darkwombat

Been away for a bit, just got back and watched this episode. Laughed. My Ass. Off! Seriously, that was comedy gold there, with D.W. arming the C-4 and forgetting to throw it, then wandering into the stun gas and seemingly exploding -- I was laughing so hard at your commentary, Fend. I knew the C-4 detonation was coming before it happened, and I was simultaneously going "oh crap! oh crap!" and greatly anticipating your reaction -- you did NOT disappoint, my friend. The loss of the other squaddies later was a bummer, but sometimes the missions where everything goes to crap are the most memorable. Looking forward to catching up on the next few episodes, but had to post my reaction to #10 -- it sucked for the Xenonauts but it was a lot of fun to watch!

Wait, let me get this straight -- you're bringing Msv "Plasma Magnet" Knight and Dark "Friendly Fire" Wombat in as rookies . . . together? (deep breath) Msvknight, I apologize in advance, I swear I thought you were an alien, and I look forward to meeting your second incarnation.

If we're doing a "this has all happened before . . . " theme for this playthrough, then I say throw Darkwombat back in there! You can find his backstory in (longish) form in the previous LP's thread. Boomstick again, please, only if you can find a soldier with decent TU's and bravery -- otherwise, outfit him as you see fit. If the most suitable soldier happens to be female, so be it, I'll do a new backstory as a female character. Please name her "WickedWombat" in such an eventuality. Thanks for the entertainment of the first playthrough, looking forward to play #2! I'll close with some random advice, some of which you may have already seen in other comments, from the first playthrough: 1. Don't intercept alien fighters with foxtrots. They can't use evasive meneuvers and their missiles generally won't hit the agile alien fighters. 2. Avoid night missions. You can, and should, allow your dropship to "patrol" near the crash site until daylight arrives. To do this, you can click on the en route dropship and choose "patrol" to have it hover in place -- don't worry, it can do this for a long time. Once daylight has come to the area, click the en route dropship again, choose "Select new target" and then send it to the crash site. 2a. You can, and often should, have your dropship go from one crash site directly to another one without going back to base first. I see you are doing about one ground mission per alien "wave" and I think that works well from the standpoint of keeping the LP moving along, but it is definitely hurting your cash flow. In my own (very slow paced) campaign I am hitting at least 50% of the crash sites with my squads, and the corresponding increase in cash and alien materials is very helpful. I just don't know if that will mess up the "flow" of the LP too much to be practical for you. 2b. One exception to point #2 is in the case of a terror site, or possibly a crash site that has already been on the map for a long time. You may not want to risk the site disappearing while you "patrol" and wait for daylight. I think you will find for ordinary crash sites, though, that delaying for daylight is worth it and does not often result in the site disappearing before daylight arrives. 3. Always load every soldier up until they are just one tick into the red on their encumbrance. This trains their strength after every battle. Always try to let each and every soldier on the squad get at least one shot at an alien. Doesn't matter if they hit or not, doesn't matter if it is at ridiculous, extreme range -- just matters that they take the shot, even if they have no chance of hitting the alien. Doing this will train accuracy for each soldier that took a shot at an alien. 4. Aliens with helmets (officers) are immune to stun gas. 5. If you end up with a soldier in an exposed position and out of TU's, have a different soldier throw a smoke grenade on him. Every squaddie should have a smoke grenade if possible -- having the ability to pop a smoke cloud at a moment's notice will save your squaddie's lives repeatedly.

I got A FEVER! And the only prescription is . . . MORE COWBELL!

ooh! ooh! Put me in! Callsign: Wombat Sex: Whichever Race: Human General Appearance: Your choice Role: Assault (I loves me some shotgun)

Dirk, THAT was awesome. You outdid yourself on that story. Fantastic job! I had an awful feeling when I saw that base mission, that Winters wasn't coming home... I want to write something for when D. Dub hears the news of Winters' and Chefsbrian's passing, but I won't get a chance for a few days (Gen Con!!! Woot!) R.I.P. Major Nathaniel Winters, and Sergeant Chefsbrian. We've got it from here, gentlemen. *salute* EDIT: Edited for rank correction.

Oh! Oh, yeah, I . . . forgot to change that. Yes. Because DW was definitely not doing that stalker thingy. Nope. No sirree, Bob. And even if he was, he definitely wasn't thinking about licking anyone's forehead. Because (heh, heh) that would be WEIRD! Heh. Yep, gonna change that date right now.

Heh, that is true -- sorry, I've been lagging behind a little bit. Between work and getting ready for vacation I haven't gotten much time to write. Yes, putting them in chrono order would be a good idea. When I get time, I might go back and edit my previous submissions to reflect the game date, or at least put (after mission 11) or whatever to help identify. Still waiting with a mixture of interest and dread to see the fearsome Episode 15! Fend has got me all nervous, lol.

01December1979 2000 Hours Maximus Base Darkwombat walks away from Lt. Winters' door. (Nathan's door, he mentally corrects himself, and smiles at the thought. It will take him a little time to get used to being the same rank as his former squad leader!) The new lieutenant walks back toward his quarters, his limping gait noticeable but becoming less so every day. "Sven and the PT guys in Medical are amazing! I can't believe I'm already up and walking around" he thinks. He thinks back to Winters, and the Sake bottle on the table. Mentally, he blesses the two lovebirds. "Hope Aki and you are happy together, Nathan. You deserve it, my friend." The thought of their romance in the midst of the chaos of this campaign brings D. Dub's mind back to Rosalie. He had assumed that she would be in command of the new strike team at Columbia, being the most senior lieutenant on base, but brass had dictated otherwise and D.W. found himself with orders to take command of the Columbia squad. He had never asked for this. He knew there were some on the squad who felt it a travesty that D.W. -- the sergeant who had slaughtered Fend -- was now in command of the squad. To be honest, Lieutenant Williams himself wondered if brass was making the right decision. It complicated things with Rosalie, too -- though with the hurry of packing up for Columbia, the memorial for Corporal Walker, and his aggressive therapy schedule, D.W. had barely gotten more than a few minutes alone with her since he awoke in his hospital bed. "And those minutes were spent in light conversation, both of us carefully not looking anywhere near the elephant in the room while we talked squad ops, base gossip, and the like," he thinks to himself. "Probably for the best -- the timing is just all wrong with the transfer to the new base. Gotta keep our minds on the mission." Still . . . when he woke, hurting like hell all over, and felt her holding his hand . . . D.W. smiles at the memory. The next day, Columbia squad ships out. David takes time to seek out Winters, who is shaking hands with each of the departing troopers. D.W. waits until the others have said their goodbyes, and then takes Nathan by the hand, shaking firmly as he says "It's not gonna be the same without you out there, my friend. I hope I can do even half as well as a squad leader for Columbia, as you did by me." When Winters makes a dismissive gesture at the compliment, D.W. says "I mean it, LT" DW leans in close, his voice a whisper meant only for Winters: "And when you are looking at those tags on your wall, I hope you remember this: There are a lot of tags still hanging around troopers necks that WOULD be on somebody's wall, if not for you. Pretty sure mine is among them. You aren't perfect, LT . . . but you are a damn good leader, in part BECAUSE you count the cost of those tags on the wall, and don't you ever forget it! If I can bring my people back alive from our missions, much of the credit for that will go to the example you set, and the fact that you didn't wash me out of here, when you could've." With that, D.W. slaps Nathan on the back, then meets his eye purposefully. "Godspeed until we meet again, Nathan. Kick some alien ass, and come home in one piece." Winters returns D.W.'s gaze with a smile and replies "Until then, D. Dub. You and your people be careful out there. Good hunting!" The transport's engines rumble to life, and D.W. hurries to board, not looking back. Minutes later, Columbia squad is in the air. Dr. Barlowe, the base psychiatrist, moves to stand next to Winters. "Brass ignored my input on the matter, I told them he wasn't ready to command a squad after that wound and the friendly fire incident. How about you? Do you think he's ready, Lieutenant Winters?" Winters shoots a sideways glance at the doc, remaining silent as he watches the transport quickly recede to a dot on the horizon, then disappear entirely from view. Finally he speaks. "Hell, doc, do you think ANY of us are ready? He'll do the best he can, like we all do. For the record, I think his best could be pretty damn good."

I took the liberty of making a free chat room for any interactive RP people might want to do for Fend's series, or just Xenonauts in general. Room link: http://www.chatzy.com/91352184658054 Password: the name of the game that brought us all here (Starts with a capital X) EDIT: Fend, on an unrelated note, regarding your question about successors -- if D.W. kicks the bucket in a future episodeand Frenchy is still alive, I'd like to start writing for her. (What? Don't look at me like that. She wouldn't be my first female character, probably not my last either. . . I said don't look at me like that, dagnabit!) If Frenchy is not alive at that point, I would probably (with your kind permission) pick a different unclaimed trooper in the squad to write for, since I seem to have killed off D.W.'s family (no brothers, son, etc to bring in!)

I wouldn't mind if berserking meant shooting wildly at the aliens with a (greatly) increased chance of friendly fire to any Xenonauts who were more-or-less in the line of fire. But it does seem that every time my guys berserk, they fire into a nearby squadmate. Repeatedly. I justify this to myself as the aliens getting into the 'nauts head, making him see his buddies as grotesque aliens. But if it isn't supposed to be alien mind control, then I agree it is a little messed up to unload into a buddy repeatedly like that, just due to fear.

I like most of Fantasy Flight's stuff. Components look good, and they generally don't publish any games that are absolute garbage, so I am guessing the game mechanics are at least decent, hoping for excellent! As I believe someone mentioned in the article (or maybe the comments on the article) they did an excellent job with the board-game version of BSG, so I have high hopes. I wish it was based on Xenonauts instead of the Firaxis game, but I'll take what I can get! (Speaking of board games, anybody else planning to attend Gen Con next week in Indy?)

OOC1: This is actually a post relating to episode #11 -- didn't get it finished before #12 came up. IC: Twenty-five thousand. Darkwombat tried to picture the number in his head -- it was a number greater than the population of his hometown, and the town beside it, and the town down the road from those, and the town next over from that. . . he shook his head, trying to clear it of the enormity of the loss. Most of the base was spending their off-duty hours glued to the TV news, watching the aftermath of the massacre at Anchorage. Alien ships hovered over the city, enormous beams of plasma lancing down, whole buildings literally exploding. Over twenty-five thousand were dead, or presumed dead. Sergeant Williams thought back to his mother, long ago, walking beside the grey as she was led to the ship. She had been as docile as a lamb. With a shudder, Darkwombat prayed to God that the missing *were* dead, for the alternative -- life as a captive of the aliens -- that was a thought that made his stomach roil with dread. The mood on the base was grim. Fury and battle-lust emanated from nearly every soul on the base, and even the science geeks and the gearheads were muttering about grabbing rifles and getting revenge. Base leadership had to work hard to keep their people under control -- tempers flared and several serious fights -- one involving combat knives -- erupted between the scientists and the engineering team. The combat troops didn't come to blows, but many seethed in a quiet, private cloud of their own fury. Twenty-five thousand . . . He thought back to the evening that "Frenchie" Lefevre had spoken to him, urged him to find a place inside himself, a fortress to withstand the psionic attacks of the Caesans. D.W. had wondered what the pretty lieutenant had found within herself that had given her the confidence she seemed to display as she spoke to him. He had hoped he would get the chance to find out. It was the following day that the aliens struck Anchorage. Shortly thereafter, the fighter jocks managed to down an alien Corvette in Norway. D.W. was eating breakfast in the chow hall when the klaxxon sounded, and the call went out: "Strike team prepare for combat, cold weather gear. Lieutenant Winters, report to briefing room 3." D.W. was healed up from his previous wounds, the plasma having left him a nice scar as a reminder, but otherwise leaving him unimpaired. His hand brushed the pale, hairless expanse of the scar across his right pectoral as he stripped off his BDU's and wriggled into the thermal underclothes he would wear beneath his uniform and armor. The sergeant growled "Shoot me all you want, you alien bastards. But you don't get to kill me today!" He found that he wanted to live. He wanted to come back to base. He wanted to hear Rosalie's answer to his question, awkward as he had been asking it. (That's Lt. Lefevre's answer to you, sergeant!), he silently corrected himself, shaking his head at the foolish idea regarding Lt. Lefevre that he wouldn't even allow himself to consciously entertain, but which hovered stubbornly at the periphery of his mind. As the Janeway touched down in Norway, D.W. found himself once again paired with Lt. Fayru. If Fayru hated D.W. for gunning down his best friend, he never let it show while on mission. Off mission, he simply didn't interact with D.W. unless it was absolutely necessary. But now, Fayru was all business, using his oversized riot shield to protect himself, Marty, and D.W. as they watched the northern perimeter. D.W. wasn't sure what to think about Marty. The Canadian seemed a little odd, with his wild fish stories and seeming obsession with that odd-looking pellet gun -- but D.W. had seen the guy shoot on the range. He had to admit he was impressed. Marty was a wizard on the range. If he could maintain that kind of accuracy under fire, then D.W. wanted him on his flank, fish stories or no. Movement to the northwest -- some sort of drone hovering nearby. It turned, humming with electronic menace, and unleashed a barrage of plasma at the little group of Xenonauts on the north perimeter! Chefsbrian moved up and quickly put two laser blasts into the thing, but it didn't go down. Diving for cover, D.W. and the others couldn't get a clear shot at it, and it fired again, hitting Trashman no less than three times, and wounding him seriously. The rocketeer grunted in surprise, then hissed in pain as Nathaniel Winters brought his weapon up and blew the drone away. D.W. hurried to check on Trashman. The wound was a nasty one, and the familiar smell of burned flesh assaulted D.W.'s nose as he said "Don't worry, Trashman, we can fix this!" He brought out a medkit and field-dressed the wound, using the experimental drugs and dressings the tech-boys at base had said were near-miraculous at stabilizing plasma wounds. The treatment seemed to help, but Trash was definitely looking at some time with Sven and the medical staff if he survived the mission. The little droid proved to be the least of the squad's worries, as a hulking humanoid robot emerged from the snowy treeline and opened fire on the team. As if in concert, the rookie private, Kate Walker, opened fire with her laser rifle, damaging the machine severely. Lt. Winters finished it with a grenade. Even in the heat of the moment, D.W. saw the shadow that crossed Winters' face as he looked at the remnants of the robot. "Not his first time seeing these things" D.W. thought to himself. "They must be pretty bad-ass if they shake the LT up enough to show." The rest of the advance to the alien ship was a slog, house-to-house fighting with the whirring, pitiless robots giving no ground, fighting until they collapsed into heaps of smoking metallic rubble. Finally, the squad entered the ship, carefully advancing up the main hall. Fayru surprised a 'bot lurking just around the corner, and hit it with a glancing shot from his laser pistol as he dashed back into cover behind the wall. Carefully advancing again, Fayru scored another hit, but the robot was lining up a hit on Fayru. All Darkwombat could think of, was that he had to protect Fend's buddy -- he owed him that much! Roaring wordlessly, the sergeant leapt to his feet and charged! The 'bot fired, and D.W. took a painful hit to the right leg. Screaming as he felt the plasma melting through his armor, then his uniform, then his flesh, he fired his laser carbine from the hip. He was rewarded with a hit, but the robot wouldn't fall! It fired again, and D.W.'s mind exploded with pain as it seemed the heat of a hundred suns suffused his body with agony. "This is it. No more than I deserve, I guess. I hope Fayru and the others make it out alive. Would'a been nice to know what Rosalie was gonna tell me. Fend, I'm so sorry, man . . . Mom . . .Dad . . . I--" D.W. passed out, his uniform in flames, the strange barbecue aroma of his newly roasted flesh filling the air. The last thing he heard was the rookie, ChefsBrian, roaring "NO! NO, you metal bastard!" and the sizzle of laser beams scorching the air . . . Days later, D.W. awakened in medical, hazily looking around with that kind of fuzzy unconcern that comes only from the really *good* painkillers. There was a woman in the chair by his bed. He couldn't see clearly enough to tell who it was, but she seemed . . . familiar somehow. "Mom? Mom is that you? I thought the aliens wouldn't let you come back, Mom. Or are we dead? Being dead ain't so bad, I guess. So tired . . . just stay awhile, Mom. Don't leave me alone again . . ." As D.W. blacked out again, Lieutenant Rosalie Lefevre reached out to touch his hand. "You aren't alone, David. You rest, now. You will be fine." She looked up to the doctor for confirmation of her words. He paused, opened his mouth, then closed it again and merely nodded his head. Rosalie sighed in relief, and whispered "You rest now . . . *Lieutenant* Williams." EDIT: OOC2: Daaaaaaaaawwwww, Hiro is so cute!

OOC Commentary and mission reaction follows: Marty! Awesome to see some story from you, man! Very well written, I like! I hope we'll see more? Trashman, good to see you jumping into the literary soup we got cookin' here, too! Looking forward to hearing more about the Trashman. Dirk, Lt. Winters is taking that last mission pretty hard. Good writeup as always, fits well with what we've learned of Lt. Winters so far. Tough, but with a deep core of concern for his men. Hopefully between Aki and Hiro, they can get our fearless squad leader back to a better mental place soon. I was disappointed to see Kate Walker pass, I was considering putting her in a little sub-plot with Darkwombat but I guess I'll work up something else instead. Plenty to work with, for sure! Fend, as always, thanks for posting these. You cracked me up with your plan for illicit use of stun grenades for recreational purposes. That might wind up in a story.... Also, just a reminder that if you are planning to have a 'naut shoot and then crouch and end their movement, it is always better to crouch *first* for an accuracy bonus. You probably already knew that, but it was news to me after I had been playing for a while, so thought I'd mention it. I still need to write up a story for D.W. regarding episode 11 -- maybe I'll get time to do that later this evening.

A Norwegian fox with a Japanese name. International fox of mystery!! Great read, as always, Dirk! As for illicit interpersonal relations and certain French lieutenants . . . I'm sure I can't imagine what you could be referring to, boss. *wanders off, merrily whistling "Alouette, Gentille Alouette"*

Sergeant David "Darkwombat" Williams stared at the freshly reassembled laser carbine. While his skill at stripping down the complicated device, cleaning the optics, and reassembling it was improving by leaps and bounds, it was only due to the prolonged period of inactivity at Maximus base. "Well, inactivity is a relative term," the sergeant thought, as a wry smile curved his lips. Lt. Winters was drilling the squad on a brutal schedule. Darkwombat was grateful for it, because the squad (especially the rookies) needed every edge they could get to come home alive from the next mission, and also because it kept him from doing what he was doing now -- reflecting. "I get enough of that crap from the visits with Doc Barlowe. Don't need to be doing it all the time." the sergeant muttered. Despite himself, the gravel-voiced sergeant was coming to appreciate the time with the headshrinker -- though he would sooner die than admit it to anyone, especially himself. Barlowe didn't press too hard, but also didn't put up with any bullshit. After the death of Lt. Fend by D.W.'s hand, she was also one of few on the base who would still talk to the sergeant. Lt. Winters was another. The sergeant's respect for him was ever growing, and not just because he had refrained from washing D.W. out of X-Com. Lt. Winters seemed to understand what many on the base couldn't; that D.W. hadn't been afraid. Well, he had, but not to the point of cowardice. Rather, the Caesans had tricked his mind -- invaded his head and toyed with it, pushed buttons and pulled levers in there. "Made me their damn puppet!" D.W. growled. That knowledge was, in its own way, more horrifying than if he had simply wigged out and curled into a ball from simple cowardice. If his failure had been the result of simple fear, D.W. could have chastised himself, punished himself, driven the fear into a tiny corner of his mind and kept it there -- the way he did after Dad . . . *Don't go there* . . .the way he did when circumstances required it. But this . . . this mind-rape . . . D.W. didn't know how to defend against it. He had promised Lt. Winters that he would never allow himself to "lose it" on the field again. But he knew deep down (and he knew that Winters knew as well) that the promise was composed more of best intentions than capability. "You aren't defenseless, you know." D.W. stiffened at the female voice that came from the open door behind him. Recognizing it, he jumped to his feet and stood at attention, facing the speaker as he saluted. "At ease, sergeant." Lt. Rosalie "Frenchie" Lefevre returned the salute and walked into the armory to stand a few paces from the sergeant, her light brown hair softly framing a face that, for the first time, Darkwombat registered as intelligent, rather pretty, and not unkind. This was probably because it was one of few times he had actually made eye contact with the French lieutenant. "Can I help you, Lieutenant?" "Sergeant, they get in your head. I know, because they got in mine! I know you, and most of the rest of the base, think I just don't have the heart to face the enemy after I ran from them during the Kenya mission. It wasn't fear of combat that made me run. it was . . . having them inside my head." D.W. had not been present for that mission, but he had heard the whispers during the days leading up to his very first mission. If he was honest with himself, at the time his thought was "Typical -- charge to the rear at the sound of the guns! How the hell did a French . . . GIRL . . . end up on a fireteam?!" Now he blushed as the Lieutenant held his gaze, painfully aware that his avoidance of her, his mixture of pity and revulsion toward her supposed cowardice, was the same reaction that many on base now had toward him. Lefevre continued. "You aren't defenseless. They can make you see and hear things that aren't real -- but what you need to do is find something to ground yourself -- something real. Something good. A moment of joy, of peace, a moment of serenity that you feel so deeply that they can never, ever take it away from you. When you feel them in your head -- and you will feel them there again, sergeant -- when that happens, focus on that good thing. The aliens don't understand joy, they don't understand love, and they don't understand devotion. Make those your shield, sergeant. Hang on to the good, and don't EVER let those bastards take it from you!" Darkwombat saw from the lieutenant's face that she was speaking words she truly believed. This was no empty encouragement, no obligatory pep-talk from one disgraced warrior to another. "Lt. Frenchy" truly was different, somehow. Though she had lost her place on the Alpha squad shortly after her promotion (ostensibly due to needs for her prodigious logistical skills over in the support division), D.W. sensed a serenity in her that had not been there before. "Thank you, Lieutenant. I . . . I will take your words under consideration." The lieutenant smiled. "You are a good man, Williams. You've taken several plasma hits, but the bastards couldn't kill your body. Don't let them kill your soul. I think it's a good soul. Maybe a tiny bit chauvinistic, but a good soul." She winked at the sergeant, then turned and walked to the door. "Lieutenant?" "Yes, sergeant?" "What was yours? Your moment, I mean?" The lieutenant turned and looked at him, her eyes sparkling with quiet amusement at the shy awkwardness of the sergeant's expression. "Come back safe from the next mission, and maybe I'll tell you, Sergeant Williams."

Ooh, a love interest for the LT! Good stuff as always, Dirk. Thanks for the read -- I'm hoping to get a chance to write some more stuff sometimes this week. Brigadier Fend, any chance we'll see some new episodes soon? Very curious to see what comes next! (And again, sorry for melting your face! They don't have a hallmark card for that . . .yet . . . but if they did, I think it should be a musical one that plays "blinded me with science" when you open it.)

Just a shameless bump in hopes of getting a sub-forum for some Xenonauts Let's Plays, AAR's and fan fiction. I like watching it, I like writing it, and I like reading it. I know there are at least a few others here who feel the same. Can we haz subforum, mods? Pretty please? On a related note, if you do enjoy Let's Plays and/or fan fiction, there's a fun thread that is currently residing over in Off Topic, where Fend414 is running a Lets Play with squaddie names and backstories from forumites. A few of us are doing some corresponding fanfiction/RP/general peanut gallery type stuff in the thread based on what happens in the missions. I, for one, am having lots of fun with it! Link here if you want to check it out. Things have taken a very dramatic turn with the most recent (9th) mission! http://www.goldhawkinteractive.com/forums/showthread.php/11609-Want-to-save-the-planet-Sign-up-here-and-help-a-new-let-s-player-out!

OOC: Nice writing, Dirk! Great speech, worthy of the occasion, certainly! OOC2: Fend, so sorry D.W. went Rambo on you. I hated it but I have to admit I was also kind of cracking up. He fired and missed TWICE before he finally got Fend. That's one heavy-duty freak-out, right there. Then the morale spiral as the new recruits and D.W. freaked out about him freaking out and killing Fend was pretty epic too. Thanks for sharing these episodes with us, I'm really starting to get caught up in the story as it unfolds. OOC3: Msvknight, dang, man. It's like you are some sort of plasma-attractor. Sorry, bud! OOC4: ChefsBrian, Trashman, Marty -- welcome to the squad! Looking forward to your exploits, and apologies in advance if I freak out and shoot you. I will try not to do that. "The Medal" David "D. Dub' Williams, a.k.a Darkwombat, sat on his bunk, alone. As soon as he had walked into the room, the new squaddies who had been whispering there exchanged meaningful looks, and quietly walked out. "Lt, I'm sorry. I screwed up bad, man. Shoulda been me. It shoulda been me, not you." D.W.'s voice was even more gravelly than usual, choked into a whispering groan that trailed off as for the hundredth time, he turned the small rosewood box in his hand end over end, feeling the cool smoothness of the wood. He snapped the box open, and looked again at the bright bauble within. "I can't believe they gave me a freakin' medal. For . . . for . . . well, they shoulda given me a bullet." He thinks back to the mandatory interviews with the base pscyhiatrist after the mission. "Corporal -- excuse me, Sergeant Williams. Thank you for coming." "You know I wasn't given a choice, ma'am. Not about the promotion, not about that damned medal, and not about this interview." "That is true, Sergeant. These evaluations are mandatory after any friendly fire incident. But they are not punitive, sergeant. They are merely to determine your capacity to return to combat." "Whatever you say, ma'am." "Sergeant, I know it will be painful, but can you tell me what happened?" "It was all in the official report, ma'am. I believe Lt. Winters filled it out, since Lt. Fend was . . . was . . .unable" The psychiatrist, a pretty redhead in her early 30's, fixed Williams with a sympathetic but piercing gaze, as she gently said "Since Lieutenant Fend died?" "He was a good man. Him and Sergeant Junior, both damn good men. Shouldn't have died. Shoulda been me. The F---in skinnies wanted to play with my head, they coulda had me take myself out, but no, they--" D.W. breaks off, surprised he said even this much to the headshrinker. He presses his lips together. His hands tremble violently, and he has to set down the coffee cup he is holding or risk spilling its contents onto his lap. The psychiatrist says quietly "You seem angry, sergeant." "Yep." "With whom are you angry, David?" Darkwombat is silent as his mind recites the litany: "My father, for dying. My mother, for leaving with the alien freaks. God, for allowing this. The world, for buying their f---ing lattes and having business-as-usual while good men and women die quietly for their sake, and for having their damn meetings where they de-fund the very organization that bleeds to save their worthless hides. And me. Most of all , me. Because I keep killing the people I should be saving." The psychiatrist is content to wait, so finally he sighs and responds: "The invaders, ma'am. I'm angry with the invaders." "And what will you do about that anger, Sergeant?" "Kill skinnies, ma'am. Kill 'em till there ain't any left, or there ain't any of me left." "And will that take the rage away?" "I damn well hope not, ma'am!" "Why not, sergeant?" "Because it's all I got left, ma'am." The conversation goes on for quite some time -- not much of it means anything to D.W. and after a while it seems he is answering the questions by remote, from someplace far, far away. While he gives his answers in a cool, distant voice, his mind keeps picturing what he had seen in the shadows outside the alien vessel -- the hulking figure of the Not-Dad, the monster who had been his father, returned from his nightmares. He remembers screaming "No! NOOO!" and squeezing the trigger on his laser carbine over, and over, and over, until the Not-Dad had fallen into a pool of blood. It stretched out a hand, gasping "Corporal . . . cease fire . . . D.W. why, man?" He remembers seeing the image of the monster transform into the smoking, burned body of Lt. Fend. With a shudder, he remembers the echo of sinister laughter, sibilant as it echoed through his mind. It was not human laughter. With perfect clarity, he recalls seeing Trashman, the rookie, staring at him with horror before throwing down his launcher and running -- not from the aliens, but from HIM -- from the madness in Darkwombat's eyes. He remembers throwing down his own weapon, repulsed, horrified, trying to run away from the reality of what he had just done. And he remembers a sudden rage, rage against the aliens who had DARED to invade his mind, who had DARED to use the worst moment of his life as a weapon to make him kill his friend. He turned, seeing Sergeant MSVknight fall in a hail of plasma rounds, watched the rookie, Marty, as his face contorted with vengeful fury and he gunned down MSVknight's killer. After that he remembers nothing until that miserable, utterly silent flight home on the Janeway. The official reports state that he sprinted to the alien ship, ripped a grenade from his belt, and used it to slaughter all remaining aliens in the vessel. For that, he got his sergeant's stripes and a medal. Who knows? Maybe it happened that way -- maybe it was true. He still can't remember. What he remembers is MSvknight talking about how he was going to avenge his Dad, how he would make him proud. What he remembers is Lt. Fend cracking everybody up with his nutty cows-in-bubble-baths riff, saying anything to keep morale up, keep away the fear of that crazy night mission in the dairy barns. What he remembers is a pool of blood and his finger still resting on the trigger. Late that night, after the memorial service for the fallen, a solitary figure walks through shadows to kneel at the memorial wall in the base. When the figure arises, a small rectangular shadow remains, lying at the base of the engraved remembrance to Lt. Fend. It is hard to see in the gloom, but it looks very like a shadow cast by a small, rosewood box. . .

"Uh . . . uh . . . *thinkfast* Uh . . . he grew up on a farm . . . UNTIL the aliens killed/kidnapped his folks, then he was taken in by a crotchety old aunt and uncle and was forced to ply cheap trinkets to tourists to earn his keep, until one fateful day, he received an invitation to WIZARD SCHOOL!" . . . wait. No. Just . . . no. let's just try that last bit again, shall we? ". . . and was forced to ply cheap trinkets to tourists to earn his keep, until one fateful day, he turned eighteen and joined the circus!" . . . still not quite right. Once more then! . . . "and joined the military!" "Yes. That's what happened. Definitely. Yep. Oh, look over there, is that a Sebillian?" *D.W. scampers off before any more inconvenient plot hole issues can be broached*

This is awesome. May I sig it?

LOL, didn't mean to go quite so dark with the Darkwombat! I probably shouldn't attempt to write backstory at 2 AM. I kinda took Fend's vigilante hook for Darkwombat and ran with it. I just got to thinking about D. Dub standing around in that creepy old barn for so long, and what he might have been thinking about in there.

As the Janeway lands, D.Dub can be heard whispering "I am the marsupial that haunts the night. I am The Furry Death that Squeaks. I am . . . Darkwombat." He sees Winters looking at him with moderate concern for his sanity, but before anything more can be said the chopper touches down. The vigilante corporal moves out, his comrades nearby, when a burst of plasma fire lights the night with an ethereal, blue promise of death. Wombat and his comrades hit the dirt, but a searing pain tells him that he has taken a hit. Doesn't look too serious. "Gotta do better than that!" he growls. Flares fill the sky and the alien warrior is revealed. Kate Washington's laser rifle splits the darkness, and the creature falls. Wombat growls "Nice shooting, Lt!" before advancing across the road toward a small barn full of freshly baled hay. Something about the smell of the hay, the stillness of the night -- it takes D.W. back to the farm of his youth, and to the night his life changed forever. "Dad? Dad? Are you out there, Dad?" The boy calls out from the door of the house, awaiting his father's reply. The night is utterly still, not a sound coming from the nearby barn. "That's odd -- cows usually make a ruckus when Dad is out there" the boy thinks. A sliver of moon throws wholly inadequate light that serves only to accentuate different degrees of darkness. But it does not matter. The boy has travelled the path from brightly lit farmhouse to darkened barn so many times, he could do it with his eyes shut. He walks quickly, without stumbling, but with a tickle of dread in the pit of his stomach. "Dad? Ma says supper is -- " The boy stops. He has stepped in something. Something warm and slippery. Something that yields and squelches beneath his feet. "Ah, cowshit!" he thinks, disgust wrinkling his nose, not at the shit itself, for that is a mere fact of life on a farm, but for the time it will take him to clean it out of the treads of his new sneakers. "Shoulda taken a sec to put my barn shoes on" he thinks -- and then the smell hits him. Not the earthy, heavy smell of fresh cowshit, but a different smell -- a coppery smell. It is the smell of butchering day. It is the smell of blood. Voice quavering, the boy calls out "Dad? DAD?!?!" The silence of the barn grows heavy, menacing. With trembling hands, the boy finds the electric lantern on its familiar hook beside the door -- turns it on. Screams. The cows lie dead all around him, his new sneakers painted crimson with their blood and offal. Something has dismembered them where they stood, limbs and hooves and horns and heads split, sliced, ripped -- and among them, spattered with blood, lies his father's battered straw hat. Staggering, stumbling through the guts, the boy cannot even find words to scream his father's name. He grunts, guttural sounds, as he paws through the piles of meat, searching for his father, desperately hoping not to find him here among the gore. His father does not lie among the bovine dead. The boy hears a *crack* behind him. He turns. There is his father, but something is wrong -- his head looks strange; looks misshapen -- as if some huge growth is clinging to it. The strange not-Dad thing staggers toward him, moaning horribly. "Dad?! What's wrong, Dad?" The not-Dad reaches for him, and the boy screams, backing away. An answering scream comes from the house. Ma. Dodging the not-Dad, the boy runs for the lights of his house, tears clouding his eyes, shoelaces untying and stringing red trails of muck and gore with each racing step. he throws a glance over his shoulder in time to see what is left of his father *explode* -- and from the bloody remnants of discarded flesh steps a being that is utterly alien -- tall, skeletal, with vicious claws like scythes on the end of muscular arms. The thing screeches, and races after the boy. He reaches the door, throws it open, leaps inside and slams it shut again. The boy throws the deadbolt, screaming "MA! Mom! Mom, where are you?" The . . . thing . . . from the barn begins pounding on the door -- thunderous, heavy pounding. In his mind's eye, the boy can see the door behind him bulging inwards with each blow, and he knows the door cannot hold for long. He races through the house, running for the gun rack in his parents' room, still screaming for his mother. There! The shotgun, already loaded. The boy grabs it, thumbs the safety off. Racing from the room, he returns downstairs in a tumble of flying feet, taking the stairs three at a time. His mother stands in the living room. A short, greyish . . . thing . . . human-like but not at all human, stands near her. Ma says "Come with me, son. We have to go." Her voice doesn't sound like her. It doesn't sound like *anyone* the boy has ever known. "Ma . . . what's happening! Ma, Dad's dead! He's --" The grey, alien being wordlessly points at the front door and it opens as if by magic. Beyond, a strange metallic craft hovers a few feet off the ground, lights flashing. "Flying Saucer" the boy thinks, but the words have no meaning left in his shocked mind. He stares, dumbstruck and paralyzed by disbelief as the grey being walks to the craft, his mother following mindlessly behind -- a thrall to the will of the alien. The two enter the craft, and it vanishes in a whirl of light and color, and the boy is still standing there, clutching the shotgun in nerveless fingers. A thunderous crash from behind him heralds the destruction of the back door. The boy hears it as if from a great distance, and numbly turns toward the sound, less from alarm than from some dim, animal reflex. The not-Dad is struggling through the wooden splinters of the door frame, gibbering and reaching for the boy with its hideous, reaper claws. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. He unloads shell after shell into the thing, leaving it quivering and thrashing on the floor of the farmhouse. BOOM. A final shot and it subsides, motionless and terrifying even in death. Within hours, men in lab coats and men in fatigues surround the house and the barn, Tidying. Studying. Collecting. Cleaning. Erasing. None of them see the boy, hiding in the woods, a backpack on his back and a shotgun in his hand. He turns a tear-streaked face to the near-moonless night, and walks away from his home, his footfalls silent and light on the forest floor. His shock-numbed mind races in circles, trying to absorb this new reality of monsters from the stars, of being an orphan, of a reality which the world-at-large has not yet been forced (by blood and screams and shotgun blasts in the night) to confront. "I'll find you, Ma" he whispers. With a start, Darkwombat snaps alert, realizing he has been standing there, lost in a memory he has tried never to revisit. Sweat trickles down his back, though the night is cool. He realizes that the BOOMS were not in his memory -- there is a serious firefight happening to the west. "Must've found the ship" Wombat surmises. Taking a firm grip on his shotgun, he runs toward the sounds of the guns -- toward the promise of vengeance . . . or of oblivion.

Night mission + drama? Yeah, sounds like somebody is getting their ticket punched. *Gulp!* Hopefully limited to just ONE somebody... *Darkwombat tries not to think about it and just listens to "Ride of the Valkries" as the Janeway swoops over the darkened countryside. If a plasma round has your name on it, he muses, then worrying about it won't help. Now, shooting aliens in the face with a boomstick, THAT might help. . .*

Hey guys, don't mind me, just sewing this Corporal's chevron on real quick. *Darkwombat tries to look casual, but can't hide a tiny smile at his first, albeit still lowly, promotion. At least he outranks SOMEBODY now!* Oh! Before I forget, Sarge Winters, Sven from Medical called. He wanted to make sure you hadn't had any additional plasma injuries that require additional physical therapy. He sounded sorta . . . hopeful . . . actually. . . Weird. Msvknight, that is an . . . impressive loadout of explosives you are calling for there, my friend. Don't worry, I've got your back (your way, WAY back, safely out of the blast radius, but your back nonetheless!) Sgt Fend, I "talked" to Dr. Goldblum. He promised not to tinker with the sights on your rifle anymore. He was mumbling a lot, something about experimental chaos-theory-driven sights, and he was really reluctant to change them back, but I twisted his arm. That is not a figure of speech, in case you were wondering. Don't worry, he's fine. When I left he had stopped screaming and was rattling on about science again -- something about dinosaur DNA, I didn't really understand it. Quiet around here lately, eh? . . . almost too quiet. I know the fly-boys have been running a lot of sorties, but we haven't had a miss-- CRAP! There goes the freakin' klaxxon. *Grabs his boomstick and runs for the choppah*