/lit/ - Literature

>>19978938
You will never be a member of XCOM. You have no hologlobe, you have no Skyranger, you have no deep underground military base. You are a homosexual man twisted by gene therapy and mRNA into a crude mockery of Jove's perfection.

All the “validation” you get is telepathic and emotionless. Behind your back Sectoids mock you. Your Mutons are disgusted and ashamed of you, your “comrades" laugh at your student loans inside their UFO.

Homo sapiens are utterly repulsed by you. Thousands of years of Big Greek Cock have allowed men to sniff out hybrids with incredible efficiency. Even xenos who “pass” look like the Chinese Virus to a human. Your genetic structure is a dead giveaway. And even if you manage to abduct a farmer to Hades with you, he’ll turn tail and bolt the second he gets a whiff of your vaccines.

You will never be happy. You wrench out a fake smile every single morning beneath your surgical mask and tell yourself it’s going to be ok, but deep inside you feel the depression soaring up like a recovered alien craft, ready to crush you under its unbearable weight.

Eventually, it’ll be too much to bear — you’ll buy a black market laser rifle, lift it with psychokinesis, aim it at your bulbous gray skull, and plunge into the cold abyss. Big Sky will find you, heartbroken but relieved that they no longer have to live with the unbearable shame and disappointment of knowing a socialist.

Dr. Vahlen will bury you with a headstone marked with your human name, and every squaddie for the rest of eternity will know a species traitor is buried there. Your body will decay and go back to the dust, and all that will remain of your legacy is a skeleton that is unmistakably mammalian.

This is your fate. This is what you chose. There is no turning back.