Grim Horizon

by Commander (Guixi)

Summary:

After a routine mission goes awry, Colonel Jane "Stalker" Kelly finds herself captured at the hands of ADVENT. Rescue isn't looking likely. [Set in XCOM 2: WotC.]

Notes:

Re-uploaded raw version from FF.Net under the 'Guixi' pseudonym.

This story is written in first person. It's a bit of a writing exercise for me. A 20k~ worded exercise, but one nonetheless!

Chapter 1: Operation: Unceasing Justice

What was the point of a Shadow Chamber if it only tells you half the threat?

Stupid, stupid, stupid..

The Sectopod should've been the worst we fought and if I can have a moment of arrogance, then with our Grenadier's shredding and holo-targeting, we made quick work of it. Had it stomping around in circles like a confused duckling. Those bluescreen rounds probably messed up it's protocol. Ha!

… I'm angry. At myself, mostly, for getting in this mess. I've had my fair share of fuck ups on missions: cost my squad their concealment by dashing right into a sleeping pod of ADVENT soldiers, thought it was a good idea to have a melee duel with a Muton and now my personal favourite has to be this with getting captured.

They're not interested in me, which set my status as a lucrative hostage to an unwelcome guest in record time. No, they want our Commander, or a way to get to them. What better bait than XCOM's sole Colonel? They'll want me back, though I can hardly send the message for them not to bother. So, I have a few options before me.

Make ADVENT realise just how bad of a guest I can be which will ultimately lead to a pre-emptive execution, bide my time until a rescue team comes crashing through the facility I'll be stationed at or escape myself.

Gazing at the deep black helmet of the trooper adjacent to me and two lancers sat at my flanks, the latter might be a little unlikely. It didn't help that my hands and arms were bound forward and the seat belt provided for the ranger's ride felt more like a harness. I could barely wiggle my toes in my boots, let alone stage a daring escape.

I spent most of the flight recalling the events leading up to this travesty. February 17^th, 2035. Eve of my birthday. Morale was high, following our recent success of repelling a UFO's attempt to keep us grounded, permanently. I would be leading on the ground whilst our Commander directs us via network. One of our two Grenadiers, Lukas, was only mildly drunk, which was a promising sign to things to come.

We arrive at the slums in New Brazil with the element of surprise as Central continued to debrief us even on touchdown. He's diligent, but sometimes I can't help but wonder if he just likes the sound of his own voice. The mission was simple, get in, destroy the alien relay, get out. Apparently this relay contained critical information that would further the elusive Avatar Project, but – why on Earth would they plant the bloody thing in the middle of some backwater, underdeveloped shacks?

I've often thought they were decoys, or their importance greatly exaggerated by ADVENT for us Resistance to catch ear of and devote time, effort and resources into destroying. Especially when the real threat was out there, somewhere. But the Council seems happy enough when we destroy them. The Commander seems just a touch less stressed. And I don't know what ADVENT's budget is like, but those Sectopods can't be cheap.

'Colonel, scout ahead.' – the Commander's never one to mince words. They always seemed to have such a neutral tone, yet never gave off the air that they were emotionless.

Shit, I'm going to cause them so much trouble..

I remember the first two hours of this mission being uneventful. I vaulted over the fallen trees with ease, I kept my eyes alert for any pods of alien scum lurking and doing my best to avoid the civilians. They were thankfully just as flattered with the presence of aliens as we were and turned a blind eye when one caught notice of me sidling up to hide behind the dilapidated wall of a ruined building.

I got in the habit of not looking back fairly early. Unless the Commander ordered it, my job wasn't to work with the team. It was to be like a hornet, a sharp sting in and then phasing out. Quite like a Reaper, actually, but they didn't trust us as far as they could scout so counting on their aid was a pass this time around.

The Sectopod that I, Lukas and Neil reduced to a confused waterfowl was one of the first hostile we encountered. It was resting, when I'd found it, flanked by two troopers. Easy pickings for Jill 'Judge' McGill, our gunslinging sharpshooter. I had no idea that snipers could be so versatile, or quick to the draw. In any case, I kept watch as the Commander directed my squadmates into position for the ambush.

The first warning sign of things to come was the second pod. An ADVENT Priest, Shieldbearer and Archon. Nothing too out of the ordinary, but it was strange to see the priest so far off from city-controlled areas (who I'm sure their sole purpose is just to preach about the Elders) – which did not bode well in my experience. I had warned the Commander of the possibility of the Warlock joining.

Considering what did happen, I gladly would've taken a brawl with the Warlock.

At least the events leading up to the moment of my fuck-up were some of my most daring feats of strength, not including rescuing the Commander. I put in my usual suggestion of getting up close and personal with the hostiles with a little help from Neil's plasma grenade. Not only will it shred their armour for me to pierce through, but I can effectively clean up with three precise strikes.

The Commander had agreed to this tactic, and so with a bit of repositioning, everyone else watched my back in case I missed and I darted from target to target, executing each alien with impunity. It was when I dashed, blood-stained, heaving and out of breath to the Archon did the realisation come too late.

I killed it, yes. But I also revealed another pod containing their King.

I remember ignoring the panicked chatter that exploded on the radio, attention solely focused on the fact that I was out in the open, in front of this supposed royalty and his three flanking Archon guards. Standing there with my Fusion blade (tech we developed from their staves, no less) dripping with the blood.. er.. oil – they were kind of a strange fusion of machine and living tissue – of their kin didn't make for a first impression.

The Commander had been deathly silent and the only thing I could think to do was whip my head around and shout for my squadron not to fire. It was too late. They were already in motion and I hunkered to the ground to avoid the sail of bullets. All the while the Archon King was working up a battle frenzy and had took to the skies, letting loose a barrage of rockets that would descend and reap devastation in no time flat.

I stared at my hands as the ADVENT Skyranger rocked a little in it's sharp turn, jostling me in my seat. The scorch marks where I hadn't quite avoided the blast still throbbed with a dull ache. Dawn, our field medic Specialist, had done her best to keep the team functional, but she had to triage my aid, especially when one of the rockets had exploded Jill's perch and sent her careening to the floor. Broke her leg and crippled the other.

I had thought she was dead. I had no vision of my squad and all I could see was that flying red bastard. All I heard was white noise after the explosions had been deafening, so if the Commander order that I stay put, I didn't hear them. It was extremely satisfying to slash at the King once he descended near enough to me that I caught him at arc's length.

Bad idea.

I managed only to successfully gain his attention. Turns out that those weren't black tattoos, but armour. I braced myself to spring out of the way of any swing of his staff or any shot from it, but it seems he had something his brethren do not share. Half a brain. I can still feel the cold, harsh metal of his gauntlets around my throat where his sickly long claws closed around it. I prepared myself to chop his arm off, but I was lifted. Up and up and up..

… Jill's alive, at least. I saw that much when I was granted view of the battlefield from such a height. Things start to get a little fuzzy around here, because I was losing air pretty fast and my head was getting light. I think the King saw that I was contemplating which death was worse: falling or strangulation. Red bastard had the gall to smirk, watching my legs kick out pitifully and my blade rest flat against the arm.

He acted eventually, after a missed shot whizzed past him. I was tossed forward, the sensation of gravity yanking me down, aided by the brunt of the staff shoved against my abused throat as he travelled down with me. That's when things went dark.

The next thing I knew was heaving awake, promptly vomiting to the side in a conveniently placed mess bucket and being forced back down onto the hover bed by not the motherly hands of XCOM's field medic Dawn, but the rough plated hands of the armoured ADVENT Medic. Things were pretty disorientating for the next few hours after stabilization. I don't remember much other than voicing my complaints to myself of a migraine that the alien's subharmonic chatter was causing.

So. I was captured some point after being knocked out by the Archon King's assault. I don't know the status of my squad or if XCOM even took out that blasted relay. Then I was shoved into one of their Skyrangers to be transported to God-knows-where. This isn't a tactical fuck-up that usually gets fixed by Jowah's longwatch. This isn't going to be patched up by Dawn's GREMLIN, or quietly picked off by a combat protocol. My fellow ranger Klaus won't be there to inspire me to raise my gun one last time.

I was utterly alone.

I did want to become a Reaper, was all I could think bitterly. If escaping this alive and with all of XCOM's intel intact doesn't earn me the right to train as one, then I'm retiring early.

The dropship's speed began to decline as I could only imagine we were arriving at our destination. I cringed openly as the lancer beside me spluttered out something to the trooper in that ugly imitation of human speech they had. It sounded like they were speaking in a language I knew but still somehow could not comprehend it.

The lancer leaned over me to unfasten the harness that kept me secure. I contemplated jerking my knee upwards into his exposed jaw – the only human-like features they had on their face. I squashed the urge when he pulled back and roughly shoved my shoulder to move. He spat something at me and I responded with a curse.

Lead out and descending the ramp of the Skyranger, my eyes tightly screwed shut as the morning light harshly broke across my face. Once the sting had lifted, I cracked them open carefully and squinted, though I must have taken too long because the lancer was quick to grab ahold of the metal bindings of my hands and drag me onward.

I assess my situation once more. I was stripped down to my under armour, which wasn't anything more than blast-padded fibre that could pass as casual digs. All of my weapons had been confiscated – hell, even my nails had been trimmed to blunt stubs. I'm surprised they hadn't filed down my canines if they were being that meticulous. Most annoyingly of all, they had taken my flat-back cap and my hair was freed from it's ponytail.

The facility loomed overhead like a dark shadow against the morning backdrop. Branded with the ADVENT sigil, it was like the Forge. Clinical – yet industrial at the same time. I prayed it was only similar architecture and that I wasn't going to be processed into some weird alien-human hybrid. It, strangely, looked more guarded than the aforementioned buildings. When we approached closer, I spotted some heavy turrets mounted on the roofs with at least one Elite Sniper prowling one tier lower.

On the ground floor, there was no shortage of troops either. I think I even spotted a Shieldbearer amongst their ranks. This was definitely a prison, so my fears of being modified into a horrific monster were alleviated, only to be replaced with the very real possibility of interrogation. And death. Always death.

I wet my lips anxiously. We've been preparing for this. Psionic assaults, torture – even bargaining and incentives to defect. I owe it to the Commander to stay strong. I promised Klaus that if we were going to die at some point in this long war, it'd be together, rangers in arms. I kept my head high as I was forced to enter the institute.

The first thing that came apparent was that the interior is clearly designed more for alien interaction in mind. I doubt most humans would see the inside of this place. It was strange decor and devices with only the sparsest furniture. Everything looked as if it had a function or a purpose. Things pointed out at odd angles and the doors, if you could even call the translucent holographic fields as such, were tall enough to accommodate a Chosen standing at full height and then some.

Crates stacked against the wall, but I couldn't dwell on that for long as my benevolent escort behind me shouted in that pidgin alien-english, clipped the back of my head with his gauntlet and forced me onwards. It was far too tempting to fight back, but to my better judgement, I complied. For now.

I was ushered into a small black holding cell to which I quickly became acquainted with the four dark walls, the steel bed and the bathroom. Calling it that was generous, really. It was nothing more than a toilet and a wash basin. The metal cuffs remotely deactivated once the cell's door was shut and locked. I flexed my fingers and rolled my wrist out of habit, lowering myself to the metal bed.

Staring at the bare, black wall in front of me, the sense of overwhelming dread finally filled my stomach. Fuck. How long was I out? How was my squad doing? Were they even planning to rescue me? Fuck.

I have to escape. I have to.

Day One. Col. Jane 'Stalker' Kelly, royally fucked, signing out.

 

Chapter 2

Spending my birthday in an ADVENT prison facility with chronic pain in my neck and shoulders was not what I had planned.

Klaus and I were going to get shit-faced drunk as the Commander promised me that unless it was an absolute emergency, such as a UFO assaulting the Avenger, then I had their guarantee on a day off. The only time I've ever had “off” was when I was wounded, or once when I was so mentally exhausted that I jumped at even the quietest of sounds. Either way, being bed-bound doesn't constitute as a holiday.

After we'd depleted the bar's alcohol supplies, I was going to find out how tolerant the Skirmishers were to Lukas' infamous 'so potent it'd stop a horse' volatile mix, with Pratal Mox being our test subject. Instead of that fun and revelry, I'll be spending most of my time staring at the same, bland, four box walls and stewing in my thoughts.

Fuck that. I'm not going to wither away and let the alien scum think I've given up.

Rising from the metal bed, I rubbed at the throbbing pain in my neck where the steel mattress hadn't offered much in the way of comfort. Nevertheless I begun to run down some basic exercises just to get back into the routine. I doubt anyone would blame my caution when the last time I was active, it was getting nailed to the ground by the Archon's staff. Whatever the alien medic pumped into me worked wonders, though – I didn't suffer any external or internal damage that I'm aware of.

Once my muscles were warmed up, I moved onto some lunges. I looked around the cell once again to see if there was anything I could use to lift. There was the door frame, which was built with bulkier, bigger humanoids in mind. I could probably find enough purchase to grip a hold of, but it wouldn't quite beat a pull up bar.

I tried anyway, because what else could I do? I finished my set of lunges and headed towards the door of the cell, looking up at the top of the frame. I was fairly tall – around 5'11'' – and my palms hit one of the ridges of the frame. As I was about to try and lift myself up, I heard the subharmonic chatter of the alien's speech grow closer. I quickly scooted back to my bed, lest they think I was trying to escape. Which I am, but, not yet.

The red light over my door flickered to calmer orange as it opened to reveal.. a human? By God, an actual human being. I gawked at her. No ugly looking squished face, or enlarged eyes, or anything that could suggest genetic modification. Just a regular, plain-ass looking human. I disregarded my surprise to try and seize the opportunity, voice scratchy from disuse.

“Hey – you, what..?” Okay, so maybe it wasn't the smartest line of questioning, but she looked as if I wasn't even there. Once she got close enough (and I noticed an ADVENT Lancer prowling at the entrance) I could see the white lab coat she wore. No name tag.

My suspicions and distrust raised immediately. She reminded me of Tygan, but, clearly the chip was still present. She was carrying a plastic tray with blobby grey mush in the centre and a plastic spoon beside it. If they were planning on torturing me through starvation, then at least I could eliminate that as a possibility. That didn't necessarily mean I was out of the woods yet – but for now I was important enough to keep alive – and healthy.

I accepted the tray hesitantly and settled it on the bed when she turned to leave. “Wait – wait! You got to tell me --”

My hand only barely managed to grasp her labcoat's arm when the Lancer bolted forward and slammed the butt of his sword into my nose, forcing me to let go as a vessel popped and blood spurted out. I managed to keep my dignity intact by not crashing to the floor, but by the time I stopped seeing stars and I got a hand over the flow of the blood, she'd already left with the snarling Lancer in tow.

I muttered a series of curses under my breath as I dabbed at the blood with the thin toilet paper provided. ADVENT didn't know how to exercise restraint – and those Lancers were supposed to be deployed as peacekeepers. How can the aliens claim and preach to be for peace if their go-to method was force and violence? Tygan's autopsy report revealed their DNA was mostly human, save the for the spliced Berserker strands.

Yeah, I'll let that fact sit for a moment: The troop specifically built to keep the peace was made from Berserker DNA. No wonder they're twitchy or capable of running a cross country and still spanking us with their lances.

Once I stemmed the flow of the nosebleed and tried to still my swimming head, I took a gander at the food. If you could call it that.

I poked at it with the spoon. I contemplated not eating it, but if they brought it here with the purpose of me eating, then I can only assume that refusal will lead to being force fed. I almost lost my appetite with that thought and gingerly settled the tray over my lap. Envisioning my squad sitting beside me, chanting me on like it was all some silly dare, I plunged the spoonful of grey mush into my mouth.

I expected watery gruel and what I tasted was pork and jacket potato. Kind of like I just shovelled a mouthful of potatoes and meat at once, actually. My diet had consisted of medium-grade rations, so this taste of genuine roast dinner like it was fresh out of Dad's kitchen was manna sent from heaven. Sure, it didn't look appetizing, but I wolfed the mush down in record time flat. Then felt bad immediately afterwards as my squad were no doubt eating venison.

Incentives. Right.

I discarded the tray, but kept the spoon. It was plastic in material, not anything alien. The presence of the doctor implied there very well may be more human beings here than I initially thought. Even controlled scientists still functioned biologically like a human. I snapped the head off the spoon unevenly, giving me two jagged prongs that I could stick into their necks. Not that it'd do much if any damage at all, but it would disorientate them.

I hid it in the confines of my padded clothes and resumed to work out once my stomach had settled. By the time I'd worked up a breathless sweat, my cell's door was opened to reveal a Lancer. Probably the one that hit me before, but under the same armour and such heavy helmets, it was impossible to tell them apart from the others.

He acquired the tray, only to inspect that the spoon was missing. I had to hand it to the guy, he had enough faith in me that he checked to see if he hadn't merely dropped it when he lifted the tray. It was almost touching. Until he begun shouting at me and pointing at the wall when it became apparent that yes, I did steal it.

I innocently rose my hands in the air, pretending that I didn't understand his meaning when I knew damn well what he wanted me to do. He pointed, more fiercely this time and finally spoke in a language I could understand, even if his vocal chords were doing a wondrous job of butchering what he was saying.

“Hands to the wall!”

“So you can speak English.” I proclaimed, settling the flat of my palms on the wall closest to me. It wasn't much of a revelation in truth: Pratal Mox had no issue speaking several of our languages, but it's no surprise that the ADVENT preferred to converse in their alien tongue within their facility.

Actually, according to Mox, most ADVENT soldiers, even the most basic of troopers could innately understand every human language conceived. Like it was pre-built into them. I'd say it was useful, but that meant I couldn't scream out every multi-lingual insult I knew at these bastards and get away with it.

The lancer frisked briefly until he found the spoon settled in one of the inner pockets. Like I said, ADVENT didn't exercise restraint. Instead of letting me retrieve it myself, he took the liberty of ripping the pocket out of the padded suit, leaving a hole to expose the cotton vest underneath. I braced myself for the inevitable strike, which was dealt with a swift backhand to my jaw. I clenched at the wrong time, which meant I bit my tongue. The aftertaste of roast pork and potatoes was replaced with coppery blood.

I nursed my jaw, slinking away from the lancer like a wounded panther. He tossed the ruined pocket and set the broken spoon onto the tray, leaving me with one comment:

“You are on your first warning, ranger.”

Warning. Right. First warnings were verbal, asshat and that's Colonel Kelly to you.

…

Petty thinking. I know.

He left without another word and the light from the facility was cut from me as the door shut. There was some artificial lighting in my cell, though it seemed to bright and dim depending on the time of day. Or at least when they expected me to rise and sleep. Right now, it was darkening, so I took that as my cue to reluctantly lay on the steel mattress. The cold of the metal eased my jaw, but the hardness of the material did not.

Day Two. Col. Jane 'Stalker' Kelly, signing out.

 

Chapter 3

I decided to call the lancer that seemed to be the same one that brought in my food, restocked my necessities and made sure I wasn't hiding any contraband “Pleb.” I noticed the Skirmishers made their own names Latin-sounding, so it was fitting. He wasn't independent enough to be given an actual name, so 'commoner' was a good fit. He didn't strike any conversation, but he also didn't tell me to stop calling him that. I've just taken to randomly talk when he enters.

It's been five days since the Spoon Incident. A week total in captivity. I've heard no chatter about a rescue attempt, no bustle of rallying soldiers. But I've also had a grand total of nothing to do. No interrogation has happened, no spokesman strolling in to convince me how ADVENT are swell folks. It's starting to make me antsy. The aliens are planning something. Or maybe they know that the long wait is the best way to wear me down. I don't balk under physical pressure. I've resisted psionic influence a few times – not all, but my will is strong enough to make a Templar proud. I'm my own worst enemy.

I've caused ADVENT so much hell, it's surprising that they're treating me so.. well, for a lack of a better word, nicely. Sure, being captured isn't stellar, but I'm not starving. I have free access to water and toiletries. I'm not beaten to a bloody pulp if I stay in my lane and do not provoke the guards.

Fuck. It's only been a week and I feel like I'm going crazy. I'm going to end up spouting critical XCOM intel in exchange just to walk outside and breathe fresh air. I couldn't do that to the Resistance, though. Keeping them and the Commander safe was priority.

Pleb was the only source of entertainment I got and that was maybe five minutes total a day, too.

There was one other exciting event where I was escorted to what looked like communal showers. The prospect didn't unnerve me – being a prisoner of a secret war I couldn't be a chooser – and we had a similar set up on the Avenger. They were clean and well kept, so I assume they were for the human employees. I couldn't determine if this facility was just adapted to house me, or if I was receiving special treatment. The argument of hot water against my sticky skin and faintly scented soap washed away all my questions.

They took my clothes, though. When I finished, there was a simple black shirt and matching pants waiting for me. The pants fit fine, but the shirt stretched just a little bit. It was the right size, but with the muscles I built up from swinging and handling the fusion blade, it pinched at the sleeves. Annoyingly, there was a little red ADVENT logo stitched into the breast-pocket. When I'm not working out or sleeping, I take to pick at the thread to try and remove it.

I groaned exhaustedly as I tossed in my steel bed. This was what I wanted in a way, right? The Commander has better things to do than to waste resources into rescuing me. Time spent busting in here could've been devoted to destroying another Avatar-crucial facility. Yet as I thought this, it didn't make the long wait to an eventual death any better to stomach.

As for facilitating my own escape – There's so many guards. I got a good look at how well-guarded this prison-lab-whatever-the-fuck when I was escorted to the showers. Needless to say: I don't like my odds, coupling it up with the automatic superheavy turrets on the rooftops.. I need to be more stealthy. Or hope that something happens that I can use to my advantage..

I hate being out of options, but until an opportunity presents itself, I'm dead in the water.

My ears prickled as the door clicked. Pleb should be here for my breakfast. Or maybe it was lunch. Whatever the case may be, it never came, for the door seemed to.. melt away. Into a shimmering red, holographic field. I blinked as I was granted view of what was immediately outside: a set of stairs leading upwards and a hallway that went deeper east and west. There was a glimpse of a rifle's stock as the lancer pulled away from the door control.

I tentatively approached the door and extended a hand outward to the red coat of pixels. I felt static the closer my fingertips were to the door. When the tip of my finger touched the static, I jolted back as a shock zapped through me. Huh. I squinted out the red-tinted view.

“Visitor.” Pleb's voice sounded to the left. I looked around – and my frustration brewed.

The last time I had saw the Hunter, known to his adversaries as Dhag-Mai Madron, it was two months ago on a mission in East Asia. I was ordered to wait up on the rooftops for him for when my squadron were able to herd him towards said location. I would provide the finishing blow.

Ingenious plan on the Commander's end, but the Hunter wasn't one to play ball, so it divulged into an area-wide game of cat and mouse. We suffered a lot of losses that day. Jowah lost an ear. Our hacker Ana's GREMLIN needed repairs. I was limping after his tracking shot grazed my leg. He never misses. Not even a graze. He shoots where he anticipates us to go – and he had every intent to incapacitate me than kill me.

But we got the last laugh in the end. I killed him.

Or not, it seemed. He looked as healthy as the day we first fought him a month prior to that mission. Tall as a tree, garbed in loose armour befitting of a sniper. Purple, psionic-infused eyes glowing beneath the shadow of his hood and a fanged smirk split across lipless mouth. I felt marginally better that we had the cell's door separating us this time, his looming didn't have much of an effect as I knew he couldn't try and tranquillize me with a shot from his sidearm in some last-bid effort.

Still, his presence didn't bode well for me. This was it, then. Maybe the Chosen were busy and only now was I to be interrogated. Out of them all, at least the Hunter had a sense of humour about him.

Every cloud.

“I remember you,” he told mockingly, sing-song like he'd caught my hand in the cookie jar. “ADVENT's most wanted, little miss infamous Jane Kelly. The Elders are very interested in you, but I'm here on my own business. Ah – hows the leg?”

The scar hadn't quite healed and the exit wound was seared into the back of my calf. I conversationally rebuffed him; “How's your balls?”

He snorted. In that mission two months ago – when he'd made the fatal mistake of teleporting to the rooftop I was forced to be stationed on, limping leg or not, I had shoved my shotgun straight into his crotch just to make sure I would hit and send a message. We were all so wounded and tired at that point. Needless to say, his expression was priceless. Wish I could've framed it.

“Watching your squad wander around like headless chickens without your presence leading the charge has started to become a bore.” He sighed, as if my capture inconvenienced him. “The other ranger, the one with the greying ponytail --”

“Klaus.” My heart skipped a beat. Was he holding up well without me to curb his drinking? He was probably acting as field command whilst I was otherwise detained. Colonel Klaus Webnar.. Had a ring to it.

“ – Yes, that one, doesn't have the same kind of finesse. There's a certain brutish charm with flinging yourself in the middle of the firefight and emerging unscathed.” His purple eyes squinted, like twin flecks of lilac light. Klaus was a scout, primarily. I was our blademaster. It was no wonder that with him in charge on the field, he'd offer more covert suggestions to the Commander.

“How am I supposed to have fun if you got yourself captured? Silly girl.”

“Well, you're welcome to spring me free.” I grandly gestured.

“Naughty. The Elders would never approve.” He sounded giddy. No doubt he got his rocks off being disobedient as much as he could. I don't even think he likes them. Unfortunately he cared far too much about his own gratification to really use him against the Elders – I guess you could say they were the 'highest bidder.'

“Doesn't that make it all the more enticing?” I try to grin, but given the circumstances and how much I really, really wanted to shove my gun up his ass this time and fire, it came across as disingenuous and forced.

He looked like he seriously considered it, before a smirk settled across his features. A perfect imitation of one of those Vipers, grinning when they caught a soldier in a bind. “I will just have to make do with separating the one you called Klaus' head from his shoulders in your place. Now, enough pleasantries.”

I straightened up, anxiety exploding like a series of needles dancing along my skin. My hands clenched, a scowl set and defiance worthy of the most decorated XCOM soldier and resistance fighter proudly displayed. I stared down the child of the Elders like he was nothing more than an ADVENT Trooper caught in my overwatch. “Give it your worst, you blueberry-looking bastard. I'll never betray the Resistance.”

“Your crassness never ceases to amaze me. In any case, I would love to interrogate you, but my brother has already staked his claim on that and for once I'll behave. You really ticked him off, you know.”

What?

I was still reeling by the confirmation that his brother – the Warlock – will be visiting at some point when he continued speaking. He could be lying; the Hunter's guile was unlike anything we've ever faced, but the utter ease of dismissal made me think that it was indeed true. I listened with half a ear as panic slowly budded in my chest.

“--Three and a half months ago in Sicily. I came to interrupt your team's efforts in protecting the resistance haven.” My mind swam to recall the mission. A lot has happened in three months, though I vaguely recall the defence squad I was apart of. Jill, Mox, Ana, our Templar Feng, Neil and myself. Speech failed me for now, but I dumbly nodded to prompt him to continue.

“I had a perfect shot on you. The only possibility that I could have missed was if my rifle jammed and it did not. What miracle saved you? I'm curious.”

“Did you come all the way here just to ask me about one shot that I dodged three and a half months ago?” He couldn't be serious.

“Yes.” He was absolutely serious.

I pinched the bridge of my nose and screwed my eyes shut. I couldn't give a flying fuck about what happened when faced with the Warlock's imminent arrival.

However the soldier in me kept me on the alert all throughout this asinine interaction, which made for a tense headache brewing in the back of my mind. As far as the shot in question was concerned, I'd already managed to slaughter an alien beforehand – and the adrenaline pumping through me was enough to dodge even a Sectopod at close range.

“Adrenaline and luck.” I rasped in the end.

“I figured as much.” He looked disappointed, but pulled back from the red screen of the cell's door, hand raising to offer a patronizing wave. “Do try to survive long enough so we can have a bit of sport before I kill you, ranger – and annoy my brother when he pays a visit. He's been far too preachy as of late. It's really starting to get on mine and my sister's nerves.”

I didn't answer, gaze sliding away from the Hunter until eventually the metal of the door returned.

My already limited days just became even shorter. Fuck.

Day Seven, Col. Jane 'Stalker' Kelly, signing out.

 

Chapter 4

"What is 'Pleb'? Why do you call me this?"

I nearly jumped out of my skin when the lancer finally responded to my aimless chatter. I jostled the tray and thankfully my reflexes were still snappy enough that I grabbed the spoon before it clattered to the floor. After the first incident, I wasn't given any utensils to eat my nice-tasting mush with, but then a few days later since the Hunter's visit, I had the privilege of a spoon again. Good behaviour, if I had to guess.

The routine was interrupted by his question and he lingered in the cell, clearly seeking an answer. I stared at him – eyes squinting. I didn't think the basic troops of ADVENT were capable of independent thinking, even if the question was benign and common, there was an air of curiosity and exasperation to it. Clearly whatever rumours about the soldiers that floated around XCOM's avenger were starting to become narrow-minded. Mox had already disproved many of the more outlandish ones.

I was starved for conversation, though, so I happily responded instead of defaulting to a spitfire insult; "It's your name. ADVENT Stun Lancer is a bit of a mouthful."

I don't think he understood what it meant to own something that was his rather than the Coalition's. I couldn't tell his expression through the opaque red visor that covered the majority of his face, but his lips were pressed into a thin line of consternation. I regarded him carefully. He must not have been made for the purpose of peacekeeping if the concept of a name (or at least a soldier of his level owning one) escaped him. Or perhaps he was fresh out the Forge.

That might work in my favour.

"When were you made?" Seeing him tense up, likely the topic wasn't something the network allowed him to talk about to humans, I added in hopes of loosening his lips; "I know about the Forge. Or.. maybe – ah.. when were you.. activated?"

Was I saying it right? It's not like they were born.

"I was activated two months ago." came his hesitant reply. By god. He was a baby. I cracked a grin born entirely out of bitter nerves. ADVENT decided to assign a guard who was relatively fresh from the tubes to XCOM's Colonel. They were practically begging me to escape. Maybe I'll take the lancer with me just to spite them. The Skirmishers could always use more members. Mox will get a baby brother. That's adorable.

"Right." I almost managed to laugh. Almost. "It's an identifier. Take myself as an example – there are multiple Rangers that work for the Resistance. But if you wanted me, specifically, you'd call me by name or unique callsign."

Judging from the frown, he didn't see the need for it. Why would he? All of ADVENT are connected with those damn chips and psionic networking. Poking the reclaimed protein with my spoon, I decided to chance it. Give him a question that'd require his own choice, carefully wording it in such a way. "Would you prefer if I stopped calling you by a name?"

"I should not be conversing with you." Don't avoid the question!

"If the Hunter can come here to ask stupid fucking questions about past missions and not get reprimanded, I'm fairly sure you're fine with speaking to me," I pressed. I don't even know why frustration bubbled in me; if anything I shouldn't want to talk to the soldier. But I'm an extravert, I couldn't survive in isolation and solitude. I needed to socialise.

"He is Chosen." He said, like it answered my question and any future ones I may have. I get where he was coming from, but I doubt the Elders have so little time on their hands that they'd rather tell off a low-ranked Lancer for chatting with a prisoner, no matter how infamous my reputation had became amongst ADVENT. I didn't want to try my luck as much as I already have, so I conceded that point. I think he was expecting further rebuttal, because he lingered for a second longer before leaving me to eat alone.

My days were numbered. Any moment now the Warlock would be paying me a visit to wring out every bit of intel he can get out of me. Aside from the isolation, they've treated me.. well, not what I'd expect given who I was. Mox certainly didn't get the same treatment when the Chosen Assassin had kidnapped him. Beaten to a pulp. Dragunov remarked that he was unconscious when they (they being herself, Klaus and Dawn.) busted him out of the cell.

From Dawn's diagnosis, had they been a day later, he would've likely died if he continued to refuse the Assassin's aid in exchange for intel, which no doubt he'd face gloriously. That entire fiasco was a scare for us all – a chilling reminder never to underestimate the Alien forces, no matter how pitiful their soldiers aim tended to be.

I concluded that the nicer treatment was part of the plan. The Assassin has her own methods of interrogation, but persuasion through words (and psionics) were just as powerful as violence. The ADVENT Propaganda machine could attest to that. So. Escape plan.

Cosying up to the ADVENT Lancer outside my cell is a start. I wore his patience enough that he actually spoke back to me. Unauthorized, no less. Getting him to defect may cost me more time than I have, but it's the best option I've got. The other is steering the Warlock in a direction other than XCOM. His sibling rivalry with his brother and sister was no secret – if it's something that's lasted this long, then it had to be of legendary proportions. I could use that to buy myself some time.

Several hours pass – I'd spent a couple of them working out, and the other meditating. Something XCOM's Templar agent, Feng, suggested I should take up. I had no inclination to the physic powers that they did, but it was calming – when Pleb entered to take my tray. At least, that's what I thought he would be doing. I kept my eyes closed, exhaling slowly, when I was roughly shaken with a bark of an alien command. It was short and sharp, the tone indicated I should comply. I begrudgingly rose.

"Come with me." I stalled. Was the Warlock here already? No, that's impossible. He was the kind that made sure you knew if he arrived. Swallowing thickly, I followed the Lancer out of the cell, eyes greedily sweeping across the areas I've yet to see, happy for a change of scenery from the four box walls. I was lead towards an unfamiliar part of the facility and my hands clenched into tight fists on instinct.

He stopped at a set of double doors, fingers tapping away at the control and when it peeled back, I was hit with the rush of the wind. Holy shit – Outside. I felt fire in my legs, urging me to just run out, but I didn't want a stun lance in my gut. My gaze shot to Pleb. He signalled for me to move and I graciously jogged out the doors –

I halted immediately when the churning mechanized groans of the heavy turrets spun to face me, activity sparking across their sides. A grimace twisted the features of my face as I eyed each bastion mounted to the high-rise walls. Snipers could be spotted in the bird's nests at the corners as well. Okay, so, still under restrictive guard. But I was outside.

I inhaled generously, exhaling the fresh air before surveying the area. The courtyard seemed to be part of the facility itself as the floor was steel and there were several unmarked crates containing God-knows what stacked near a smaller entrance door to the left side. There was no roof, though. There were no piping or ladders that I could use to scale the great wall, and it was far too big for me to simply climb in any due time. The catwalk on the top of the wall did seem to be connected to a higher tier of the building. It was at least three – maybe four stories high.

Another oddity was what appeared to be gym equipment. It was a godsend for me, as there was only so much I could do without gear. It was then I disturbingly wondered if my cell was watched. I've never been one for the concept of privacy, but it felt very much breached right now.

My stupor ending, I turned to Pleb for explanation. "Do all prisoners get such nice treatment, or are you going soft on me?"

"My orders are to ensure that you remain healthy. I am under the belief that humans require outlets to spend excess energy, as well as fresh air and sunlight." I felt no need to correct him, as I was just far too grateful that I was actually outside. Surely there was – some trick to this, right? I don't believe I was granted this just because Pleb was operating liberally with his given orders.

Out of principal, I shouldn't accept this. I should kick and scream about how they treated Mox in comparison – how they would treat all Skirmishers, or all prisoners of XCOM. I lucked out and got a dud guard.

But I was taught not to look a gift-horse in the mouth.

"Alright, Pleb. How long have I got?"

"One hour."

I nod, then gesture to the bench press. "Spot me."

I miss Klaus. He was my spotter when we trained together. Damn, I'm getting sentimental but – the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled after I beat my record. Or how he always knew when to intervene and assist my lift. Always giving words of encouragement. He better still be alive by the time I escape, or so help me. Rangers ride together, die together.

I poured all my energy and negative thinking into my presses. There hasn't been a single word or raised alarm that the Resistance was even close to rescuing me. I couldn't count on them to spring me free. All these thoughts I've had before, but they kept coming. Toiling in my mind. I need to stop this repetitive thinking but – for fuck's sake, it's all I can think.

I paid no attention to the burn of my muscles or the ache of my arms until the hour was up and Pleb was barking at me to finish up the set. I realize I'm homesick, for the Avenger, of all things. Waking up to see the faces of the people I know would always have my back in a fight.

Evidently not now, though.

Day Fifteen, Col. Jane 'Stalker' Kelly, signing out.

Chapter 5

As I predicted, the arrival of the Warlock was with fanfare.

Sort of. Not a literal parade, but the air was different – like static filled it. A brewing of a thunderstorm that hung overhead. It was an unnerving energy, potent enough that even someone like me could feel the psionic power hanging in a haze. It made the tip of my fingers feel numb, my skin feel clammy. A sense of dread mingled with the bile in my stomach unpleasantly, paranoia for something I'm not even sure what for, despite the obvious answer.

I tried to pace it out in the small room of my cell, though that only served to further my anxiety. My palms were slick with a cold sweat and I gingerly wiped them on the top of my thighs. A lump formed in the back of my throat that no amount of clearing removed. I don't think I was being directly assaulted by any mental attack – there was a presence, but not in my mind. It felt pervasive, filling the entire facility.

A short, fear-inducing while later, I heard a softer cadence of subharmonic chatter. Priests. Usually troops, soldiers and officers had a rough growl to them – kind of like the stereotypical 'angry German' you'd hear from films, but the psionic soldiers were preachers, not peacekeepers. They could be very loud, but the point was to be inviting. Welcoming. I don't know how they managed to make a speech being screamed soothing, but, they did.

The cell door opened to reveal the twin Priests. No Pleb. Left was holding what looked like to be.. bracers? They enclosed around the wrist and a good chunk of my arm. I arch a brow.

"I guess you two didn't get the memo. I've been displaying good behaviour. Can we skip, uh, that?" I point at the bracers. I didn't like the fact it seemed to house a strange alien device in the centre. The twins ignored me, (un)surprisingly and approached. I tensed and slowly yielded my arms after Right gently ordered me to do so in her language.

As gently as a hammer felt to your skull.

The bracers snapped tight in a snug fit. They were heavy, but when you haul around a shotgun on top of a blade on your back, it was a familiar weight. I could handle it. What I couldn't, however, was when Left brought out that psionic amp. Purple energy crackled within it and the palm of her hand – and it reacted with the centre device of the bracers. With a sharp jerk of her amp, I struggled to keep my footing as I was yanked forward. She severed the invisible chain, satisfied.

Not good.

That sense of overbearing, ice-cold dread continue to prickle at the base of my spine as I followed the twins deeper into the facility. My legs felt like lead, desperately wanting to keep me rooted, or at the very least walk the opposite way. But I compelled myself to continue. I could hear my heart pounding in the drums of my ears, thundering to it's own war-song. A wave of nausea briefly rolled over me once we stopped at a room. Right held the door, Left gestured me inside.

I entered the room. It was quickly becoming apparent to me that it must have been an interrogation room. It was harshly lit, with not a dim corner in sight, but it was shaped like a conference room with an elongated table in the centre. Only a single chair remained at the head of it. I purse my lips. A standard room the size of my cell would likely have been too small to house two people, let alone one of them being a Chosen.

I hear the doors shut behind me with the twins stationed at either door, blocking my only exit. No sign of the Warlock, though. I exhale slowly, then turn to face the priests.

"You can undo these now," I tell them. They had no interest in responding to me, but Left did point to the floor with a soft-spoken command. For once, I truly didn't understand what she meant. Seeing my confusion, she knelt to the floor, expecting me to do the same. Ah. I get it. I soured immediately.

They wanted me to bow in reverence before the oh great and magnificent Chosen. Principals may be damned, but my dignity snarled at the idea of prostrating for that Elder-loving, overstuffed psychic peacock. Right didn't take too kindly to my refusal and gathered her amp to force me down to the ground instead.

I resisted to the best of my ability, straining against the continued added pressure and weight to my arms. My legs quivered, muscles taught as she managed to get me bow-legged in an awkward squat. Sweat beaded on my forehead as the steel only seemed to grow heavier and heavier, wearing me down. Left joined her and I grunted, exertion twisting my face into a pained grimace. I refuse to bow. I refuse. For all the soldiers that had been in this position, for all the resistance members killed in action, or defense. For –

Quicker than a sharpshooter's lightning hands, a whipcrack of energy slammed down on the double force of the priests psionic assault to the device. Fire spread from my torn muscle as the bracers dropped dead to the ground, dislocating my shoulder. I was no stranger to pain, but even still I gasped out, and drew in a sharp intake of air.

"Fuck!" It slipped out my mouth before I could stop it, vision going black as I screwed my eyes shut to fight back the sting of involuntary tears from the constant, sudden throb of pain emanating from my dislocated shoulder. I was utterly floored, fell to my side in a fetal position. I tried, desperately, to roll to my knees at least and sit upright, but the constant drag on my burning muscles was rapidly becoming hard to stomach.

"At last, XCOM's most valuable soldier understands her place – kneeling before the Elder's true Chosen, their vessel of knowledge and power in humbled reverence. As it should be, for you, and the rest of humanity once I claim what is rightfully mine." I defiantly look up, forcing my eyes open to shoot a raw glare into the figure of the Warlock, lilac energy still lingering on his armour from the teleportation; his claw cast in an eerie glow. "Perhaps if you grovel now, I may be merciful."

Covert operations with the Templars revealed that the Warlock was known as Dhag-Il Vallinar, which sounds as ugly to say as he looked. They'd taken to nickname him the Mindripper and the Skirmishers call him Vox Zauberer. but I think I'll stick with the Warlock.

What he lacked in his sibling's height, he made up for mass, built like a Muton – though most of it had to be that ridiculous plate armouring. Same intense purple eyes, glowing far more brightly with his mastery of psionics and a long, billowy set of white hair. It seemed to move with a life of it's own, reacting with the energy in the air. Similar to an Avatar, actually.

He stopped before me, fingers curled towards his palm and the strain on my arms lessened to the point of floatiness, before it began to tug me upward, rather than drag down. I stumbled a little rising to my feet, the muscles in my thighs numb and aching. Once I got to my feet, the connection of psionic energy cut, and I was left bearing the weight alone. I winced openly as it tugged on my bad shoulder. Fucker.

Even being able to stand, I still had to crane my head upwards to meet his eyes.

"Your infamy precedes you, Jane Kelly." There was an undercurrent of amused mockery in his voice, bearing the same sort of softened rumble that his priests and adjuncts share – yet far more deeper. "We know of your numerous crimes, your spite towards the Elders. You should be honoured that they are eager to speak with you after all the atrocities you have committed."

He stalked around me like a puma sizing a kill and the psionic static was causing gooseflesh to rise on my skin. A hundred options ran through my mind – I was never out of them – but as for the correct choice to make.. it continued to elude. I tried to ignore the tense knot in my stomach and settled the bracers upon the table, alleviating some of the effort of holding myself up. The chair was quite tempting to slide into, but my wounded pride denied me.

"I should slaughter you where you stand, but the Elders implore compassion." I track him carefully once he'd circled back into view and I would give anything to wipe that smirk off his face. Insufferable must be a trait that ran in the family. "There does not need to be any needless suffering this day. If you give me defiance – I shall force obedience."

"Why give me a choice?" I push, voice hoarse from how tightly I'd tried to keep myself quiet from making any noise of pain. I hated how strangled and defeated I sounded, but right now, every word had to be carefully said. "You clearly have the means to get what you want."

"Ah," he interrupts wistfully, "If only. I do not expect you to comprehend my powers, but a willing subject always makes the extraction easier. Even so, I am bound to see the Elder's will through, and they still wish you accept you – and all those who seek to destroy them – into their loving embrace."

"The Elders sure wanted to show how much they loved us when they sent you to wipe out the Resistance haven in the New Arctic." I spat full of venom. It was information he wouldn't have known had he not managed to get inside my head when battling us in a mission in Europe. He'd targeted me with a psionic assault and whilst I resisted the mind control, he breached far enough that I panicked. Ran out of cover and threw a grenade into what I thought was a horde of spectral zombies about to swarm me.

"Why would I ever want to be willing to give intel that will only lead to people's deaths?"

"They make their choice." he dismisses it as a non-issue. I knew there was a family in that haven. There were children. Pregnant women. Infirm. All of them dead! "Take heed from it that you do not have to do the same and whilst the Elders will accept you, their patience is not limitless. They do not forget the crimes you have made against them. I certainly have not."

He continued without pause, hands accompanying his words in grand gesticulation. I can see where the Priests get it from. "Through your feeble mind, I glimpsed more than just the location of the Resistance haven that day. I've seen your thoughts – your wants and desires, your goals and aspirations.."

I didn't like where he was going with this. "... You could be so much more. Under the guidance of my sister, your skills in subterfuge and bladework will surpass any Reaper. You could save millions of lives, become the hero to humanity you so long to be. With such an ascension, no man nor woman would ever deny anything you ask of them. All we require is your compliance."

I cared little for my own personal advancement when faced with such dire consequences, so the prospect of studying under the Assassin didn't entice me. He allowed me a moment to think, because he must have saw the contemplation that begrudgingly worked the muscles of my face. The deaths I could prevent.. for this brief ninety seconds, I thought of it all.

XCOM was a joke. Not our movement or cause, but who we are. All of us grizzled, hardened war veterans who spent the past years fighting for a cause that felt lost until we rescued the Commander. If we somehow succeed our mission in booting the aliens off our planet, I don't think any of us could return to a normal life. It's what we've known for so long. Training how to kill – factions dedicated to this rebellion.

Not all of us are mentally sound, either. The strain of fighting back the aliens were one thing, but some of us are going months without therapy or treatment for illnesses we've had to battle for years. Actually, no, I take that back. We have alcohol. XCOM's finest are nothing more than a bunch of ruthless, killing, depressed alcoholics and I'm right at the fucking top of the scoreboard.

The Reapers, the pariah hunter-trappers that I so aspire to train under were not the type of soldiers you'd want integrating into a liberated society straight away. Not until they all got a crash course on human decency and how to actually socialize in a way that didn't involve guns, aliens, eating aliens or killing. Scathing to say, but it's a hard truth. They're lone wolves of the worst kind.

What would happen to the Skirmishers? Once we boot the Elders off, would we turn on them? Jowah had leaned over and said once a traitor, always a traitor when Mox first joined us. Emra, our other Skirmisher, was treated with further disgust and her hazing had nearly cost us the faction's trust entirely. Central looked ready to pop a vein and the Commander stripped at least one vet of his stripes. We really didn't need infighting when against such a planetary powerhouse as ADVENT and the Elders.

And then there were the Templars. The Warlock was a living example of what awaited them at the end of the tunnel: insanity, instability and delusions of grandeur. They already hang onto Geist's every word like overzealous cultists, likening him as a prophet. Nobody truly knows their overarching goal, either. Without the Elders in the picture, they'd swoop in to fill a religion of power-mad zealots, which is the LAST thing a new society needs. It's a fucking mess.

I solemnly lifted my gaze from where it had fallen to my hands to meet the Warlock's. Leaning forward, I finally spoke.

"Bill. Tina. Dinah. Hana. Baby. Xavier." I listed the names of the XCOM soldiers that had been killed in action. Their memorials hung like a ghastly reminder in the Avenger's bar. I was so incensed that I didn't even care about my former plan to turn the Warlock against his siblings. I didn't need to prolong this any more than I already have. How dare he think I'd betray humanity for – for what? Better swordplay?

"On behalf of them, and all that have fallen because they refused to bend the knee: fuck you."

"You have made your choice then," he stated, stalking closer, psionic energy crackling in the palms of his hands. "A pity it was not the correct one."

---

I can't feel my.. everything. The migraine I have could level mountains and I can only vaguely feel the sensation of being dragged. I kept my eyes tightly screwed shut, because the lights of the facility set stinging pain whenever I tried to open them. Am I alive? I think I am. He didn't get what he wanted..? Something is warm on my face. Blood. I can taste blood .. I'm leaving a trail. Pain.

Screaming. So much screaming. Visions of death. Fire everywhere. It hurt to think.

…

I hit the ground with a whimpering yelp. I didn't care about dignity at this point. It's dimmer. Cooler. I must have broken out into a sweat at some point. I try opening my right eye where the migraine hadn't spread, as it needled the left side of my face. I scarcely could make out the shape of what seemed like a wash basin. Cell.

I'm in my cell.

The quiet chatter behind me felt like they were screaming in my ear. Two voices, soft, and one much more masculine. The twins and.. some other ADVENT soldier. Approaching footfalls of heavy boots and the woosh of the cell's door. I was being picked up and I struggle weakly until I was slumped onto the bed. My head felt so heavy … I would love to fall asleep for the next week.

"They should not have done that." The masculine voice. Familiar. Pleb? My hand dizzily gropes out, palm landing flat upon something smooth and plastic. Visor, now covered with my bloodied fingerprint. It was Pleb.

"Are you gonna put me out of my misery?" I slur. It was a hopeful prayer.

"My directive is to ensure that you are unharmed." An odd thing to have if they were going to torture me, but I think it was more along the lines of 'so you don't harm yourself.' – I couldn't even muster the strength to scoff. He peeled my hand off from his visor and shuffled around some until some sort of cold, soothing mist envelops me.

I cough on instinct, but the medkit works instantaneously. I didn't feel like I was quite on the brink of passing out now and the migraine simmered to a dull throb of a headache.

I blink a few times until sight and lucidity returns to me. The stun lancer leaves before I even have a chance to speak and once more I'm alone with my thoughts, thinking what in the actual fuck just happened during the time the Warlock approached me and now.

Day Seventeen, Col. Jane 'Stalker' Kelly, signing out.

Chapter 6

Pleb was earlier than what I'd come to expect from the routine. He still carried in my breakfast tray, though this time there was a satchel of medical supplies hanging from his hip. I hadn't moved an inch since he'd dumped me on the steel bed – and it was only after I awoken did I realize he'd cushioned underneath my head with what appeared to be a rolled up thin blanket. I would've taken this as a positive sign towards slowly turning him away from ADVENT, but I was far too drained.

It's not like anything I was doing influenced it. Betos mentioned something about the chips and –

God. My head hurts. I keep – there's.. glimpses. Screaming. A lot of screaming. A facility? No.. Fire. Why does it always have to be fucking fire? Shut up. It's just flames, why are you so afraid? Shut up -

I'm arguing with myself.

…

It felt like my brain had leapt out of my skull and ran a marathon. My memory is still fuzzy after the Warlock approached with his attack, but I do vaguely recall that he was poking around, trying to uncover specific information. I didn't have the strength to fully repel his mental assault like our Templars or those showing promise with psionic abilities could, but I did know how to offer up useless information in place of what he was seeking.

At least, that's what I hoped was happening. I try to think to that literal mental block and it's like a repressed trauma. Hidden away upon layers and layers of pain and fucking FIRE. I. I know it's a stupid phobia. But fuck it.

I concluded after a while that trying to find out what he'd uncovered would only serve to bring the migraine back.

Pleb helped me sit up and I let him. I don't think he was aware of what happened, because he hadn't been present when the twins came to collect me. And judging from the other night.. he sounded like he was arguing with them. Or questioning them. Call it wishful thinking, but I don't think the Warlock was supposed to go on the offensive. It went against how they had been treating me up to this point.

Oh well. Even if I died, I'm sure all he'd get is a stern chiding from the Elders.

I hiss sharply when a wet cloth dabbed at my jaw. Jeez, that stung like a bitch. "What the fuck?"

"You are wounded." he explains, tilting my head enough to the side so that he could clean up the crusted blood. The stains of the cloth indicated as much – right, I'd been injured.. I hardly registered it; my mind was far to bogged down with other matters.

The Warlock's claws must have pierced pretty deeply if the medkit hadn't done much for them other than take the edge of the pain away. I allowed him to continue, keeping my wincing to a minimum. I'm struck with another sense of longing. Dawn may be a stern piece of work, but her field care and bedside manners were beyond anything I've seen or heard before. But for once, I appreciated the silence.

I broke it soon after, though. "Aren't you worried that you're going to get reprimanded for this?"

It feels like a question I've asked before. I remember little from the daze of the night before. Pleb doesn't answer at first, focused at the task at hand until he scrunches up the bloodied cloth and tosses it in the satchel. He makes a slight gesture with his hands and it takes me a moment to realize he's shrugging, or trying to convey as much.

"I am simply working within the boundaries of my orders." That was safe to give, but I can tell he wants to expand. I let him sit and contemplate before he eventually adds, unprompted; "The Warlock disobeyed the Elders. You were not supposed to be harmed."

Yet. There's a hanging yet in the air. Even telling their child, right into their face to fuck right off, the Elders still believed I could be turned. Surely they weren't that stupid – or naïve. There's always an angle to it. Still, this came as quite a shock. I'd expect disobedience from the Hunter, who seemed to get a kick off from doing so – but the Warlock? The same one who sung his master's praises every chance he got and made sure his fanatic followers did the same?

I couldn't help it, but there was a morbid pride to have when your mere existence enrages someone like him. My misdeeds towards ADVENT were deemed greater and inexcusable than following the Elders' orders to a tee. Or maybe their grip upon the Chosen were not as ironclad as we originally thought. XCOM may not have been making the effort to rescue me, but they are still operating. Weakening the aliens every day.

Keeping up with the plan of slowly breaking Pleb free from the mold, I snatch his wrist before he has a chance to leave me. I fully braced myself for a rifle stock in the face like last time – and I do wonder where that scientist scurried off too – but found myself grinning instead when he actually stopped and turned his head towards me expectantly. Improvement. Good.

"Thanks." I say as gently as I could. He didn't seem to have a response for that, so he simply nodded and firmly tugged his wrist out of my grip, leaving me to my meal of mush.

After I ate, I decided to check the damage in the small mirror in my cell. I let out a low whistle once I got close enough to see my reflection, gathering long bunches of my hair up and away from my neck to inspect the deep gouges. The wounds had closed, thanks to the medkit, but they were definitely going to scar something fierce. I trail one of the marks that traversed the length of my jaw to my chin lightly. Beyond the marks themselves, I could see a purple bruise forming at the hollow of my neck.

"Damn, boy." I whisper, faintly impressed. I let go of my hair, shaking it out to cover the bruises on my neck. Sadly, I don't think they will be the sole reminder I'll have for my weeks-long stay in ADVENT's.. ah.. "care."

I distantly hear Pleb say something outside of my cell. He rarely talks unless it's absolutely necessary, so curiously I decide to eavesdrop. Not like I could actually understand what was being said, given that strange language they conversed in. A feminine voice. Low, scratchy – Oh shit.

I barely had enough time to react when the doors slid open to reveal the Chosen Assassin. So soon after the Warlock's visit, no less. I don't know what I was bracing for – maybe an attack or a katana in my gut, but I was surprised when she merely curled her finger and said; "Follow."

No psionically-manipulated cuffs. No flanking twin guards, nothing. Suspicious.

I follow tenaciously, because I don't think declining was an option. She was one alien I curbed my sarcasm with, mainly due to a begrudging respect to her skill as a pseudo-ranger, and because she's already proven to kick my ass once before. Not going to mess with this gal.

She moved like the very air carried her steps, silent. If I didn't see her out of my peripheral vision then I wouldn't even know she was there. Taller than the Hunter, by just a few inches – and not at all disadvantaged by it. She was flexible, able to perform great acrobatic feats stylistically and tactically.

The Skirmishers call her Jax-Mon Balladhur, the Wraithmaiden. Butcher of freed ADVENT. The voice of reason between her siblings' arrogance and self-servitude – and likely why the two brothers hadn't tried to kill each other thus far, Elders be damned. She held herself with such grace and beauty that it was far too ethereal to be natural.

I think there was some intel floating about that she wasn't like her brothers. That she was.. cloned? Or – made, like the ADVENT soldiers are. That she was some sort of experiment or pet project of the Elders. Maybe they intended her to be some sort of proto-Avatar, because whilst she was never human like the other two, she must have our DNA in her. The Assassin seemed so.. duty-bound in comparison to her elder's zealotry and her older's insubordination –

"I must commend your will, for someone who shows no psionic aptitude, you managed to draw my brother's ire with your resilience." the Chosen notes as we ascend up the stairs. This was part of the facility I'd never seen before. The first thing I caught sight of were scientists busying around with a skeleton crew of guards keeping them in line. The humans didn't look as if they seen us, but the ADVENT regarded us – or rather me – warily. I stuck close by the Assassin.

"Good. His arrogance could do with simmering down, lest his own ego elevate him off the face of Earth." Try as I might, I couldn't stop the crack of a grin worming it's way on my lips. The Hunter wasn't the only one with a sense of humour. I sobered up quickly when her magenta-coloured eyes turned their piercing gaze towards me. "Does it surprise you that I would speak of my elder in such a way?"

"I've got two brothers. Both older." It wasn't exactly secret intel and they both were capable fighters, so I didn't have an issue with talking about them. I figured they likely already knew. "I trash talk them to hell and back. Doesn't sound like much to me other than a bad case of sibling rivalry, although you've mixed in attempted fratricide for good measure."

She smirked. I think she was genuinely amused by what I said.

Another set of stairs. Another tier of the facility. This one seemed to have storage, access to the catwalks and the great walls that squared around. I'm not sure where she's taking me, but we've long passed the conference room where the Warlock interrogated me.

"I was sent here by the Elders to convince you of their cause." By the sound of her tone, things have clearly changed. I don't think she's going to start stabbing me though, thankfully. "But you and I both know that is impossible to achieve willingly. No matter how kind we treat you – what we say, you will stand in defiance. The Elders' adoration of humanity will be their downfall, but alas, I don't blame you."

Wait.

"You.. don't blame me?"

Finally, we reached out destination of the rooftops. The air was crisp and when we stepped out, I breathed in the early morning scent. The turrets mounted on the corners lit up when their sensors detected a presence, but with a mere wave of the Assassin's hand, they blinked off. Neat trick. She stepped towards the safety rails and I joined her. It was an.. odd, position to be in, but she regarded the life that patrolled below us with an air of emptiness that seemed to accentuate the loneliness she embodied. I never made it a habit to feel pity for an alien creature, but if there was one that came close, it would be her. I'm crazy for thinking this, but .. I think she - wanted me to see this, of her.

She isn't like her brothers. They aren't cut from the same cloth and for all the malcontent they felt towards her; all she had was.. Emptiness. It was.. chilling, to say the least.

"We are not so different, Jane Kelly." I beg to differ, but I don't interrupt her. "You and I were forged on the fields of battle. The fight.. the struggle, it's all we've ever known. For as long as I can remember, I have been hunting those traitorous to my masters and yet I still find myself, shamefully, admiring humanity's tenacity to survive."

The Assassin continues; "And you, from what my brothers have deigned to share, have always served as XCOM's bastion. Executing any alien you come across with impunity. I doubt you even remember what it was like to have a life before ADVENT. Before the alien's first arrival."

She cants her head towards me. "But perhaps you have the answer where I do not. You have killed so many, destroyed so much, as have I. Yet all that I have slaughtered, I have felt NOTHING. Merely a task I must perform. What do you have to show for it all? To feel? Do you even understand why the Elders want your Commander in the first place? The ramifications, the weight of death on your shoulders?"

I'm silent.

Thoughts I had previously resurface about XCOM. I stew in them, staring down at the small figures of patrols wandering about. Then I recall the stasis suit we recovered from the Forge – and the Avatar we faced.. and killed. I'd thought, at the time: did we kill an Elder? Always a greater picture, and the scope seemed beyond that of what I could comprehend. I realize I'm doing my best to avoid thinking about what she'd said. Driving my mind to the same senseless, inhumane acts that aliens have done, that would always differentiate us. The Black Site. The Forge. The processing of thousands of humans..

But then I remember Tygan's rambling about the Elders. Some sort of.. muscle atrophy they suffered from? Maybe the Commander was a part of finding that cure. Or the project as a whole – or something else entirely. Maybe they would truly back off if we gave them the one person - no! What am I thinking?! They had the Commander for twenty years and they entrenched themselves firmly as a global superpower on Earth. Practically made a religion out of it.

The comparisons that she drew between us set me on edge more than I'd like to admit – and I shifted my weight between my feet, trying and failing not to let it show. There were glaringly obvious flaws in what she'd said – but framed like that, it'd be hard not to see the similarities. A part of me knew the angle she was playing for. A sense of – kinship. Showing me that even the aliens aren't too different from humanity. That we aren't so different.

And with how many of them had undergone the Elders gene tampering – splicing in human genetics wantonly, maybe they weren't so different from us now.

"Your brothers mentioned," I say in place of a response, because I didn't want to engage her ideas and make her believe that I truly was contemplating the broader scope; " – that their reward for returning the Commander is Earth itself. That implies the Elders are going to leave us, eventually, right? They're going to leave one of you in charge of this planet. What are you guys going to do with Earth?"

A wry smile plays at her rough lips. "It differs. I have no doubt my elder has propagated his will to extinguish humanity from this planet after claiming godhood and my older seeks only his own pleasure – perhaps he'd make it a planet-wide game reserve or let you kill yourselves and return to his long hunt on another planet."

She moves away from the railing and from the turn of her head, she expects me to do the same. I comply. "My plans, on the other hand, are my own. You will simply have to wait and see when I succeed where my brothers inadvertently fail."

I begin descending the stairs with her when she halts me with a stern grip on my shoulder. Her nails were like daggers into my flesh and I fight back a wince, looking to her. "Dhag-mai Madron will be sent to be your interrogator and your executioner if you fail to comply with our demands. Do not be fooled by his attitude: whilst he may seem disrespectful and like one of you humans, he is the last person on this wretched planet and the next that would ever give you mercy. His delinquency is a facade."

"Why are you warning me?" I ask on instinct. A scratchy laugh rumbles in her throat.

"As you said. You have brothers. You should know why."

I stare, dumbfounded for a moment. A nervous chuckle of disbelief bubbles in my chest as I resist the urge to shake my head. The Chosen were the most dysfunctional family I've had the misfortune of learning about. In any case, I was finally given some semblance of a doomsday date. Three days. Seventy-two hours to put my plan into action and escape.

No pressure.

Day Eighteen, Col. Jane 'Stalker' Kelly, signing out.

Chapter 7

Notes:

There's descriptions of torture, though it doesn't go too in-depth, is still worth mentioning.

On the first day, I didn't bother with easing Pleb into the subject. The second he stepped into my cell, I sprung into action, disregarding the breakfast tray to the side of my bed and grasping his upper arms. Instinct drove him to reach for his lance with his dominant hand and try and drive me back with his left, but he calmed once he saw the desperation pooled imploringly in my eyes. I could feel his muscles through the kevlar vest ease just a tad.

"There's no easy way to say this, Pleb." I start with. "You know the Hunter's going to visit me in three days and I'll be straight with you: I'm not going to be walking out alive if he and I are in the same room without a door separating us. Your directive is to make sure I'm not harmed, right? You have to do something."

He buffets my arms back once he hears my plea, though firm, it wasn't violent. Instead he encouraged that I sit to the steel bed and I do so to show that I will listen to him and comply, but I needed him to show the same. He remains standing.

"He is Chosen," he repeats as a reminder. Frustration steeples my brow and a fierce frown twists my lips. Seeing my dissatisfaction, he finally joins to sit beside me as equal, reaching over for the tray I nearly knocked to the floor and settled it over my lap instead, voice dropping a bit more tentatively, even if it was hard to hear through the buzzing. "My primary purpose is that you remain in this facility, however. I thought you really were starting to see the truth, past all the lies XCOM has force fed you."

I was shrill when I responded, disbelief worming it's way into my tone. "Do – do you really think that's what has been happening? I'm not the one that's got wool over their eyes." I rap my knuckle three times onto his opaque visor to make a point. He shirks back a little. "Why on Earth do you think I've been put in this cell? Why you were activated in the first place? Or that the Chosen are interrogating me in the first place?"

"You are a dangerous criminal.."

"I know I can't convince you that XCOM isn't the enemy, or that even I'm innocent." I wet my lips, brain frantic to search for an angle I could use, " – But what I can say is that the Chosen you and your kin look up to and blindly follow are all selfish, self-serving assholes with disregard to human and ADVENT life. The Assassin was made specifically to hunt your brethren if you ever step even a toe out of line. The Warlock – he only cares about the Priests. And the Hunter sees your kind as sport."

A quick reprise to draw a breath, ending on a sting; "You're serving something who sees you as nothing more than a body. Cannon fodder. What does that say about the Elders, huh?"

I regard him carefully. His body language – shifting furiously in place, hands unable to remain still, he wants to get angry at what I'm saying. He's hard-wired to respond negatively to any radical propaganda that my words are no doubt being filtered as. But I can see he's struggling. I think he wants to listen to what I have to say and he's fighting against the urge to just hit me, yell something and leave me to it.

I chance it. " – You're not alone in this, Pleb. There are others out there; brothers and sisters that have struggled like you have to make sense of it all. But they all have drawn to the same conclusion that any god of theirs would not view their lives as just faceless, mindless footsoldiers. The Skirmishers – "

"Are traitors." he finally pipes up, staggering to his feet, tone vehement. "They abandoned and slander the Elders, just like you and the rest of your kracsad kind!"

I lean forward, one arm tossed over my knee, gaze never once leaving where I believed his eyes were through the visor. I made it a point to keep deathly calm as I said; "You were never given a choice. So I'm giving you one now. You walk out that door and you stand there and think if you want to be known as ADVENT Stun Lancer, one of millions or Pleb. One of a kind."

I don't expect him to answer and he doesn't. He storms out of the cell and I'm sure if it was possible he'd have slammed the door shut on the way out too. I exhale a breath I didn't know I was holding, easing my back to the wall, appetite lost. Whilst he'd seemed to left angry, the fact that he left with any sort of reaction at all was a good sign, I think. Maybe I just lost the most valuable ally I could've had if I played it differently, maybe it wouldn't really matter until I'm buried six feet under and he realizes too late.

It's done now and I just hope it works.

---

The dawn of the second day. Pleb doesn't even bring my food. Some other trooper does.

Unable to count on him, I run by my other options. I know from habit of being taken to the courtyard that there are three sets of patrols on the lower tier, Pleb guarding outside notwithstanding. A Trooper and an Officer by the entrance, a Shieldbearer escorting the same blonde haired scientist I saw at the beginning of this mess down the hallway at roughly the early morning and again late night and finally a pod of three troopers near the stairway.

Even if I wanted to try and gain a weapon through assaulting Pleb or any soldier, ADVENT guns are gene-locked. I can only assume the same applies to the stun lances, too. Grenades.. likely not marked the same, but they don't look like standard-issue FRAGs. Plus, Pleb didn't carry grenades.

I do have my fists and some close-quarter combat training, but bare flesh versus armour plating? Not typically a good combo. It did get me thinking, though.

Would the Hunter's weaponry have the same sort of restriction as ADVENT's? He's clearly had them longer than the coalition has been around – and whilst I don't expect myself using that giant fucking sniper rifle as anything more than an unwieldy bat, I know for a fact he keeps a pistol. Simple concept: brawl with the Hunter and disarm his pistol to use for myself.

But there's a lot of if's and prayers. I'd have to hope that for one, it doesn't kill me on contact. Two, he brings no additional guards with him. Three, that I'm not restricted or bound in any way and four that I can even lunge for him without getting a bullet between my eyes because he can draw faster than I can tackle him to the floor. Oh, and five: that he's as useless close-quarters as our own sharpshooters are (with an exception of Jill.)

Frankly, I doubt he is.

I come to the conclusion that doing nothing would be game over and at least some half-baked plan has a chance of success, how minimal. I realize rather bizarrely that this is probably why I wasn't the Commander. Fist-fighting a Chosen as a plan of action isn't the most smartest or wisest course of action, but it's all I got. Even if I don't make it out alive, at least I'll die satisfied.

---

Being fearless didn't mean that I wasn't scared. I was terrified at my own mortality. Death was something we'd faced on the daily and it was never cheapened for us. Sure, we grow casual towards it, like an old friend, but when one of us were killed in the field, it snaps our backs straighter than a schoolmaster's ruler whacking us back into line. So yes. I was frightened of the Hunter and the grim reaper his arrival signifies.

But I wasn't afraid to stand up for myself. To fight against that fear. Stare it down with a daggered smile, just like the one I'll wear when I'm rapping on Hell's gates. I will not cry or grovel for mercy. I'll taunt him to do his worst. Draw it out as long as he damn well likes. I'm not afraid to face it, unlike the Chosen. Their state of deathlessness have only made them arrogant and delusional and in the long run when we figure out how to kill them for good, it'll hit them harder than it ever did us.

Even beyond my regrets, because that's what makes me.. well, me. I look back on the missed opportunities and untold words not with bitterness, but rather a fond remembrance. They would only be someone else's grievances. If I had a chance to get everything off my chest, only to pop my clogs afterwards: they'd have to live with that for the rest of their lives.

I'm not sure how I was supposed to spend my final moments. I felt.. oddly at ease. Actually, the most relaxed I've been since I had to be doped up on morphine for a surgery once. It was a nice feeling to have layered over the simmering dread – a state of tranquil acceptance.

As a side note to my eulogy, I managed to unthread the last red string of the ADVENT logo on my shirt.

When the time came on that third, fateful day, I subverted their expectations of heavy resistance. I did not put up a fight to the ADVENT troopers that escorted me down what felt like the mile of death's row. I've never been big on the Skirmishers, but it's in these moments that I find myself realizing their plight. Their chained brethren here – they're just as much prisoner as I am, without the benefit of a free mind. Pawns to the chess masters of the Elders.

The room was bright and obnoxiously lit, though it was smaller than the conference room that the Warlock had interrogated me in. Boxy, nondescript, with no discernible purpose other than being spare. There was a table to the left with a multitude of gruesome looking equipment set out like a display, with the tall figure of the Hunter by the end of it; his back to me, filling the small, dingy sink with water. There was a projector overhead and a small chair with metal cuffs at the arms and legs in the centre of the room to which I could only assume the purpose of.

"I'm not usually fond of such means to get what the Elders want. If I'm honest with you, I just like to kill things. Something your little band of rebels can agree with." He doesn't turn to me yet, browsing through the selection of tools with a bored appreciation like someone who was dragged to an art gallery exhibit than a torturer. "So, how about we work with each other? You tell me the weak spots of the Avenger, including several haven locations for good measure and I'll give you a quick death. That doesn't sound too unreasonable."

The fact he was met with silence prompts him to finally turn his head to me. He abandons the table of tools, skulking closer, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Aww. Don't get silent on me now, ranger, not on our.. hm, let's call it a first date. Where's that legendary XCOM bravado you were so full of?"

Again, I don't respond until he's just a few feet in front of me and now I finally crane my head to look upwards. Psionic purple of his eyes met my brown and I think his supernatural sense of stratagem kicked in just a second too late: My fist shot out swiftly into the only part of him that wasn't covered in armor. His face.

My knuckles connected to his jaw with a satisfying crunch of bone (either mine or his, I didn't care) and I used the very short moment of him awestruck to reach for his sidearm, which I spied resting on at his right before he'd stepped closer. My finger tips brushed nothing but his hip and empty holster, though, confusion quick to settle as I tried to overreach to the rifle on his back –

Something sharp stung me, like a wasp's sting and seconds later, I was slumped on the floor, muscles unresponsive. Perfectly lucid – I could think just fine, move my eyes, but I couldn't feel anything below my neck. I struggled in vain, panicked heartbeats thundering in my eardrums. What? This – This wasn't supposed to happen! He couldn't have..

"Looking for this?" I couldn't really move my head to see what he was gesturing at. I swallowed thickly when he crouched over me, his pistol waved tauntingly in my face. How.. ? That wasn't possible! He must have had to drawn his pistol before I'd even begin to punch him!

"That's – you – "

"I'm amazing, I know." he humbly said, rocking on the balls of his feet, tapping my forehead with the barrel of the gun. "I'm trying to decide either or not I should be insulted that you didn't think I'd expect something like that. Honestly! Oldest trick in the book. I knew you were plotting something the moment you were tempting me to get closer. Actually, that's a lie. I knew what you were going to do before you'd even stepped out your cell. To answer your question, no, you wouldn't have died handling my weaponry, but good luck getting your hands on my goods."

My struggling continued and by some miracle I managed to.. flop uselessly onto my front. I cringed as it felt like a million pins needled into my body. Okay, fuck what I said about accepting death and the pain, right now I wanted to writhe in agony and I was denied even that. "Fuck you!" I defaulted, because damn that was the only sort of pain relief I could get. "Just fucking end it! You know I'm not going to tell you shit, you Elder-humping piece of -"

"There you are." he slips an arm under me, effortlessly hauling my dead weight like it was nothing. My limp limbs drag on the ground as he carries me towards the chair. "I have to admit, it would be just like my brother to leave you dead but functioning so I was wasting my time on a corpse."

He dumps me on the chair and I topple onto him as I couldn't control my own weight. He rights me so that I'm leaning back into the seat. There's no need to fasten the cuffs, because whatever he'd shot into me paralyzed me. It hurt like a chemical burn in my veins, my blood boiling. I fidget, or at least try to and only really succeed in twisting the muscles of my face into a pained grimace.

"Oh, I should repay you for that little love bite you call a punch. Let me show you how it's done." He nurses his jaw as if my punch did anything more than momentarily daze him from the sheer audacity that I'd resort to fisticuffs.

Like a dizzying sucker punch, it's like lights were exploding behind my eyes and I'm seeing stars –

Damn, fuck!

He can land a right hook like a certified boxer. Warm blood oozed generously from my nose as it was now likely broken. My head lolled forward, a few drops of the crimson liquid dotting the floor before I forced myself to lift it rather than have it hang defeated. My lip twitches, tongue darting out to wet them on instinct and only serving to coat my teeth red.

If this is how he's going to interrogate me, then I know, at least I won't balk under it. I offer him a vicious grin that bordered on a snarl before gathering the blood-mixed saliva in my mouth and spit at him. It splattered onto the breast-piece of his armour.

He looked down on it, taking great care to slowly wipe it away before sighing. "At least you have the mannerisms of the Reapers you so want to be."

The Hunter grabbed a fistful of my hair, dragging me sharply out of the chair and towards his torture table at the other end of the room. I grunted, numbing pain emanating from my dead limbs as they bashed against the floor. He slammed my body with more than enough force against the table for me to feel it through the toxin, jostling the tools out of order. The only thing I managed to give off was an alarmed cry before he drove my head into the sink full of water.

I screw my eyes shut and try not to struggle, to conserve my energy. I lasted a full minute before the dense pressure started tightening my lungs and I desperately fought against his restraining hand to take a breath. Panic settled in swiftly until the Hunter jerked my head out of the water. I inhale greedily with spluttering coughs interspersed with my breaths. The pain alleviated from my lungs, but the burn still remained.

"Vulnerabilities on the Avenger. Start talking, or it's back in the water." he warned. I didn't miss the frigidness of his tone; beneath the sardonic surface lay a cold-blooded predator that unsheathed it's claws once in a while – and I didn't like the fact I was the first one to find out what it was like when he got, quote, 'serious.'

… He liked to toy and play with us like one did with food, but eventually, he'll dive for the kill.

That didn't stop me leering. "If this is your idea of getting a woman wet, then you have never been laid. I feel sorry for you."

And back my head goes. I quickly take a breath before I was plunged into the water. I pass the minute mark once again before the strain on my lungs start to burn at a level I couldn't stand, though he kept me in the water longer. I could feel myself get light-headed and woozy, needle-point agony drilling into my sternum until he pulled me out. I cough a lot more violently, vision hazy and wits scrambled.

"The Elders saw it fit to bless me with something unique over my siblings: patience." He tells, unceremoniously dropping me on the floor so that he can collect the chair and bring it closer to the table of tools. I distantly hear the metal squeak and scrape before it rattles just behind me. Once again I was hauled up like a sack of dead weight and tossed into the chair, which I partly slumped out of, supported by only the arms. I glare at him beneath my sopping fringe.

"... Which, unfortunately for you, means that I can go as long as this planet's lifespan before I grow tired. Naturally, you won't last that long, but if you think you can hold out until I get bored, then don't bother." He selects a particularly nasty looking knife from the lineup, brandishing it with skill and wanton care of a highly efficient killer. I tilt my head away from it reflexively as the point breaches closer to my personal space until it rests on the line of scarring I was given by the Warlock.

"Vulnerabilities on the Avenger. Talk."

A muscle in my neck twitches, face nonplussed and masking a cool panic easily. "You know, when I thought I was going to be tortured by an alien, I didn't think it'd be a repeat of Pre-invasion Iraq. Isn't this a little primitive for your tastes?" Those words sit with me uneasily.

I add in; " – Are we approaching second base? Come on. Buy me dinner first. I'm thinking Chryssalid burgers, seeing as you're just a cheap imitation of a Reaper, you probably eat like one too."

"You try to mask your true feelings behind a facade of gung-ho obscenity," A grin splits across his face, all pointed teeth and purple, not-as psionically infused eyes swirling in their maddening depths and for one brief, lucid moment I wonder if the long hunts and isolation had made him as mad as his brother. My brewing panic only intensifies. "But I can smell your fear, Jane Kelly. Of course these methods are primitive! I want to squeeze out every last drop of suffering out of your weak body."

Well, that took a turn. My breath hitches as the tip of the blade traces, mockingly loving, across the length of the scar. Not quite with enough pressure to open, but certainly enough to be uncomfortable.

"The Reapers wish they were like me," he grouses. "They are nothing but amateurs. It makes me sick to my stomach that I was one of them, once. I'll show you what awaits being a Reaper. What it's like."

The glint of steel and then a blood-curdling scream at it's suddenness. The blade ripped open the scar, now fresh and oozing with crimson that painted the flat and drip-dropped onto my thighs, staining the black. This time, I was not lulled into whatever false slumber induced by the psionic infiltration as each stroke of the blade meticulously and painfully seamed open the scars.

---

Consciousness … barely. Cold. Floor. Wet. Shivering.

Someone talking?

…

Can't move. Pinpoint gunshot wound on my biceps where I must have been injected with the paralyzing toxin again. Arm's broken anyway. I can see that in the inhuman angle it's bent at. Or maybe my vision's just fucked up. All I see is blur.

Hunter's cleaning his rifle. I think he's waiting to see if I kicked the bucket or if it was a momentary blackout. I close my eyes again and try to chase a few more moments of solitary peace.

"So, you survived. I'll get back to you after I've tended to Darklance." He named the fucking thing.

Legs don't work. Other arm does, oddly. I make the mistake of trying to push my weight forward in some pathetic excuse of a shimmying crawl, if only to get out of the pond of water and blood. Bad idea. My enter body protests with a screech of pain. Broken ribs? Maybe.

"Humans are so fragile," he notes, more to himself than to me. Rambling to his gun. Muttering to himself like a raving madman, a splitting image of his older. He conceals his own insanity well. Better than I do hiding my fear. ".. yet so tenaciously durable, like a cockroach, really. No wonder the Elders like you lot so much. Such interesting genetics in an otherwise uninteresting, bland, ugly species."

I groan, at least that was the polite way of putting it. More like a guttural plea of primal pain mixed into exasperation. Does he ever shut up?

"Maybe I'll just leave you guys to it. You all do such a good job of killing each other. It might be fun to watch it for a change, rather than to cause it." He slides the black cloth down the eerie red lanced through the unknown, alien material, polishing it with a semblance of tender care. "The only challenge I've ever had is my sister, anyway. I'll hunt her after I'm done with this business of the Elders. End her miserable, empty little existence. I didn't ask for a baby sister."

Happy family. He does nothing but whine, whine, whine.

"Then my brother. Or maybe I should go after him first? What do you think?"

It struggled to breathe, let alone attempting to talk. But with gurgled rasps, I manage; "I'm .. not .. your fucking .. therapist."

"You would have made a terrible Reaper, Jane Kelly." he finally shifts his full attention back onto me and I crumple under the pressure of it. Just end it. Please. "I've watched you and XCOM for a while now. You wouldn't be able to give them up. Abandon them for darkness and winter."

The Gods have mercy on me. I'm slipping out of consciousness once again, the Hunter's voice but a buzz in the background.

I find a middling serenity amidst it all.

Chapter 8

White.

Like I was in a hospital with blinding lights overhead. But I couldn't be. I was being tortured by the Hunter in an ADVENT facility. Sound.. muffled. Distorted. Maybe I'm underwater. Maybe I'm dead. Five seconds of pure, unadulterated white noise and blindness. It was a nice reprieve. So, this was the end of the tunnel? I didn't think I'd be rapping on pearly gates, honestly. Haven't led the most clandestine and faithful life.

A mortar shell. Rabid shouting of men and women, screams of soaring bullets. … Peeking over the trenches, taking a pot shot here and there only to be driven back into the sandy dune. Watching shrapnel tear straight into my comrade's shoulder. Another having a breakdown at the foot of our ammunition supplies.

I'm not dead.

The thought penetrated the haze of a flashback brought on by the strain and stress of my mind. It shattered the illusion. Not bullet fire. Mag rounds, spitting into the walls. Heavy, terse breathing. Movement. Hum of low muttered German paced in between every heaved breath – I'm moving and the klaxon blear around me in a deafening roar.

I try opening my eyes. The ceiling lights seem to pulsate. That's not right. They're not enlarging or shrinking. I'm bobbing up and down – because I'm being moved. How?

Carried, The thought was planted in my brain. I didn't even think it. Or maybe I did.

A thunderclap rolls in the distance and something heavy hits the floor. I – we – whomever is carrying me, leaps over the corpse of a trooper with a shot planted right in between his eyes. Huh. Only Jowah can make a shot that clean. Every jolt of the person's stride makes my broken arm slap against his rough plate. I try to move my lips, make a noise. Nothing. Gurgled, choking pain. I cough out some blood.

Rounds hit the walls. Shouting – not in English like my comrades. Twisted, disgusting imitation of it. Alien.

We've stopped. I can feel the hesitance in the person. Then through the bubble of underwater muffling came his bark, loud and clear. " – Jowah, where the fuck is our support?! Troopers at six and ten, approaching at my flanks!"

Klaus. Klaus. KLAUS!

I mouth his name. But I can't muster the strength to say it. Another bloodied cough. Another full-body tingle of lingering, dull pain. That's familiar.

A crackle of static from the two-way radio pinned to his shoulder, directly beside my ear. It sputters desperately, like the battery's going dry, but unmistakably the sharpshooter's voice titters through.

"Yeah an' oi got de 'unter pinnin' me down in a bird's nest at seven-forty six. Oi shoot nigh oi die. Circle roun' ter de other windy, i'll 'av yer covered by den if our new stun lancer buddy keeps 'er end av de bargain." He's tired. I didn't need to be entirely with it to tell. How long has he set up a facility-wide kill zone? Tiredness meant sloppy. He couldn't afford to be anything less than perfect when the Hunter was tracking.

"Circle around." Klaus repeated frostily, staring at the dead end in front of us. "You mean through the fucking troopers? Because that's the only option I've got -"

"Aye! Whaich is why yer canny afford ter be standin' raun blatherin' back ter me! Git movin'!"

I hear Klaus growl. Coldness again .. he set me on the floor gently. A lot more softer than he had just been moments ago, chewing out the man under his command. I watch him through half-cracked open, leaking, black eyes. He pulls out a grenade. Blink. He's already reaching for me. Blink. An explosion that shook the very foundation of the building. Blink.

"Stay with me now, Colonel." Klaus mutters as he adjusts my rest. He's using his shoulders to support the majority of my weight. Keeping me secure by holding my uninjured arm and letting the broken one hang down his back. He was pretty bloodied himself. I think I've been bleeding on him. "I swear to fuck, you stay with me. You hear me, Jane? You're not dying on me. I'll come to Hell myself and kick your ass if you do."

Good old Klaus.

I roll my gaze to look away from the ceiling after the pulsating lights worsened my headache. Klaus darts past the scorched corpses he'd recently created. He swiftly approaches around the bend of the hallway and true to Jowah's word, the marching soldiers barely have time to react to our presence when two bullets rip through their heads or necks, each with their accompanying boom. My heart thuds in my ears at a slowing pace. Everything feels like it was moving in slow motion as I exhale.

I close my eyes briefly. The feeling of open air snaps me somewhat alert once more.

How long did I.. ? Oh, who gives a shit. The facility wasn't that far behind us, but Klaus is mumbling about a death trap. Open areas. Hunter on the roof. Not a good combo –

He lets out a sharp scream as the plasma bolt pierces through his right leg, through the calf. We crash to the floor and I'm tossed just a few feet in front of him, rolling pathetically forwards before coming to a stop. The second shot lands only dead inches from his head, stopped because of a subsequent trade of our own sharpshooter's retaliation forcing the Hunter to dodge and sacrifice his uncanny aim.

He huffs and puffs but rises anyway, staggering forward towards me. A positively feral grin splits his face to bear the pain, leaning forward to haul me back over his shoulders and limps towards the extraction zone. The heat of close engines blast hot air over us and I don't register the blur of red plated armour as someone assists Klaus before Jowah joins us from his high perch.

" … GREMLIN, Get on the stabilization! Jowah, tend to Klaus' leg – "

Oh, bliss. I'm in heaven. Pain relief. Absolute numbing relief. I weep openly. A shot rocks the Skyranger as the Hunter is no doubt trying to shoot at our engines, but between him as a crackshot and Firebrand as an ace pilot, we were taking off and – going home. We're actually going home. I'm alive. I've been rescued.

I sob.

"Alright, sweetheart, I got you, I'm with you." Soft features. Softer face. Short crop auburn hair, warmth in blue eyes despite the cold, steely pursed lips of a surgeon in op. Unexplained scar down the length of her neck. One name floated above the haze: Dawn. The way the light bored into the back of her head and cast it out like a halo around her really made her look like an angel we joked her to be. " – Firebrand, can you fly us steady? This wound is remarkable. The nanomachines in the medkit aren't sealing it up – I need to do it manually."

"I'll do what I can, ma'am."

"Will she live?" I recognize that voice. Bluntness, masculine, yet without laced with so much inhuman buzzing. I want to laugh hysterically as it sounded like Pleb. My head flops to the side and I get a look of the speaker. Her face is young, skin quite passably human, without it being too pruned from chemical overexposure. Large eyes that glowed a soft amber in the lowlight. Hollow, deep gorges across her jaw and printed, ritualistic markings like the ones found on Mutons.

(I'm sorry I called you a "he" all this time, Pleb.)

"She damn well better," came a growl deeper in the ship. Klaus steadied himself on the harness of the seats, trying not to kick Jowah out of reflex as he hastily tends to his leg. "I'm not losing her. I.. I can't lose her."

Gruff. Only gets rougher the more upset, fearful and genuinely concerned he is.

"Be silent," Dawn hisses. "Let me concentrate."

Something pierces my skin – and blackness.

Chapter 9

Notes:

And this is the finale. The update schedule was probably a little crazy, but this story was already finished on FF.net, so all I needed to do was port it over. Anyway, hope you enjoyed it and I plan to write more in XCOM.

White.

Beeping monitors.. the crinkle of fabric fluttering in the wind.. a low buzzing like a huge wasp darting to and from. For the first time in weeks, I feel secure. My back is resting against a cushioned mattress. I don't try opening my eyes at first, just taking in all the gentle sensations of touch. Minus the clammy hand entwined with my own. My thumb twitches on instinct to caress the knuckle. A habit ingrained. It doesn't stir the owner of the hand.

I smack my lips. Throat is ever so dry. I try to lean up, only for that searing pain to return. Right. Back down I go.

Makeshift clinic. The infirmary on the Avenger. Best we can do is a couple of beds, decent equipment and an emergency operating theater somewhere to the left. Curtains frame around each bed, with mine drawn back. Small desk beside me, chair pushed in close to the side of the bed with Klaus slumped into it. His chin just touched his chest, snores leaving him. One leg was cast and prone.

I bring his hand closer, to rest at my stomach, my thumb continues fondly caressing. I let my gaze wander around as coherent thought and my wits return one by one. I got rescued. A few weeks late, but it happened. My mind wants to work overdrive. Did the Warlock manage to pull anything useful from me? How did I get rescued? What has happened in two, nearly three weeks?

Throat's dry. I try lifting my arm to no avail. An inspection reveals it was sealed tight in a white cast. Oh, right. It got broken.

Reluctantly, I wiggle my hand free of Klaus', which inevitably awakens him. He coughs something fierce, straightening up in his seat and palming the socket of his eye roughly to dismiss the last vestiges of sleep. He offers me a tired grin. "Colonel." he addresses with a curt nod.

"At ease, Major." I rasp, voice hoarse. "Once your Colonel has bled all over you, I think we can skip formality whilst I'm out of my stripes."

He chortles a rattling laugh. Never quite fixed that wheezing cough, no matter how many medkits gets pumped into him. " – It's Colonel, too. Actually quite a few promotions since you've been here, but, I'll let you get settled back in, first." His face softens as indeed, he forsakes formality for our old familiarity. "Do you need me to call Dawn?"

"No, no." I'm getting my bearings pretty easily. The Specialist tended to mother hen her patients, much to her detriment, and the last thing I needed was a stressed out doctor flitting about me. The sheer volume of notes on my injury clipped to the end of my bed attested to how much time she spent over me already. I cough and clear my throat. " – You can get me a drink, though. A stiff one."

"Water, then." He pushes away from my bed, hobbling with his crutch somewhere deeper into the infirmary before he returns with a small plastic cup filled with water. He sets it to the side before helping me to sit up. For once, I don't protest to the aid and greedily gulp the cup of water down once I'm able to.

I do have many questions, though. I meet Klaus' gaze easily. Where to start? Probably the one that won't give me a massive headache.

"So, what's scarring?" Good place to begin.

Klaus shrugs at first, leaning over towards the end of the bed to swipe up the notes, flicking through and grumbling something about a doctor's handwriting. He settles on a full body, annotated image, taking a good full two minutes before he's able to decipher Dawn's penmanship. "Don't know why she likes filling in these archaic things. Could've just put it in a data pad -"

"Scars, Webnar."

" – The ones on your neck and jaw are gonna stay." he squints more closely to the text. "Two gunshot-like wounds on your right biceps. One where your left kidney is. That's all. Still looking as beautiful as the day we met."

"Oh shut it, you old dog."

I sink back more comfortably into my bed. It hadn't struck me how tired I actually am. I could sleep a week, but I've spent way too long being unable to move. Part of me wanted to head directly to the training ring. He deposits the notes directly at the end of the bed, but still the lingering questions float in the forefront of my mind. I turn my head towards him and offer Klaus a long, hard stare.

"What in the name of everlasting fuck took you guys so long? Were you taking the fucking scenic route to the facility or were the other priorities?"

Klaus had the decency to look sheepish, fumbling over his words, switching back to his native tongue of German as he often did to avoid answering me. But eventually he knew he had to provide something. "We had zero intelligence on the region you were being held at. The Commander had to get into contact with two separate resistance cells to even know that the facility existed, let alone be it the one you were stationed at. Hell, for the first few days, we thought you were dead, Jane. Central was preparing a military funeral for you until their propaganda machine let slip in dolled up words that they had you. That new Skirmisher helped us out a ton. If it weren't for her, you'd still be there."

Note: Talk to Pleb. In any case, my jaw clenches. "I'm just going to pretend that it was a daring, heroic rescue entirely planned and that the delay was caused by, I don't fucking know. An army of Sectopods terrorizing a small orphanage of dissidents or whatever is getting ADVENT's rocks off these days."

"I suppose that works, seeing as I was the knight in shining armour that swept you off your feet." he cheekily adds, knowing I can't reach over to cuff his ear. I measure him with a suitable glare instead. "Let an old man be romantic for once, Jane."

"You're about as romantic as Gatekeepers are graceful."

He laughs. " - And you love it."

---

"Twenty one days spent in ADVENT captivity. The Hunter as your interrogator – breaking the streak that his prisoners never leave a facility alive. You defied death." The cold voice pauses. "And yet you return with a fresh recruit for the Skirmishers, information on the three Chosen, inside intel on the ADVENT building you were held at and still keeping our own secrets secure. You are something, Colonel Kelly."

"All in a day's.. er.. twenty one day's work." I don't bother to greet Elena Dragunov and I think she appreciates my frankness. She's never been one for formality and where her loyalties lie were abundantly clear. If Volk says she is to obey, she will. For now. Hardly trustworthy, but in a firefight, she never lets us down. " – I take it you didn't come here to see how I'm healing."

"To the point. I like that." I shiver involuntarily as those words were almost beat for beat how he said it. I ease myself upright to pin her with a look. It makes her brow quirk, but otherwise, she brings no attention to my sudden alertness. A quick look around the clinic shows that Klaus isn't present.

"Once you've been cleared to leave the infirmary, Volk would like to discuss.."

She searches for the right word and it makes her stand-offish look twist into an imitation of a smile. ".. future opportunities with you. Beyond that of merely XCOM."

"Are – is Volk trying to headhunt me from the Commander? Now of all times?"

Elena actually laughs. It's a lot warmer than her outwardly frigid persona would have you believe, and slinks into the chair beside my bed, arms casually reclining over her sprawled legs. "Would it sound better if I said it doesn't happen often? You have skills that will end up underutilized without the proper guiding hand. You withstood three Chosen and never let it slip on any of our ops. You would make an excellent Reaper."

"No." The words leave my lips before I even register them, tone quickly softening upon her seeming so taken aback by my blunt refusal. " – No, I really wouldn't. Rifles aren't my thing. Isolation and winter isn't really my thing either."

I quickly move on before she has a time to rope me further into the pitch; "How, exactly, do you even know what happened to me in there?"

Elena shifted in her seat, appraising me with a hard look for the longest time. But she doesn't bring up about becoming a Reaper again, at least for now. I inwardly thank her being able to sense my discomfort, though no doubt she filed it away as a curiosity for a later date. "The Skirmisher. Pleb, I think she calls herself? She must have explained the entire story at least a dozen times now with how many have come to bug and ask her over bothering you."

"Dawn would mount the heads of those that dared disturb me on the armoury wall." I agree, then add, jokingly, "You risk a lot being here."

She thumps her plated armour. "I was born in the shadows, Colonel. I think I can slip past a middle-aged doctor without detection."

I smirk, but it drops shortly after. " – So, Pleb did join the Skirmishers. Last conversation I had, she was swearing they were traitors and that humans were kracsads, whatever that means. Quite the change of heart she had between the day and a half after our, ah.. argument."

"You would be better off asking her." she shrugs nonchalantly. "Although she and Pratal are fighting it out in the training centre. It is a way Skirmishers bond; learn and trust each other – What are you laughing at?"

I couldn't help myself. My face lit up the second 'Pratal' left her lips. Elena hadn't even noticed, evident by the furrowing of her brow as I struggle to contain my laugh. I fail and snicker under my breath. To her credit, she waits patiently until I finish so I can explain.

"Pratal, huh." Faintly. Ever so faint. There's red in her cheeks as her face colours in realization. "So, in the time I was captured, you're on first name basis with him? Your so called number one enemy? My, oh my, Dragunov. Puts a whole new meaning to the Reaper's idea of eating alien -"

"I have an sixty five percent chance of assassinating you without compromising my position as the Reaper liaison and a seventy two percent chance of shifting that blame to your new friend Pleb," she threatens me, leaning forward in her chair as she does so, voice dropping to a tranquil fury that would put the fear of God into anyone had she been a preacher. "And I like my odds, Colonel."

"I hit right on the money, didn't I, Dragunov."

"Thin ice, Colonel. Thin ice."

I howl with laughter, uncaring as it jiggled my insides painfully. Tears flecked the corner of my eyes and I flick them away with my uninjured hand. I purposefully let an uneasy silence sit between us before I innocently pipe up; "How.. alien is it down there?"

She looked ready to murder me. Instead, she exhales slowly, understanding that I was just trying to get a crass rise out of her for disturbing my peace and quiet. Serves her right. " – If you want to find out, there are men under Betos' command that have admired, quite openly, your prowess in battle, more so now with this recent event. You can sate your curiosity with one of them."

"I think I'll pass." I simper. "Unlike some of our soldiers, I'll never be able to see an alien in such a way."

She rose from her seat, all billowing black trench coat and air of loneliness that reminded me too starkly of someone else. Honestly, despite my teasing, I'm glad that Elena is seeing someone. She wouldn't have to brave the long hunts alone. She'll be safe.

"Recover swiftly, Colonel." were her parting words before she left me to silence once again.

---

".. and that's when I told him to fuck off. Right in his face. In front of his priests. Boy didn't like that."

The gathered crowd of rookies broke into excited murmurings as I finish wrapping up the portion of the tale that involved the Warlock. Some people might like to say it's childish, exchanging such a horrifying event like this – but I had to do my part to build morale. Keep people's faith up and shake their fear of ADVENT or the Chosen. Seeing someone in the flesh that survived, and came out unscathed and in good humour would set them in high spirits.

Dawn saw the benefit of that on the fifth day of recovery, finally relenting to let me have visitors. They swarmed by the dozen. They're.. okay. It's bad to think of them like this. But they're my family, god damn it. They're all I have left.

A rookie whose yet to rank her specialty – Daniella Dudek, if I recall – finishes carving a crude image of a Sectoid's head mounted on a pike at the base of my arm's cast. Comical X's over the eyes. Other such decal were the proud letters of VIGILO CONFIDO, our coat of arms, and several signatures. Jill popped by and signed it with her cursive, neatly looped callsign, right next to Jowah's god-awful fly scrawl. Judge and The Truth, side by side. Klaus, naturally, adorned my cast with a beautiful rendition of a bikini babe with my likeness, scars and all. Even Central put his initials on the inside, just to show his good faith.

"Weren't you scared?" Another rookie – Djordje Antic, 17, a whiz kid with a computer – piped up from the back. Probably someone whose never seen a Chosen outside the shadowed propaganda ADVENT broadcasts; where they stand like children of gods watching over them all. Less benevolent, more unnerving, I find. "The denmother in New Arctic told me about how he can raise zombies."

"Shit, boy, of course I was scared." I say, as if it would be common. Normalize that having a fear was okay. I stand by my eulogy. "If I didn't have my dignity, I'm pretty sure I'd be pissing myself. But that's the key, you know? I faced it. Despite the fact I was scared. I faced it – and anyone else here can, too."

I spot a figure hanging by the doorway of the infirmary, more than easily filling the small frame, despite her own short stature. I make a vague gesture at the small crowd around me.

"Alright, you've all had your fill of the story, now get back to training before Central chews me out. Mission could start at any moment, don't get complacent." I was met with a chorus of rapport of varying types as they shuffled and fanned out away from my bed. Good kids, the rookies. Some of them were barely sixteen. All of them had losses.

As they left, the figure approached. I eye Pleb warily as she sits in the unoccupied chair. Her lip's busted, but she looks so alive. Not so jerky in her movements and her skin sheens with sweat. Another session with Mox, likely.

"This ritual marking at the site of your injury. A thing of.. pride." She traces the crude drawings and neat signatures burned into the plaster of my cast. Mesmerized by it – able to interpret the meaning in a way I'm not capable of. "... Beserkers and Mutons do this as well. They look on their injuries as a proud endeavor. It establishes their dominance over the fresher faces; gives them individuality."

"Thankfully, in human culture, we're not required to break our arms or mutilate ourselves to stand out." I muse. But in the same, musing breath, I exhaustively sag and mutter; "Pleb. I. I really don't know where to begin."

That without her seeing the reason beyond my pitifully shit choice of words at the time, I wouldn't have been rescued? That I'd be laying dead in some dingy room at the Hunter's behest? Or strapped to a chair spilling all of XCOM's secrets and killing thousands, including those of my family, my friends – perhaps even the Commander?

"That is understandable, Colonel." It's strange hearing her, of all people, fall to a formality she didn't have to follow. "I am still very much trying to figure out where I should.. 'begin', as myself. Humans are.. born, I am told. You come into this world as an infant. I was activated as a grown adult of peak physical age with only the pre-built knowledge required to service the Elders."

Humbling.

She picks at the frayed cloth edge of the bed, hands unable to remain still. I can tell she's trying to control it, though. "I do not think I entirely trust the Skirmishers, much less XCOM.. yet they stand united to fight a common goal. One that I find myself sharing, too. I did think about what you said, about being my own person as well. The idea you planted the moment you gifted me my own name."

I wince. Do I tell her that I meant 'Pleb' as an insult, at the time? No, best not.

"There are others like me." She tilts her head curiously, and I'm struck with the image of a pug doing the same. " – Within the Skirmishers. I feel a sense of kinship with them that I should have had. Stun Lancers do not work alone – Beserkers and Mutons never do. They rove in packs."

I think on my so called progress with her during the time in the facility and I slowly come to some conclusions. "So, between a combination of dud programming, rushed activation, and a primal, instinctual yearning, it allowed you to subvert the psionic network and make your own choices. Correct?"

"Major Mox seemed to think so when I tell him my thoughts." she shrugs and I'm proud to see it looks entirely natural, now. One human gesture nailed, thousands to go. "I think back to the soldiers still stationed in that facility. How many of them serve, not all so blissfully if they too thought as I had. It strives me not to squander the opportunity I'm given."

"I wish there was a way to thank you, Pleb. I'd be dead, otherwise. No two ways about that."

"I was tasked to ensure your safety." She smiles in the way of a human that's just discovered how to do so for the first time. It's warm, doesn't look at all like what it's supposed to but you get the sense of it anyway – and pure, untouched by the horrors of the world or the stress of living. It reminds me how the pre-invasion folk used to smile. Made all the more endearing by her puffy lip. ".. and I preferred that directive over what was the prime."

"I'm glad." I say, so I don't just leave silence in my wake, trying not to let myself look so affected by such a simple thing as her smile – perhaps her first, that wasn't induced by all the battle steroids and other stimulants pumped into soldiers of her kind. Something about it.. My lips purse. " – You should return to training, Pleb."

She blinks. I can only wonder what she's thinking. " .. Yes, perhaps I should."

---

" … which is why I think we should plan to assault the Chosen Warlock's stronghold as our next course of action over the next few months, Commander. The fact I can't give you an answer as to if he managed to gain information or not doesn't sit well for me. He hasn't acted on it yet if he has it, but that doesn't mean he won't or is clueless." I chew on the inside of my cheek.

I shouldn't really be up and about. The Commander knows this. But I also couldn't lie there in recovery like nothing was wrong when I still had no fucking clue what happened during that mental block. It freaked me out enough that I clamored out of the bay in the dead of night, hobbled my way to our Commander's office in nothing but some casual clothes. They understood the urgency, if an attack was imminent.

"To many uncertainties. I don't like it either, Kelly." In the shadow of the Commander's office, chair tilted towards the darkness as only the light of a data pad illuminates their face with alien language, encryption and God-knows what else, our Commander might've been an intimidating figure. But after the shit I've been through, I think they'd have to step it up a notch. "The Templars sent the latest intelligence packet regarding him, to help us better understand what we're up against."

"You don't sound happy."

The pad slams and slides across the desk. I admit, I jumped at the suddenness. My gaze flicks across it before a barely concealed sneer tries to work across my face. Redacted. Ninety percent of it was redacted. We're in the middle of a secret war and the Templar leader tries something like this? "Is Geist having a fucking laugh? Excuse my language."

"At ease," they forgave. "Geist believes that I am mismanaging our Templar asset because of my hesitance deploying her. It's not like him to be petty. His faith in XCOM is wavering and he isn't willing to sacrifice sensitive information. Especially if he's deeming it too close to revealing something about psionics he doesn't want to be common knowledge. Uniting the Reapers and the Skirmishers under one banner was one thing, but the Templars are determined to be independent. Like they trying to handle some threat we're not aware of."

"So we need to raise influence with them," I say, more to myself than to the Commander. "Are there any ops they're struggling with that we can assist?"

"He may be willing to have some of our finest help his paladins protect the havens sworn under his care. If we can gain rapport that way, he just might let us help him with the problem of the Warlock." I hear the scratch of stubble as the Commander no doubt rubs their chin thoughtfully. Bouncing ideas back off someone like a springboard was useful. I liked this position I had with the Commander. "It'll be something to discuss at the next meeting of the Resistance Ring."

I can feel the Commander's eyes bore into me. Perhaps twenty one days ago, I'd have to resist the urge to correct my slumped, informal posture as I go over the pitiful intel packet that Geist supplied. Now, I'm pensive. Brows knitted and more than a little exertion shown on my face because damn, my side is fucking killing me.

"Commander, I would like to volunteer to assist in any covert operations with the Templars. I think I can really bond with them. I already have decent cohesion with Feng – "

"You can barely stand as of right now, Kelly." they point out. My knuckles whiten under the pressure of my grip on the table to keep me upright.

"With all. Due. Respect," I emphasized each word with gritted teeth. "The Templars need someone whose down to earth enough to yank them back into fucking reality, sir. I know what waits for them at the end of the road. The Warlock's living proof. You send one of the rookies, or lower ranks, Geist will be insulted. You send someone like Klaus – you know he'll say the wrong thing."

The Commander turns towards me, and I see the tiredness in their eyes. Bags under them. Bloodshot and weary. Their age is really starting to show. A soft chuckle rumbles under their breath, finding humour in something I wasn't privy to.

"I didn't think I'd hear you of all people vying to work with the Templars." They admit. "I believed Volk would have poached you from my service long before we'd even have this discussion."

"I think I should get a little credit, sir," I jut out my chin. " – I didn't rescue your ass just so I could abandon it at a later date."

"Don't let Bradford hear you, he'll have your stripes before you even step outside my office."

I didn't mention the fact that the Hunter had entirely soiled my perception of the Reapers, enough that it put off any aspiration I had of actually training with them. In a perfect world, maybe I would have transferred, once I knew there was an adequate soldier filling in my role as field command before taking off to help the resistance in other areas. XCOM was our greatest chance, but I felt like I could help elsewhere, too.

"I'll discuss the necessary information and matters of transfer with Geist at the meeting. In the meantime, recover well."

---

As it turned out, the small video feed did not do the Templar leader any justice when I met him in person.

I couldn't shake the idea that, perhaps with a set of hair, he might've been what the Warlock would've looked when human. A strong jaw, broad shoulders and a preternaturally sculpted, handsome face. He easily towered over me, but unlike the Chosen's maddening depths of power in his eyes, they were a muted lilac. One, his right, was clouded with a film – glaucoma – and rippling veins pumping full of purple energy criss-crossed his exposed biceps and flowed into the gauntlets fastened to his wrists. The veins traveled upwards still, creeping up his neck like ivy and spiraling at the back of his shaved head in an intricate, alien pattern.

"Colonel Kelly." Geist greets softly – always softly. I don't think I've ever heard it raise anything above an acceptable indoor voice. It was the kind that rolled on the waves of a shepherd herding his flock. Formality made me accept his extended hand, and I tried not to flinch as I felt the raw power that flowed within him. I guess after the Warlock messed around in my mind, it boosted my perception and susceptibility.

"Prophet." I saw the flicker of brief surprise. Yeah, you bet your ass I studied your Order's hierarchy and correct term of address. I can thank Feng for the crash course.

"Welcome to our sacred temple. Were these not such trying times, I would have more than happily offered a tour and allowed you as long as you like to adjust to our lifestyle." I doubt that, but I find myself being hooked onto his words nonetheless. He could read a data pad registry and I'd listen to him for hours. That – isn't normal. I shake myself out of it as he gently takes me by the elbow to lead onward. Like I'd wander into the wrong room, or something. I try to ignore the static, latent energy that migrated from his fingertips to my skin.

"If I may be so frank, Prophet, I would much prefer to get down to business." We enter through a set of doors to what looked to be a makeshift war room. Braziers stood at the corners of the room to provide a ghoulish, purple light, and a few yellow-clad knights stood. They bowed their head in reverence when Geist entered – eerily exact to how the Priests proffer respect to the Warlock. I clear my throat. " – You and your men are not military geniuses. By just glancing at the map, I can spot fifteen flaws already …"

I trail off as it seems Geist had no interest in discussing tactics. He cocks his head towards his followers. "Leave us," he orders, proving that you didn't need to shout in order to command. They obey without question and I slip my elbow out of his grip. Soldier's instinct had my alarm raised, but context forced it to quietened down. He settles his attention to me. "Whilst I will take your suggestions to our defenses into account, Colonel, my interest in you is not strictly military."

My hand immediately strays towards the combat knife hidden within my back pocket.

He continues; " – Even now, I can sense the lingering energy of the Warlock's touch. This.. Chosen's" the way he hissed that word, like he had just excommunicated him for eternal damnation sent shivers up my spine. "Existence defiles everything we stand for and learn. I wish only to return what he has stolen from the Earth and you are a stepping stone towards that."

I blink, my hand stalling. "I am?"

"I believe, with your consent, I can lift the shackles he has put on your mind. With it, we can determine his course of action from what is intriguing enough to have him leave such a lasting imprint of energy, either intentionally or not."

Not what I was expecting, but my curiosity heightens. I didn't bother asking him how he knew about it – if the Warlock is as powerful as they claim psionically, then Geist likely could sense it a mile away. I could be rid of that damn annoying mental block that just hits me with a headache every time I think on it. I can see the benefits of it. ".. And the catch is I'm going to sprout psionic tentacles, aren't I."

He smiles and it's perhaps more chilling than the Hunter's mad grin. It lulled a false security that I did not like in the slightest. He was like a.. a.. walking venus fly trap. All endearing and alluring and just waiting for the moment to snap shut. "I shall attend to this personally and I promise, the worst you will feel is nothing more than a static shock at best. You will be perfectly safe in my hands." He gestures to the table. "Shall we proceed?"

I find it very hard to say no to him. Even though a good chunk of me was screaming to raise more questions, the atmosphere he set was ethereal. I'm not saying he's using his psionic powers to enhance his already flawless charisma … but I'm not denying it either. He leads me by the small of my back towards the chairs, holding out one for me. I descend into it as he brings another closer to me – close enough that when he sat, our knees almost knocked together.

I watch him warily as he neatly undoes his gauntlets, letting the conduits for his energy fall with loud thumps on the table. He peels back the black gloves to reveal a worker's hands. Rough, calloused, with the difference of psionic energy in place of blue veins. Out of instinct, I pull my head away when they approach my face.

"This will be go more smoothly if you lower your guard, Colonel." Damn his.. power of suggestions. My muscles relax. One palm came to rest, thankfully, over my clear cheek, whilst his other moved upwards to push under my fringe and rest at my forehead. I close my eyes and try to think calming, relaxing thoughts as his psionics cast a hellish purple light in the room, overpowering the braziers that snuff out.

The energy is.. different than the Warlock's. It's... whilst the Chosen was no doubt a being of so much power, it often overpowered his mastery of such a thing. Geist, though lacking in raw strength, made up for in finesse that knew how to control what he could work with. Not to dampen the Warlock's skill or danger – but sometimes a fusebox shorts when there's more power than it can control.

The pain was like a dull headache in the back of my mind, or a sting behind my eyes, until I gasp sharply when he attacks the mental block. The repressed images flood to the forefront, and I'm assaulted with visions of fire, and death, and fire – and fire. And fire. So much fucking fire –

An image through the flames. The Chilean haven – wreathed in flames. That's – that's how he hid it! He.. he used my fucking phobia to –

There was no longer any doubt in my mind. The Warlock knew where the newly built Haven was located and with their minimal defenses, they were susceptible to an attack at any moment. The.. flames were dying down. Something was tugging on me. Or something within me and I risk opening my eyes.

Geist was glowing.

His eyes, now uncannily alight from the use of his psionics, watched me like a hawk. His hands were drawing back, pulling all of the lingering energy away from me, siphoning it. I was awestruck through the entire process of him gathering this.. power. It looked darker than the muted, washed out colours of his purples – more primal. Raw. He twisted it, draining it of it's essence and inhaled deeply as he absorbed the power.

I don't claim to understand what the fuck just happened, but I can say one thing: A sledgehammer hit my head.

Not literally, thank God. I cradle my head with a huge groan once he ends the meld. Duty drove me to suck it up as I hobble over towards the radio communication station to get a direct line to HQ.

Bradford's dour face popped up on screen almost immediately as I contacted him, though his features softened when he saw it was me. " – Colonel? You look unwell."

"The Chilean haven is in danger, Central." I triage my words carefully, getting straight to the point. "I have confirmation that the Warlock knows of it's existence and location. His assault to it is likely imminent. They haven't had time to set up defenses, so I advise the Commander to send a – "

"Belay that." Geist filtered into frame and his still-glowing psionics overexposed the crappy video feed and sent only static images that glitch in spits and spats. His face couldn't be seen in the camera, but I could see it. See the greed. The afterthought of desire to the power he'd just had a taste of. "My Templars and I will bastion this haven of XCOM's."

His hand rests on my shoulder and I nearly jump a mile high at the burn. " .. as a show of.. good faith, between our new union."

Central's jaw slackens for a moment before professionalism sweeps in to right him. "New union? Is this your official word, Geist? You're finally joining with us? It's hard to tell - your line isn't particularly stable." XO's eyes drift to me and we share a conversation entirely from eye-contact, which was a feat, considering how bad our line was. We both, at least, feel the same disbelief.

"You sound so surprised." Geist notes. "We will speak more on the details at a later date. For now, I must prepare for travel. Out."

The feed cuts and Geist pulls away from me, aiming to fasten the gauntlets back onto his wrist. A muscle in my neck twitches as I can see through this ruse. How obvious can he be? I follow him as he doesn't bother to address me. So much for being the 'stepping stone.' – had he got what he wanted?

"You're cynical for a prophet." That got him to pause. "I know it's just a front. Defending the Haven, joining XCOM? You're not even trying to hide the fact you're only interested in helping them because the Warlock may turn up to annihilate it. So you can have another chance at getting that power for yourself."

He cants his head towards me. "Colonel Kelly. If I did not know any better, that would sound like you were accusing my intentions as being anything less than pure. I value the safety of our true citizens above all else. After all, if I were to destroy the Warlock then and there, does that not benefit mankind? If I am to gain more power, does that not too, benefit man? I am nothing but a beacon of safety for our people."

Arrogance. I think, what I hate most of all, is that I am not surprised. Reapers – Templars. They're no different than the beasts of their burdens. Even the Skirmishers lamented how disposable they have been, how nothing they were, much like the Assassin contemplated her emptiness. In the end, she was right, wasn't she.

We weren't all that different.