Celebration

        Most everybody remembers where they were when Advent showed up. Some were tucking in kids, or fucking their wives. He was behind the bar, on a cool summer night, floating in a celebratory daze. So high. So drunk. We thought we had won. And when the morning came, with the announcement that more ships had shown up...

        It was like waking up to a nightmare.

        The old world had fallen. Some resisted the change, and fell with it. Most rolled with the punches, bowing their heads to get along. But some of humanity was crazier. Crazy enough to push back, crazy enough to try to make a difference. Crazy enough to be effective.

        For an hour he had stalked the area, walking the streets in disguise. Nothing got adrenaline pumping hot through blood like being immersed in enemy territory. And what part of the planet didn't constitute enemy territory? Their eyes and ears searched everywhere, and the operative could sense them feeling him up.

 

 

        Thirty minutes later, and he's picking through the wreckage. The whole strike had been perfectly planned and gone down without so much as a hitch. Although xeno backup was surely inbound after an explosion like that, it felt wrong not to slow down to breathe in the destruction.

        The IED that Robertson planted had a larger blast radius than anticipated, and on top of taking out the VIP it imploded the rear wall of a nearby bar, sharp metal teeth still orange-hot in their crooked jut from the building's wound.

        While it didn't make sense to survey the ruined restaurant, he felt the need to investigate. When asked by the agent to rationalize such a human course of action, Robertson quickly sympathized:

        /“Previous mission objectives completed. New objective is to search the establishment.”/

        The lights above the bar had shorted out, along with the sprinkler system. The destroyed dining area lay beneath a thick shroud of dim mist. Less light was good, easier to catch a survivor off-guard.

        “Robertson, scan for life forms!”

        The little UAV flitted out of the cover of a shattered jukebox, servos electric with enthusiasm.

        /“Life sign presence is minimal.”/

        “Minimal?” the man queried.

        /“Life is present, excluding ourselves. Would you like to know more?”/

        A silent nod, and the drone blinked. The dot of his scouting laser pulsed to life and danced across the soaked debris, broken tables, shattered tile. It settled on something organic: A limp arm jutting from rubble, hung at the elbow. Gun raised, he approached the appendage with caution. He was close enough to touch.

        Long and slender, unmistakeably feminine. Smooth yellow scales and sharpened black nails. Fingerless wool glove and a ring shaped like a heart. Cute. But he'd recognize those scales anywhere.

        “A Viper...”

        Extreme speed and reflexes, fast-acting poison that could kill with just a prick, and nearly 500 pounds of muscle made Vipers one xeno you didn't want to fuck with.

        “Hold this.”

        The operative slapped his gun into the little droid's claws. The robot whirred in excitement.

        /“I am not trained to operate this weapon-”/

        “Shh!” he hushed. He began to part rubble, shoveling with his hands.

        “You aim,” he ordered, “and if she strikes, you shoot.”

        More debris clattered about, stirring up a dusty cloud. It made him cough. But he had to uncover the body, bring it back to base. Someone... some thing like this could be a huge help to XCOM.

        As the dust began to settle, the agent took a step back to asses the alien's equipment.

        Armor was minimal but present, composed of hard materials and infused with cloth, like casual Kevlar. And the spine was unprotected. This armor was lighter he noticed, almost informal, with what looked to be a breastplate for... support. It... was a she?

        “She” had a prolonged, snake-like body, yellow scales up and down her entire length. Her stomach was a lighter shade, toned but softer, rising and falling gently with every shallow breath. Above her breasts was an elongated neck, surrounded by a thick fleshy hood.

        Something stirred. Her eyelids shot open. The agent fell back and Robertson struck.

        With 1,000,000 volts her spine stiffened to a board and her tail kicked across the broken floor. Robertson cranked up the juice, sending the poor snake into a violent spasm. Her fists clenched tight and her stomach muscles went taut. The whole length of her serpentine body twisted and curled, muscles desperately attempting to regain control.

        She managed to lift her head. She looked in his eyes. The operative felt hate arc through the air, or maybe it was just electricity.

        With a snap of the agent's fingers Robertson cut the juice. The reptile's body dropped instantly, muscles slapping the floor like wet clay. Her arms fell to her sides as her snake jaw unhinged, floating lifelessly agape. Her worm tongue flit in puddling drool. Her eyelids flickered weakly, orange pupils rolling all the way back into the brow of her skull.

        “What a cute face,” he remarked. “Robertson, take a picture.”

        The robot whirred, then clicked twice.

        /“Upload to mission scrapbook?”/

        “No,” he murmured, “this is going to my personal server.”

 

 

        A deep breath.

        He plowed his boot into her stomach, sending her screaming back to life. She squirmed on the ground, retching at the blow. The reptilian gasped for air but he blocked it double-quick. The only thing to pass her lips was the long barrel of his gun.

        “Xeno scum,” he spat, “you are under arrest. By the new Earth government. Appointed by me.”

        Handcuffs were produced, clacked large around her wrists. She moved to resist, but was still drunk on pain. He resumed an aimed stance.

        “Be thankful Robertson can show restraint,” he stated over his rifle, “because an arc thrower may hurt, but it's preferred to the alternative.”

        He grinned.

        “Robertson, the X-ray is bagged and tagged. Let's get her back to the skyranger!”

        /“'Bagged and tagged' is a phrase that implies lethality. Wouldn't 'apprehended' be a more fitting term?”/

        Gun butt to his shoulder, the agent paused.

        “You know,” he teased, speaking more to his bounty, “you've got me thinking now, and I'm just not sure which option to go with. The staff in Intelligence would appreciate a living specimen but, frankly, I've never cared much for Intelligence.”

        The snake chortled, deep and alien. The operative spun his rifle in speedy reply. Its butt connected. Her snout crunched.

        “-But dead or alive, I know R&D doesn't give a shit.”