#unlike that one flufftober piece this is actually somewhat based on kinmems

[companionwolf]

a dog that doesn't bark

fandom: xcom enemy unknown

verse: based on memories of my canon (I'm fictionkin)

TW/CWs: um I genuinely am not sure

The Commander knows distantly that they are not crawling on their hands and knees. Still, their brain maps the sensation and movement as such. They can't really blame it. There hasn't been much chance to get used to walking again, not when they're almost always shut up in that damn room within Delta Section.

They make their slow way to the middle of the command center by the Hologlobe, where they stand in the blue silver light of it and gaze at the false world. They're alone here, bathed in the gleam of the Earth.

A long breath exhales from their open mouth, not their nose-- for some reason, mouth breathing feels... better? Human. They know it doesn't look human. (It looks like a animal, panting.) They know it doesn't feel human.

(Maybe that's just their mind playing tricks, but they can almost make out the sensation of the false lung approximation, something that's just on the verge of familiar.)

A majority of the usual command personnel are asleep, taking their allotted shift for rest, and aren't present as the Commander moves again, lugs themselves around the long desks, with the servos of their joints and the hum of the exhaust ports registering as far far too loud to them.

If they are caught outside the room--

What trips in their chest is supposed to be a heart-- their heart. The Commander pretends it is still, pretends they are merely grinding their knuckles into the floor, their knees against the hard ground, that nothing has really changed.

(Death feels ethereal.

Not bad, not good, but like white light and droning tones. The Commander knows this-- because they died, technically, during the transplant. They're sure of it, no matter the speed of the doctors and the oxygen rich solution and whatever else they did. No, the Commander is sure, and they wanted it to stick.

But they didn't get a choice. Not about dying, not about the transplant, not about the new body, not about this job, not about anything at all.)

Anyway, if they are caught, it won't be good. There will be too many questions, ones the Commander can't answer. It's better to let the troops and staff think they're bedbound, only able to see those authorized to come into that stupid room. That's what the Council says.

Their mind burns hot. They hate the Council. It was the Council who picked them, who cornered them into this, and then decided they needed saving-- insurance, they'd said. Just in case.

Bullshit. You just wanted a experiment.

The Commander was dying, sure, but they'd figured that out, had made peace with it. They were prepared for the inevitable end. If it was going to happen during all this, they'd find a new leader for XCOM. They'd had someone in mind, actually. Things were in motion to ensure...

It doesn't matter now.

Slinking through the shadows, they make their way around the perimeter of the command center, thankful the crew at hand are wearing headphones or are otherwise occupied. The burning turns cold inside them, something shamed.

These people are -- they're friends.

Or at least something close enough.

They deserve the truth. But the Commander can't give it to them.

They go to ball their fists, can feel the sensation as if they're doing so, but it's a mind trick. They don't have fists anymore, really. Just these things closer to paws, modeled after some robot from the early 2000s. Their only real purpose is to help the brain realize it's on the ground, that they're walking. There's no sense of texture, and they can't wiggle any toes-- they're pretty sure they don't even have any toes now.

(That's a big part of what was used, they've put together. Parts diagrams and designs from entertainment bots, modfied here and there. It's what the engineers and scientists had. There wasn't enough time to make something human.)

The Commander blinks in the low light--

Or well, it parses to their brain that they blink. They aren't sure that's actually happening; their understanding of the optical input they're getting visuals from is fuzzy. Somehow the white coats and engineers made it work with their brain, but it's a hack job. Their vision is far worse now, and it fucks up due to the mechanical components.

Someone is moving around near the door out of the command center, pawing through some cabinets. The Commander moves as quietly as they can to try to pass them without notice.

This doesn't matter. Their body makes noise that can't control-- the servos, vents. It's machinery.

(Are they a machine? They don't think about it.)

The personnel member looks over. The Commander stares back.

The personnel reaches for their earpiece. The Commander feels like vomiting.

Forgive me.

The personnel members hand drops, and they suddenly move away from the cabinet and far across the command center.

The Commander darts out the door, to the side of the entrance, before listening. There's the confused voice, the uncertainty of lost time. Typical of coming out of mind control, but will be passed of as tiredness.

The sense of needing to throw up intensifies. The Commander feels pain beneath a titanium skull, almost swears thaf their brain pulses. If it bleeds now-- if it bleeds now they're in trouble.

They start down the dark hallway, through shadowy corridors and past empty rooms. Eventually, they reach what was once theirs.

The Commander swallows, gingerly probing the lock with a psionic grip, nudges what needs to be nudged and coaxs the lock open. They push the door open just enough to fit through and slip inside, using their shoulder to ease the door back shut without a terrible clang.

Inhale. Exhale.

They stand at the closed doorway, sweeping their eyes across the room. It's sparse, clean. There's a XCOM flag above the neatly made bed. A desk boasts a computer and a snake plant; they squint at the plant.

Someone's been watering it. Someone's dusted the desk, too.

The Commander sits, and for one moment, closes their eyes. They pretend everything is fine.

The sound of footsteps coming ruins it.

They're on their feet again, squishing their head against the door to try and hear if anyone's speaking. The voices are still indistinguishable, but there's definitely people out there coming closer. The Commander feels themselves frown, knows that feeling of it on their face isn't real-- this face, this body, can't emote much at all.

The footsteps get nearer; they can make out the voices now-- Central and Guzman. The sense of frowning gets deeper. This is their scheduled rest period, what are they doing up? The Commander strains harder, tries to hear.

"--I'm just worried," is what they catch from Guzman. Their interest perks. If a solider of theirs is concerned about something, then so are they.

"They're doing a lot better," says Central. "I can pass along a message to them, if that'd help."

A wave of nausea. Are they talking about--?

"Tell them we miss seeing them," Guzman says.

They can't--

The Commander dry heaves, their emotions caught in their chest and throat. They miss me? There's a sense of being teary eyed. I miss them.

A deep inhale that shudder through them. Focus.

Guzman and Central have slowed, are standing outside the room now. "I've been watering their plant," says Guzman suddenly, and the Commander imagines Central's eyes widen a bit.

"But the lock--"

Guzman doesn't say anything back, but the Commander imagines she's grinning, and the thought warms them.

But then she says "Someone has to, until they're able to come back" and the terrible pit in their stomach deepens further. They want her to know.

They want everyone to know.

The Commander's head aches. They should stay low and quiet until the other two leave, go back to that prison of a makeshift hospital room, lie down and disappear into nothing like they do now to stave off the dread, the knowing that--

Some part of them wants to go out into the hall. Some part wants to say hello, with the voice box in their throat that allows them tinny speech. Some part wants to lift the veil: show everyone what was done to them, get their help to--

To what? They can't go back. This is it.

The world spins. The headache splits through them. The Commander wants to dig their fingers into the carpet but they don't fucking have those.

They instead stand very still, listening as Central chides Guzman lightly, as the two begin to walk away. Their head pounds, somehow-- it isn't real, they know it isn't, but still it is a painful drumbeat.

When they're sure their central officer and soldier have gone far enough away, the Commander slips back out the door and toward the command center.

As they step into the enterance of the room, they run right into a personnel member. Shit, they think. Fuck.

The Commander stares at her, she stares back.

They are frozen. She moves to engage her earpiece. They stand there, wondering if she can smell the blood, hear the beeping that never leaves, if she can tell-- if she can figure it out.

Then they snap out of it, gently brushing her mind with theirs, leading her away from them and tenderly removing the memories both, at the same time as they sneak through the dark spaces toward Delta Section.

It works.

It hurts.

The Commander stands outside that room. They don't want to go back.

(They don't get a choice.)