye.

They had to amputate after all, she thought.

Then highest ranking officer, Awo had taken command after the devastating attack on XCOM's headquarters had claimed the life of the Commander. Awo had given his everything, pushing his body beyond its limits. Yet here he was, broadcast to millions on national TV, smiling and answering the questions with somewhat clumsy yet honest diligence. The screen went dark.

I'll never compare to him, Renzol thought.

A churning rumble brought her back from her thoughts, and she pushed herself up and headed for the fridge.

Leftover chicken teriyaki. Renzol sighed in relief. She was in no condition to interact with people today; it was either leftovers or nothing. She scraped the remains onto a plate and shoved it in the microwave. The dirty takeout box bounced off the full bin and landed on the floor, awaiting some distant future when she felt like taking out the trash.

Renzol took her meal to the table by the window. The food was hot but she didn't have the taste for it anymore. Regardless, she managed to eat with mechanistic efficiency, feeding her body the energy it required.

She stared at the garbage bags covering the kitchen window. The sudden embarrassment of how well Awo handled his TV appearance struck her in what little remained of her pride. She tore down the bags.

It was raining outside in the Chicago apartment complex. An impenetrable ceiling of steely clouds hung overhead. Icy drizzle fell on the small playground outside in the yard.

Her apartment resided on the second floor. Renzol found herself staring out into the yard. A pair of kids returning home from school pointed up at her window and she recoiled away as if they had weapons.

Something deep inside Renzol's chest shifted; something lost a long time ago. The simplest form of human interaction, bringing joy and sorrow at the same time. She tried not to think about it. It led to thoughts of Awo on the TV, of Cell and Hunterhr during the war. Instead, she inched forward to watch from afar as the children huddled under umbrellas or embraced the rain, breaking away from their friends to jump into puddles.

Renzol sat by the window until it grew dark and the street lamps came on. People returned home from work. The moon rose and still Renzol sat by the window, staring at everything and nothing. The phantom pain brought about by rejection syndrome had disappeared, but it would be back soon enough.

Another day… the moment I head off to bed I'm facing another day of this.

The sheer despair of the thought brought fresh tears to her eyes. Maybe tonight she wouldn't go to bed at all. But tomorrow would follow regardless, and the lack of sleep would only make things worse. She learned that months ago.

Where did it all go wrong?

For the first time in months, Renzol braved the dark waters. She looked inside, truly inside. Through the tangled emotions, through the phantoms and memories she searched.

The end of the war and her loss of purpose. Hunterhr's death, Cell's death. The augmentation and losing her humanity. Foogleman's death. None of it was right.

Renzol traced it all the way back to the root, back to that sunlit afternoon aboard an alien transport ship. In the end it was so simple she couldn't understand how she hadn't seen it before.

She had let Frag die. She had never recovered from that. She had only pretended she had.

It was all a lie. The meditation, the Box, my strength… I was broken all along. Silent tears poured down her face.

The ponderous ticking of the hallway clock marched on. Eventually Renzol stripped off her clothes and slipped under the blankets. She lay awake in the bed, her mind haunted by the ghosts of the fallen, and her body wrecked by the convulsions of rejection syndrome.

She was broken.