Chapter Text
Why was everything so black?
"I suppose your demise could have gone a bit more gracefully, my dear boy." Came a voice, pleasantly articulate, touched with a precise British cadence, and entirely too cheerful given the context. "Still, why don't you do me the courtesy of opening your eyes?"
Jacob's eyelids snapped open like trapdoors, his heart pounding in his chest. Instinct screamed at him to move and he tried to scramble upright, only to be gently but firmly restrained by a pair of gloved hands pressing him back down.
"Now, now!" The voice chided, brimming with theatrical patience. "There’s no need for such an uncivilized start. A proper gentleman must always rise with a sense of decorum, even after a... well, let’s call it a ‘temporally unfortunate’ experience."
Jacob blinked rapidly, his vision sluggishly coming into focus as though rebooting from a hard crash. Shapes resolved into colours, then into details. Standing before him was a peculiar figure: a man dressed in an immaculate white lab coat, trimmed with elegant gold lining and dotted with brown and black utility pouches. Beneath the coat, he wore a sleek black turtleneck adorned with a snow-white scarf tucked neatly at the collar, and a buttoned brown vest fastened with polished golden buttons. Around his neck rested a pair of futuristic-looking goggles, their lenses tinted just slightly green. A gleaming metal gauntlet encased his right forearm, and a fingerless glove clad his left.
The man’s entire presence exuded the kind of maddening eccentricity that could only be described as confidently out-of-time, like a Victorian inventor who’d wandered out of a paradox and decided to stay for tea.
Jacob could only gape.
“Mmmh? I was rather under the impression that my face—my dashing appearance, even!—would stir a few pleasant memories from your past.” The man said, theatrically rubbing his chin with one gloved hand, his brow furrowing in exaggerated thought. “Or… was it your future? Time does tend to get tangled when one hops through the multiverse. Have we met before, perhaps? My last excursion through parallel timelines was, I must confess, decidedly unpleasant.”
Jacob finally found his voice, hoarse and wary. He leaned forward slightly, his muscles taut. “Who the fuck are you?” He asked, the words forced through clenched teeth, the question more demand than curiosity.
“Ah! There it is, the fire of inquiry!” The man beamed, as if Jacob had just solved a riddle. “But I thought you already knew, Jacob. Here, allow me.”
With a gesture so casual it bordered on dismissive, the strange man lightly nudged Jacob back into a thick, overstuffed armchair, one that hadn’t existed a second ago. The sterile space around them blurred and reassembled, folding in on itself like a shifting stage set, until it reformed into a cozy, warmly lit living room. Wooden bookshelves lined the walls, a fireplace flickered nearby, and a tray of steaming tea had conveniently appeared on the coffee table.
“This should make things a touch more comfortable " The man said, straightening his coat. “We’ve got rather a bit of catching up to do, young man!”
Jacob sat frozen, his eyes darting between the impossible surroundings and the impossible man now casually pouring tea into porcelain cups. That hyperactive energy, those eccentric clothes, the almost mischievous sparkle in his eyes, and the casual, reality-bending sleight-of-hand he’d just witnessed…
The pieces clicked together, slowly but undeniably.
Jacob narrowed his eyes. “You’re not—are you really Professor Paradox? From Ben 10?”
“Correct!” The man said with theatrical delight, flourishing one hand as if presenting himself on stage. “Full marks, Jacob! Although I assure you, as you may now verify firsthand, I am quite flesh and blood, and not merely some overly stylized construct dreamt up to sell action figures to children.”
He gestured to himself proudly, adjusting his scarf. “I am, in fact, entirely real. Entirely me. Entirely in control of my own fate.”
The scientist silently offered one of the delicate porcelain cups to Jacob, who hesitated only a moment before accepting it. The porcelain was warm to the touch, and Jacob instinctively wrapped his fingers around it, bringing it close to his nose. He sniffed cautiously. The aroma was rich: spiced, earthy, and undeniably real. Just as real as the jarring sensation still lingering in his spine from when he’d been casually launched into the armchair like a sack of potatoes.
Opposite him, the so-called Professor Paradox sipped his tea with an air of practiced elegance. “Ahh, quite refreshing!” He declared, eyes twinkling over the rim of his cup. “It’s rare these days to find a quiet moment to exchange words and unwind. When you spend your days wrangling legions of Bens across diverging timelines, sanity becomes more of a courtesy than a constant.”
He chuckled lightly, his lips quirking upwards in a smirk that teetered between whimsical and weary. “Of course, being mad is something I discarded millennia ago. The very thought bores me now. Quite the conundrum, wouldn’t you agree? To have once been mad, only to grow tired of madness itself?”
Jacob took a cautious sip. The taste was... good. Startlingly good. Rich, smooth, and grounding, everything the current moment wasn’t.
He swallowed and lowered the cup slightly. “So... why are you here? Why am I here?” His brow furrowed. “Am I supposed to meet Ben and the others?”
Paradox nearly dropped his tea from the sheer offense. “Oh, heavens, no!” He said, waving his hand emphatically as if batting away a wasp. “Letting our dear hero interact with someone like you... someone bearing knowledge of futures that haven’t happened yet, well, that would be disastrous. Imagine the ripple effect. A Paradox within a Paradox! It would unravel the space-time continuum like an overused sweater. I simply cannot allow that.”
Jacob cocked an eyebrow at him, part skepticism, and part invitation to continue.
Paradox’s grin flattened into something more thoughtful. “I've decided, you see... to engage in a bit of an experiment.”
He set his now-empty cup gently onto the table with a soft clink and rose to his feet, brushing invisible dust from his coat. He began pacing the room in slow, measured strides, eventually stopping beside the crackling fireplace, where the firelight danced along the metallic curves of his gauntlet.
“There’s been a rather intriguing development." He said, voice lower now, almost reverent. “An Omnitrix—one from an unborn timeline, a future that was never meant to manifest—has breached the branches of the multiverse. It tumbled through the continuum like a stone skipped across a pond. I managed to intercept it before it could embed itself in a specific reality.”
He turned, facing Jacob with an unreadable expression.
“But I find myself at an impasse. You see, I have no practical use for it. I already have all the knowledge I could ever want. What I need… is perspective.”
A sudden flash of light to Jacob’s left drew his attention like a magnetic pull. He turned his head, squinting slightly, and found himself facing what appeared to be a suspended pane of translucent blue energy, hovering midair, utterly silent, and yet shimmering with gentle pulses of light. It hovered like a mirror without a frame, a ripple in reality itself. But he could see through it.
Curious and cautious in equal measure, Jacob rose from his seat and approached. The closer he got, the clearer the image became, like fog clearing from a window. The field responded to his proximity, sharpening the vision embedded within it.
At first, the scene made no sense.
A city, futuristic, cold, sterile, stretched beneath a grey sky. Streets wound like veins through towering skyscrapers, their designs sleek and uniform. He saw personnel patrolling the walkways: armoured figures clad in high-tech gear that shifted subtly between black, red, and white. The armor was modular, angular, designed more for intimidation and control than defense. Each trooper wore a mirrored visor that masked the upper half of the face, leaving only the lower jaw exposed; emotionless mouths framed by synthetic perfection.
The civilians, if they could still be called that, wore form-fitting suits that resembled jumpsuits in both material and uniformity. They moved with quiet urgency, heads down, their behavior orderly... too orderly. The atmosphere felt wrong. Sanitized. Controlled.
Then, the image dissolved and reformed. The city vanished, replaced by the image of an enormous vessel, colossal in scale, grounded yet majestic. Its angular hull bristled with antennae, segmented wings, and dormant thrusters. It looked like something torn straight from a superhero comic: massive, airborne, militaristic. Yet now it rested on Earth’s surface, inert. Like a sword driven into the ground and left to rust.
Jacob instinctively leaned in, and the vision obligingly zoomed, narrowing in on a marking stamped onto the ship’s side. The lettering was bold, etched deep into the metal, as though branded by purpose rather than paint:
VIGILO CONFIDO.
Recognition hit him like a truck. The hours he’d spent in front of a glowing screen—strategizing, surviving, saving humanity one tactical decision at a time—surged to the forefront of his mind.
“…Is that… X-Com?”
“Indeed." Came Paradox’s voice, closer now, though Jacob hadn’t heard him approach. His tone had shifted, no longer whimsical, but tinged with something heavier. Disapproval, perhaps. Weariness.
“It appears much of the media from your world...” the scientist continued. “...exists as genuine, self-contained universes. This particular one? A world where aliens descend not as diplomats or scholars, but as conquerors. And, regrettably, succeed, at least in part.”
He sighed, the sound somehow both theatrical and sincere. “It’s all very… science fiction, wouldn’t you say? Totalitarian regimes, manipulation, gene tampering, and mind control. Quite the far cry from the interstellar communities I know; where most species, while flawed, at least try to be civil.”
He folded his arms behind his back, turning his gaze to the vision beside Jacob. “And now, this world teeters on the edge, desperately clawing back its independence. A fragile spark of rebellion burning in a sea of submission.”
Jacob said nothing, eyes still fixed on the vision.
“What is it that you want from me?” The young man then asked, his voice low and wary.
Paradox let out a theatrical scoff, folding his arms with the exaggerated flair of someone deeply offended by the question. “Want? My dear boy, I require nothing from you!” He declared, wagging a finger in the air as if reprimanding a disobedient student. “As I’ve already explained—this is merely an experiment, a small dip of the toe into the metaphysical waters of cosmic what-ifs.”
He paced once more, the flames from the hearth dancing across his gold trim and polished gauntlet. “The reality of this particular world is... impressively rigid. Remarkably stable, all things considered. It would take a paradox of immense scale to cause a complete collapse in its temporal structure. Fortunately for us, you aren’t one.”
He turned to Jacob, smile returning in full. “You’re going to assist the Resistance. You’ll fight the invaders, help bring freedom back to a world shackled by tyranny. In short, you’re going to do the right thing.”
Jacob blinked, incredulous. “And how exactly am I supposed to do that?”
Paradox smacked his lips, a string of rapid-fire tsk sounds escaping as he wagged his finger again, this time more sternly. “I expected more curiosity from you, Jacob. But I suppose my vocabulary can be a bit dazzling. Alliteration is terribly distracting for some.” He chuckled, then added: “But fear not. Look at your wrist.”
DING!
The soft but unmistakable chime rang out, and Jacob’s breath caught.
His gaze dropped to his left arm, and froze.
There, securely locked around his wrist, was the Omnitrix. Not a replica. Not a toy. The real thing. Its green core pulsed with energy, alive and waiting. Jacob slowly turned his arm, the weight of the moment pressing down on him.
“It seems the device has accepted and incorporated your unique DNA signature quite well.” Paradox noted with satisfaction, snapping his fingers as if to congratulate himself. “I suppose the legend of it being uniquely bound to Tennyson’s genetic code was something of a misconception. Fascinating, really. Anyone—well, almost anyone, could have stumbled upon it.”
He reached into his coat and pulled out a gold pocket watch, flipping it open with a crisp click. “Hmm... yes. Right on time. The vortex should appear in approximately five seconds.”
Jacob’s head snapped up. “Wait, wha-?”
“If you’re confused, or unsure of where to begin…” Paradox raised two fingers in a cheeky peace sign, the corners of his mouth twitching into a grin. “I’ve heard Paris is lovely this time of year.”
The air behind Jacob ruptured with a sudden roar. A vortex, swirling and howling with power, unfurled like a cosmic whirlpool. Its pull hit him almost immediately.
“Wait!” Jacob shouted, digging in his heels, but the force was too strong. The room stretched and blurred around him. The scent of tea, the warmth of the fire, Paradox’s smirking face...
...all of it peeled away in an instant.
As he was flung backwards into the vortex, his final glimpse was of Professor Paradox standing calmly by the fire, one hand raised in a gentle wave.
Then... nothing but light.
The hologlobe sputtered again, its once-smooth interface now a jagged mess of static-laced projections and failing nodes. Thin, blue tendrils of light rippled across its surface like a wounded animal trying to breathe, each pulse weaker than the last. Around it, a cluster of engineers worked tirelessly, fingers dancing over control panels in a losing battle to keep the device operational.
John ‘Central’ Bradford stood a few paces back, arms folded across his chest, jaw clenched tight. He watched it all with the quiet vigilance of a man who no longer had the luxury of panic. Years of failure had burned that out of him.
Another night spent wide awake, and another bottle of whiskey emptied just to keep the ghosts at bay. They used to come rarely; memories of missions gone wrong, operatives lost, and decisions made too late. Now, they visited nightly, pulling him deeper into regret each time he tried to close his eyes.
He sighed and shifted his weight, boots creaking faintly against the metal floor of the Avenger’s bridge. This command post had become both a sanctuary and a cage, a monument to a fight they were still losing, even if the numbers told a prettier lie.
He wasn’t the Commander. He never could be.
Tactics? Logistics? He could handle that. He was damn good at it. But taking the reins entirely, leading the world’s last hope against a global occupation? That was a weight he wasn’t built to carry. The Commander had something he didn’t. Vision. Authority. A kind of calm that didn’t crack under pressure.
Bradford only endured because there wasn’t another choice.
Still, there had been some hope. A string of successful operations in recent weeks—low-risk, high-impact sabotage runs, VIP extractions, and a few HVT eliminations—had rekindled a flame in the dying body of X-Com. The Resistance was responding. In Europe, a previously scattered cell had unified into a functional fighting force. If they could just bring the remaining three factions into alignment, they might have a real shot at global guerilla coordination.
But it wasn’t enough. Not yet. They were still isolated, stretched thin, always one step behind.
His eyes drifted back to the flickering globe.
It used to be a symbol of control. Now it was just another broken reminder of how far they'd fallen.
And still, even in moments like this, his thoughts circled back to the Commander.
Where are you?
Bradford let out a long breath and brought a calloused hand to his face, pinching the bridge of his nose until the dull ache behind his eyes throbbed. He couldn't afford this kind of reflection. Not now. Not when the next crisis was probably minutes away from landing in their laps.
The doors to the bridge hissed open with a hydraulic sigh, drawing Bradford’s attention. His eyes flicked towards the source of the sound, and a familiar presence stepped into the room. Lily Shen, sleeves rolled up, utility belt heavy with tools, and a faint smudge of grease staining one cheek stepped forward. She moved with purpose, eyes scanning every screen, every technician, and every exposed cable like a hawk in a storm.
A quiet, enduring pride settled in Bradford’s chest as he watched her weave through the controlled chaos of the engineering staff. She was still so young, but sharp... razor-sharp. He’d watched her grow from a brilliant, soft-spoken girl into a commanding presence in her own right. Her father would’ve been proud. Raymond Shen had been a genius, yes, but more than that, he was a decent man.
Lily stopped beside a junior technician mid-keystroke, leaning in and muttering something under her breath. From the sound of it, she was rattling off something about a compiler error or a memory stack misfire. Bradford only caught half of it before the tech nodded sheepishly and started typing again.
When she finally approached him, she gave a respectful nod; short, silent, but sincere. Bradford returned it with the same quiet reverence. There was no need for formal salutes between them. He'd helped raise her after her father's death. At this point, formality just felt like a barrier between two people who’d been through too much together.
“So…” Lily drawled, eyes narrowing as she turned towards one of the monitors displaying the Avenger’s external feeds. The security cams cycled through grainy images of the surrounding wilderness and skyline. “Any word from the Skirmishers about the Commander’s trail?”
Bradford exhaled through his nose, shifting his stance as his hands instinctively found his hips. A posture he’d adopted over years of standing in war rooms and command centers.
“Negative.” He replied, his voice a low rumble. “But I trust them. They’ve been trailing an ADVENT recon team suspected of moving intel through black routes. Not standard procedure, they’re trying to stay off-grid. That’s a good sign. Means it’s valuable intel.”
He paused, glancing over the room like a chessboard waiting for its next move.
“We’ll sit tight until the Skirmishers check back in. If they call for backup, we move. That’s why I’ve got Osei and Ramirez on standby just in case this turns into a joint op.”
Bradford gave a half-hearted shrug, the tension in his shoulders not easing one bit. “Anyway... how’s Tygan holding up?”
Lily tilted her head thoughtfully. “He’s prepping everything for the extraction procedure in the medbay. If—when—we bring the Commander back, he wants the recovery window as short as possible.”
She hesitated, her eyes narrowing slightly as she shifted her weight.
“…I’ve seen him scratching the back of his head lately. A little more than usual. You don’t think he… missed anything when he took the chip out, do you?”
Bradford gave a low grunt, his arms crossing once again. “Your concern’s valid. But Tygan’s been with us long enough to prove where he stands. If he was going to sell us out to ADVENT…” He shook his head slowly. “He’d have done it a long time ago.”
Shen didn’t look convinced. Her brow furrowed, and her lips parted as if to challenge him, her mind already halfway through forming a rebuttal.
But before she could get the words out, the Avenger’s bridge lit up with a sharp pulse of red light, and the central monitors flashed to a different configuration. A shrill chime followed. A signal Bradford knew by heart.
“Sir!” One of the technicians called out from the console pit. “Incoming transmission. Encrypted channel, priority alpha. It’s from the Skirmishers. Leader Betos is requesting immediate contact.”
Bradford’s expression hardened, the fatigue in his eyes giving way to a sharper edge. “About damn time.” He muttered, stepping forward. He straightened his back and rolled his shoulders once, the way a soldier prepares before being called to the front.
“Patch her through. Let’s hear it, people. We all want to know where the Commander’s being kept, right?”
A chorus of firm responses followed, the bridge buzzing with sudden energy.
“Yes, sir!”
The screen shifted once more, replacing the tactical overlay with a live visual feed. The stark face of Betos filled the monitor, her angular features illuminated by flickering light, her armor scratched and scorched with signs of battle. The former ADVENT war machine leaned back slightly in her seat, nodding solemnly before speaking.
“Central. It is an honour to address you directly." She said, her voice clipped and formal, every word heavy with the Skirmisher’s rigid sense of duty.
“Likewise, Betos.” Bradford gave her a respectful nod, meeting her discipline with his own tempered professionalism. He understood the weight of her traditions, and more importantly, he knew when to respect them. “You’ve got a delivery for us? Because let’s be honest, there’s only one way we’re winning this war, and it starts with getting our Commander back.”
Betos responded with a low grunt of approval. “A strike force of my warriors intercepted an ADVENT convoy moving through Sector 5-Epsilon. Intelligence suggested the cargo contained reconstruction schematics for one of their genetic clinics. We believe it is the facility holding your Commander.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly. “However, resistance was more substantial than anticipated. The squad is pinned down, deep in hostile territory. I am requesting your direct intervention. One of my elite, Pratal Mox, is leading the assault. You will coordinate with him.”
Bradford’s hand drifted up to scratch his stubbled cheek as he digested the information. “Copy that. We’ll mobilize immediately, but no offense, we’ll be looping in the Reapers for site recon. I want eyes in the shadows before I send boots in the mud. Helps us plan a proper entrance.”
Betos gave a mechanical nod and retrieved a worn datapad from the table beside her. She scrolled briefly, then paused to look directly into the camera. “I understand. The Reapers walk their own path, but their skill is undeniable. Your caution is… acceptable.”
With a sudden thump, she slammed her armored fist against her chest; a traditional Skirmisher salute. “I thank you for your cooperation, Central. Until the False Gods are wiped from this Earth.”
The feed cut with a final flash, the screen returning to its idle state.
“Tacky." Shen muttered dryly from Bradford’s right, her eyes still on the monitor. “She always sounds like she’s trying to recite a war poem.”
Bradford grunted. “As long as she keeps hitting ADVENT targets and bringing back intel, she can talk like a Saturday morning cartoon villain for all I care.”
He turned on his heel, voice shifting into mission mode. “Now, I’ve got a strike team to assemble. If you’ll excuse me, Chief Engineer.”
Shen gave a brief, sarcastic little bow. “Don’t forget to pack your field meds. I’m not stitching anyone up unless they bring me back coffee.”
Bradford let out a quiet, half-chuckle as he disappeared through the bridge doors.
For the second time in what felt like the span of a heartbeat and yet somehow also an eternity, Jacob Lee stirred from an unnatural slumber.
This awakening, however, was not heralded by the smug cadence of a time-hopping eccentric with a pocket watch and a penchant for theatrical entrances. No disembodied tea cups. No half-spoken riddles about causality. No Paradox.
Instead, it was the gentle trill of birdsong that coaxed him back into consciousness, the rhythmic flutter of wings somewhere above the treeline and the faint rustle of wind brushing through leaves. Nature, unfiltered and undisturbed, had taken the place of temporal madness.
He groaned softly, muscles stiff and unfamiliar, and pushed himself up to his knees with an effortful grunt. Dull pain bloomed along his spine, the kind that came not from injury, but dislocation, like a soul returned to a body that hadn’t been properly seated. He raised his left hand to the back of his head, rubbing the sore spot more out of habit than relief.
And then he saw it.
His hand stopped mid-motion.
Strapped to his wrist like a gauntlet out of myth and memory was the unmistakable device. Sleek. Alien. Glossy black with a vibrant green interface, the same device he’d only moments ago dismissed as the fever dream of a surreal tea-fueled conversation.
The Omnitrix.
Jacob’s breath hitched. His stomach twisted.
This wasn’t a hallucination.
The weight of it was real. Solid. Warm against his skin. Every science fiction rule he knew told him he should be terrified, and yet something about it felt… right. Natural. Like it had always been meant for him.
Slowly, almost reverently, Jacob extended his thumb and pressed the small circular button on the watch’s edge.
A soft, mechanical ding aswered him, accompanied by a low hum as the device responded. The dial rose with a precise mechanical click, and then...
...a dark silhouette formed above the watch face, shifting through a cascade of green light, embedded into the green space.
Heatblast.
Green energy particles hovered around the projection, cycling lazily in the air like motes of alien dust, waiting.
He could only stare.
The air around him felt suddenly thicker.
“…This… this shouldn’t be real.” He whispered, voice barely audible, choked by awe.
But the Omnitrix made no rebuttal. It merely pulsed in silence, a heartbeat of luminous green.
Jacob’s thumb rotated the dial with precision, each click echoing faintly in the silence of the forest. He flipped through various silhouettes, each one blooming to life in the green-tinted light of the Omnitrix: Heatblast, Four Arms, XLR8, Ripjaws… ten in total. That was the limit. No Cannonbolt, no Wildvine, no Upchuck. And most alarmingly, Ghostfreak was included.
Great. Let’s just hope the Ectonurite’s still sleeping in there and not waiting to hijack my body the moment I transform.
The thought alone conjured the image of a rogue Ghostfreak siding with ADVENT, possessing civilians, or worse, tampering with XCOM’s already-delicate psionic research. Jacob winced at the imagined clusterfuck. That crossover would be too chaotic, even for him.
He let the dial retract with a quiet shink, the metal shell sealing shut around his wrist. His surroundings came back into focus. Towering trees loomed overhead, their bark darkened with age and ash. He was in a forest, no doubt, but one that looked like it hadn’t seen peace in years. Broken trunks, crushed leaves, and the distant scent of scorched ozone. This wasn’t untouched nature. It was collateral.
How the hell am I supposed to find XCOM? And more importantly… how do I get them to trust me without getting shot the moment I step out of the trees?
It was a valid concern. Depending on when exactly he’d arrived in this timeline, Jacob could either be seen as an asset… or a walking anomaly with a giant alien target on his back. Either way, if ADVENT caught wind of his presence, they’d likely skip the interrogation and move straight to dissection.
With a heavy sigh, he began walking, his boots crunching against the underbrush. He kicked a loose rock, sending it bouncing off a tree trunk. A pair of startled birds scattered into the sky, their panicked chirping fading into the wind. Jacob winced, rubbing the back of his neck in a silent apology.
Then, he heard it.
A sharp, distant thunk followed by the electric buzz of magnetic weaponry charging and discharging. Gunfire. His ears perked up as his body shifted into a jog, feet light and sure beneath him. Combat meant civilization. Or at least... resistance.
Weaving between trees, he finally skidded behind a wide, lichen-covered boulder. Carefully, Jacob peeked past its edge.
A battlefield sprawled before him, smoke curling up from the charred remains of a supply convoy. Blackened crates and shattered vehicles littered the clearing. ADVENT troopers in segmented armour fired in bursts, their visors glowing red as they maintained formation. Around them, sprawled corpses, rebels and ADVENT alike, lay twisted and bloodied. The defector faction’s yellowish ichor had mingled with human and alien blood into a single, grotesque pool.
But the fight wasn’t over yet.
From the treeline, more rebels launched themselves into combat, using grappling hooks and sheer acrobatics to close distance. Their distinct helmets, adorned with the telltale insignia of the renegade faction, left no room for confusion.
“Skirmishers.” Jacob breathed, both in recognition and awe. “War of the Chosen timeline. That means things are just getting started…”
He ducked lower behind the rock, heart thudding. ADVENT had numbers on their side, but the Skirmishers were fighting tooth and claw; feral, coordinated, deadly. A unit this small launching an assault on a secured convoy meant one thing: the intel they were after was damn important.
It could be the perfect opportunity.
A chance to test out the transformations. A way to help those fighting against ADVENT without revealing too much too soon. The Omnitrix hummed faintly at his wrist, almost like it too hungered for purpose.
Jacob's fingers hovered over the dial, mind racing. Then, movement caught his eye.
Through the violent storm of magnetic projectiles and crackling bursts of plasma fire, his gaze locked onto one Skirmisher in particular.
His breath caught.
No fucking way.
His inner voice didn’t even try to be calm.
Is that...
Pratal Mox's day had gone from coordinated skirmish to barely contained chaos, and it was only getting worse by the minute.
A sharp mechanical clack echoed across the trees as he fired his grappling hook upwards. The cable hissed with tension, yanking him skyward to a scorched perch atop an abandoned ADVENT transport. From there, he raised his bullpup rifle and unleashed a precise hail of lead into two troopers foolish enough to lower their guard. They crumpled like marionettes with their strings severed.
Mox dropped from the roof, landing with the controlled weight of a predator. The thud barely echoed before he rolled behind the truck’s frame, just in time to avoid a fresh barrage from an ADVENT Captain who had arrived to reclaim the field.
RRATATATATA.
His bullpup screamed back in response. Controlled bursts, three rounds at a time, just like they trained him. A few found their mark, tearing into the Captain’s stomach armor and staggering the brute, but not felling him. No surprise. Skirmisher weaponry was never meant for distance. His rifle was a tool of opportunity; the blade was his gospel.
He vaulted the charred hood of a wrecked civilian vehicle and slid behind cover, boots crunching against broken glass and twisted steel. A second later, another Skirmisher dropped into the trench beside him; Talos Traska. Her red-trimmed helmet turned towards him, their visors aligning for a split second in silent acknowledgment.
No salute. No words of praise. Just warriors surviving.
They peeked over their shattered cover in tandem, unleashing suppressive fire to buy precious seconds for two pinned comrades scrambling behind the thick trunk of a burning oak. Mox’s eyes flicked to their position, then back to the advancing hostiles.
"Where are our reinforcements?" He growled, his voice like gravel grinding in a furnace.
"ETA is five minutes." Traska snapped. Her voice crackled with restrained fury. "It isn’t enough."
"It is not." Mox agreed, coldly.
A grenade exploded just ahead of them, sending mud and shrapnel raining down like a steel hailstorm. The sharp tang of ionized smoke filled the air. His HUD flickered for a moment, recalibrating. Ten ADVENT units remained, more than double their current strength. Troopers, officers, and a towering MEC on the far side, its cannons glowing with charging magnetism.
Four Skirmishers remained, backed into a crumbling corner of this forest battlefield.
They had minutes, maybe less.
Mox flexed the fingers on his left hand, letting his grappling cable retract with a mechanical hum. His blade, still slick with enemy blood, pulsed faintly under his armor.
Even so…
He would not fall here.
Not while blood still surged through his cloned veins.
Not while the False Gods still walked this Earth.
“Vox Tala for Ten!"
The Skirmisher's cry cut through the battlefield like a warhorn from an ancient age. It was a battle-rite, a sacred chant born of vengeance and code. Pratal Mox fired his grappling hook without hesitation, aiming straight for the chest of the nearest ADVENT trooper foolish enough to stray from cover.
The hook embedded itself with a wet crunch, tearing through composite armor and burying deep into synthetic flesh. A geyser of pungent yellow ichor splashed across the windshield of a ruined civilian vehicle nearby, steaming in the air. Mox yanked the cable, and the trooper was ripped off his feet, dragged bodily across the shattered asphalt towards his executioner.
In one seamless motion, Mox disengaged the hook and extended his wrist-mounted blades with a metallic snikt.
The moment the ADVENT puppet came within reach, Mox struck; an upward slash like a guillotine swung by fate itself.
Steel bit into hybrid flesh. The trooper’s rifle clattered from limp fingers as he staggered, clutching at his torn throat. Muffled gasps and gurgles spilled from his mouth, laced with fragmented words in their shared tongue; a half-choked prayer to their makers, or perhaps a curse aimed at his killer.
Mox didn’t flinch. He offered a quiet, imperceptible nod; not of empathy, but of acknowledgment. A soldier’s death, even one corrupted by the False Gods, deserved that much.
One less puppet.
But the battlefield was far from silent.
He turned his gaze towards the convoy: burning wrecks, twisted machinery, and muzzle flashes dancing through the smoke. The storm hadn’t passed.
One down. Nine more to go.
The ADVENT MEC unit tilted forward with mechanical precision, its limbs adjusting with hydraulic hisses as the weapon systems on its back powered up. Twin red tubes, mounted like grotesque spinal growths, glowed ominously, charging with a rising, high-pitched whine that made the very air tense with anticipation.
From his perch, Mox’s alien eyes widened beneath his helmet’s visor. Instinct screamed louder than reason.
“MOVE! Get out of there—NOW!”
But fate was already set in motion.
The MEC launched its barrage, a cluster of guided micro-missiles erupting from its back with fiery trails. They arced high, then slammed down in a tight radius around the truck where two Skirmishers had been holding the line.
It wasn't just cover, it was a deathtrap.
The vehicle, once laden with alien alloys, became a crucible of destruction. The blast didn’t just shake the earth, it tore it. A violent concussion ripped through the street as fire and metal vapor exploded outward in a tidal wave of shrapnel and heat.
The Skirmishers didn’t even scream. Their bodies were flung through the air like broken marionettes, limbs twisted unnaturally. They were already dead, cooked alive, before they ever hit the ground.
And yet, their corpses continued to burn.
Flames danced across alloy-splintered armor. Charred flesh crackled, blackening into ash beneath the ruinous orange glow.
Mox didn’t look away.
His fists clenched at his sides. A heavy silence fell around him, broken only by the distant thud of boots, the crack of rifles, and the slow, droning hum of the MEC as it adjusted its stance again, ready for another kill.
“Jesus Christ...” Jacob whispered, the words barely escaping his lips as he pressed himself deeper behind the cover of the boulder. His wide eyes were locked on the smoldering wreckage where Skirmishers had once fought bravely, and now burned like forgotten martyrs.
The ADVENT MEC still stood, silent and deadly, its launcher letting out one final hiss of heat. The cold, clinical brutality of it all nearly made Jacob sick.
These weren’t enemies on a screen anymore. No HUD, no respawns.
This was war. Real. Raw. Terminal.
His gaze darted toward the battlefield. It was down to just two now; Mox and the female Skirmisher, Talos, pinned with little more than grit and desperation holding them together.
Jacob swallowed hard and inched back behind the rock. Trembling fingers reached for the Omnitrix on his wrist. He hit the activation button with a click, the familiar DING echoing in his ears like a call to arms. The dial rose smoothly, emitting that soft, iconic green glow.
He scrolled through the silhouettes of alien warriors. Four Arms... Diamondhead... Ripjaws...
Then, he stopped.
Wildmutt.
“Guess I’m going in loud.” He muttered, his voice dry. He took a breath, raised his hand skyward, and glanced at the watch.
“I really hope those painful transformation theories were exaggerated!”
SLAM!
The Omnitrix lit up with a blinding green flash that engulfed his body. From the outside, it lasted barely three seconds.
But inside?
It was... awe.
Green energy coursed violently through Jacob’s body, and from beneath his skin, thick, pulsating pink veins erupted like living tendrils. They slithered across his arm and chest, throbbing with alien power as the Omnitrix sank deep into his wrist, fusing itself to his nervous system. The veins writhed their way up to his face, coiling near his temples and eyelids. He clenched his eyes shut, gritting his teeth against the burning sensation, then snapped them open as the transformation completed.
His spine cracked and twisted, realigning to a horizontal stance. Muscle mass shifted, and condensed. His arms shortened, legs bulked, until he stood on all fours.
Flesh gave way to coarse, orange fur that erupted from every inch of his mutating frame. Claws jutted from his fingers, shredding through his boots and gloves. His mouth extended outwards into a brutal maw, serrated fangs glistening with fresh saliva. The world’s colours changed, blurring into pulses of scent, vibration, and temperature.
Wildmutt didn’t need eyes.
He needed the hunt.
His nostrils flared. His limbs flexed.
Wildmutt buried his claws into the dirt and let out a guttural, primal roar.
Time to strike.
Two more puppets collapsed beneath a hail of Skirmisher fire, their bodies twitching before falling still on the war-torn asphalt. That left only a Captain, five troopers, and the looming monstrosity of the MEC unit.
And they were closing in. Fast.
Mox clenched his jaw and pressed two fingers to the side of his helmet, activating his internal comms with near-feral urgency. “Central, where are you? They’re advancing, fast! We won’t last!”
His sentence was punctuated by a shower of sparks as magnetic slugs shredded the cover above his head. He dropped into a crouch and fired back on instinct; three bursts from his Bullpup, clean and practiced. One round cracked open a trooper’s skull like a melon. The corpse flopped backwards, weapon slipping from numb fingers.
“Ninety seconds to arrival. Hang on!” Central’s voice rang in his earpiece.
Easier said than done.
The MEC, towering and remorseless, raised its arm-mounted cannon and unleashed hell. A thunderous staccato of magnetized metal split the air, and Talos Traska was caught in the storm. Her armour cracked like porcelain. Blood and circuitry sprayed from her chest as she was launched off her feet, colliding with the remains of a civilian vehicle.
She was gone before she landed.
“Talos!” Mox’s voice cracked, not with fear, but with rage. His body screamed to charge, to avenge, to tear something apart, but logic chained him down. He had the datapad. Their entire mission—months of intel, surveillance logs, and Resistance data—was stored in that device.
If he died here, it would die with him. And X-Com would remain blind to-
A sound tore across the battlefield.
Low, guttural, and monstrous. A roar, inhuman and primal, vibrated through the charred terrain like the cry of some ancient predator awakened from slumber. Mox froze. So did the ADVENT troops, just long enough for chaos to descend.
From the tree line burst a blur of orange muscle and teeth.
The beast was quadrupedal, feral, and powerful, ripping through the remaining troopers with shocking brutality. Its claws shredded body armour like it was paper. Mox caught a brief glimpse of a strange insignia glowing green on its shoulder, a symbol, like some kind of alien technology, embedded directly into its flesh.
The creature lunged.
It seized the ADVENT Captain by both legs and hoisted him overhead. Then, with bone-cracking precision, the beast drove a knee into the officer’s back, using its own body like a weapon. A sickening snap echoed through the air as the Captain’s spine shattered. Mox grimaced. That sound would follow him into sleep for cycles to come.
Whatever this thing was... it wasn't ADVENT.
The MEC’s optics flared to life, recalibrating its targeting systems with mechanical precision. Red sensors flicked toward the rampaging beast, and its servos whirred as it re-routed priority protocols to eliminate the anomaly. But the creature needed only a fleeting glance—just a moment to assess the threat—before it sprang into motion with unnatural speed.
It darted between wrecked vehicles, its powerful limbs slamming against the hood of a car, then bounding effortlessly onto the flatbed of a scorched transport. The unit opened fire, magnetic rounds peppering its trail, but the beast moved like a living blur; a feral hound outpacing its pursuers with savage grace.
In a blink, the creature launched itself skyward.
A single, perfectly-timed leap propelled it onto the MEC’s upper frame. Its claws found purchase in the metallic shell as the machine staggered under the weight, sensors flaring wildly. The cannon was abandoned in favor of a desperate attempt to dislodge the intruder, its thick fingers clawed at its back, but the thing was already moving.
With a snarl that shook its own ribcage, the creature raised a clawed hand and ripped downwards.
The MEC’s armoured skull split like fruit beneath a blade. Sparks burst forth in a shower of dying circuitry as the unit spasmed and dropped to its knees, then crumpled like a broken toy.
For a moment, silence fell. Smoke curled into the sky, rising from ruptured engines and smoldering wreckage.
Then the beast stood tall, still hunched, but balanced on its hind legs like a creature claiming victory over a rival pack. It beat its fists against its chest in a primal rhythm, gorilla-like in its dominance. Saliva flew from its snapping maw as it threw back its head and let out a guttural, triumphant roar; one not of man, but of beast. A declaration of territory.
The battlefield belonged to it now.
But once it fell still, the creature slowly calmed. Its chest heaved with exertion, ragged breaths hissing through clenched jaws. It turned its head with eerie precision, locking eyes with the lone Skirmisher that remained.
Mox instinctively raised his Bullpup, the weapon trained on the unknown beast. He held his stance with caution, yet did not fire.
Above them, the low roar of thrusters filled the air. The Skyranger broke through the haze, its silhouette descending like a steel angel. With a mechanical thunk, the hatch opened and two ropes unfurled to the ground. From within the belly of the craft, operatives Peter Osei and Ana Ramirez rappelled expertly, their armour gleaming faintly under the smoky sunlight.
They touched down amidst the carnage; broken corpses, splattered yellow blood, the remains of ADVENT's ill-fated convoy. But it was the beast that arrested their full attention.
Ana took a half-step forward, her voice hard with disbelief. “¿Qué demonios es eso...? Central, are you seeing this?”
Bradford’s voice crackled through their earpieces. “Menace 1-5, keep it steady. We don’t know what we’re dealing with. That thing wiped out the entire ADVENT detachment and dismantled a MEC unit like it was made of paper. But… it didn’t attack Mox.”
The creature shifted uneasily. A low, almost pitiful whine escaped its throat as it backed away, eyes never leaving the humans. Its posture shrank slightly, its limbs drawn inward as if seeking to make itself appear smaller.
“Is it… afraid?” Osei asked, his rifle held low but ready.
The beast tilted its head in response to his voice, an eerily human gesture, as if evaluating him. There was no malice, only a strange, child-like curiosity behind its blank, eyeless expression.
Suddenly, a high-pitched beep shattered the stillness.
The green symbol on its shoulder—a watch-like device embedded in its fur—began to flash red in timed pulses, accompanied by a rising mechanical whine.
The creature snarled sharply at the alarm, as though scolding it. With a frustrated growl, it turned on all fours and leapt with astonishing speed, vanishing into the shadows of the treeline in mere seconds.
“Mmmph.” Mox exhaled, lowering his weapon. “I have never encountered anything of its kind. That was no Berserker.”
Ramirez glanced after the vanished blur. “Whatever it was… it saved your life. Ours too. If it shows up again, we try to make contact, non-lethal. Could be one of the Elders’ experiments that got loose.”
Bradford’s voice returned, thoughtful but steady. “Agreed. We’ll classify it as a potential ally until proven otherwise. For now, we stick to the mission. Mox, do you have the intel?”
Without a word, the Skirmisher produced the datapad and handed it to Ramirez. She clipped it onto her armoured vest.
But Mox wasn’t looking at her.
His eyes lingered on the treeline, where the creature had vanished. A silent shadow moved across his thoughts; not fear, but the unsettling awareness that the war had just gained a new, unknown piece on the board.
As if the Elders weren’t enough already.
The Omnitrix began to wail, a high-pitched alarm that resonated through the forest. A pulse of vivid crimson light burst from the symbol embedded in the beast’s shoulder, washing over the battlefield like a flare.
And just as suddenly as it had appeared, the creature was gone.
In its place stood Jacob Lee, panting softly, shoulders hunched beneath the weight of exhaustion and awe. His posture returned to the upright, familiar bipedal form of a human, though his hands trembled faintly as he looked down at them; five fingers again, not four. No claws. No fur.
Just skin.
He flexed his hands slowly, trying to reconcile the dissonance between memory and reality. That hadn’t been a game. That hadn’t been a dream.
It had been real.
Jacob lowered his gaze to the Omnitrix. The device was still latched firmly to his wrist, but the vibrant green glow that typically accompanied it was now replaced with a rhythmic red flash; sharp, almost accusatory. He tried to raise the dial again, pressing at the edges with a thumb, but it refused to comply.
Instead, it emitted a harsh chirp, and the red light flared once more in warning.
“Figures." He muttered, exhaling slowly.
His mind drifted back to the way Ben had once described it. "It was still me, but it felt like I was someone else."
Jacob nodded to himself, the memory clicking into place. The quote wasn’t just nostalgia anymore, it was understanding. Vulpimancers were all animal instinct and feral muscle. No voice. No words. Just rage, loyalty, and adrenaline.
The bigger issue now?
X-Com.
He couldn’t exactly walk up to them waving a flag saying: “Hi, I’m the orange monster you just saw explode a MEC like it was a tin can.” The Omnitrix was smart enough to project a symbol on each transformation; smart, but not subtle. If he kept jumping into alien forms, it wouldn’t take a genius at Central Command to start connecting the dots. Not with the same icon appearing every single time.
But then, just as doubt began to dig in, a spark of clarity struck him.
Paris.
Professor Paradox had mentioned it in passing, an offhand remark during their strange, temporal conversation. And Jacob had just seen Peter Osei and Ana Ramirez alive and well. That meant Gatecrasher—the fateful, explosive introduction of X-Com 2’s campaign—was still in the future. Days away, maybe a week.
A grin curled across his lips, slow and mischievous.
"If I get to Paris, I get to X-Com."
He could plan the approach. Make contact with them on his own terms. Maybe even save a few civilians to earn their trust. It wasn’t a perfect plan, but it was a plan.
All he needed now was a map, a general sense of where the hell he was, and maybe a sturdy tree to climb for orientation. Once he could pinpoint his position, XLR8 could do the rest.
He clapped his hands, trying to ignore the weight of his situation.
“That’s X-Com, baby!”
Notes:
Well, don't have anything to say.
Does anybody else?
Chapter 2: Stinking a Gatecrasher
Chapter Text
If Jacob had to admit one thing—just one grudging point of respect—it was that the aliens knew how to run a city.
Efficiency, order, cleanliness... Paris had never looked sharper. Gleaming white towers, pristine walkways, sleek transit hubs humming with silent energy. On the surface, it all felt like a utopia. Crime was low, infrastructure flowed seamlessly, and the citizens? Most of them genuinely believed they were living in the golden age of humanity.
But it was a façade.
Beneath the neon serenity and sterile perfection, ADVENT’s grip tightened like a garrote. Obedience bought peace. Dissent bought a one-way trip to a gene clinic, or worse. Every corner had a camera. Every checkpoint scanned for threats disguised as travelers. And every peaceful interaction with a friendly trooper was backed by the quiet threat of a Muton’s roar just out of sight.
Jacob adjusted the coat and jeans he had borrowed at Mach 3 from a local retail center; a harmless little crime executed while running faster than a bullet. XLR8 was efficient like that. The clothes didn’t fit perfectly, but they were passable. Urban camouflage.
The Omnitrix, however, remained a glowing problem.
It pulsed a harsh red, cycling through its timed-out phase with slow, angry flashes. A few Parisians noticed; nothing more than fleeting glances, their attention quickly redirected by the subliminal ADVENT soundtracks playing from the neon billboards.
Still, Jacob didn’t take any chances. He buried his left hand deep inside his coat pocket, shielding the alien tech from prying eyes.
He paused at a street corner, taking in the view.
Paris had changed.
Alien architecture had fused with classical designs, creating a surreal blend of steel and stone. The Eiffel Tower had been retrofitted with vertical plasma conduits, glowing violet rings that spiraled upward like a beacon. Giant holographic banners flared across buildings, bearing the face of the Speaker as he welcomed all to Reclamation Day, the annual celebration of Earth’s 'liberation.'
Jacob’s jaw tensed.
Reclamation Day. That meant parades, propaganda, heightened ADVENT presence, and a lot of alien eyes watching everything. The streets were already swelling with civilians in festive attire, their smiles well-rehearsed. Patrols of troopers marched in formation, weapons holstered but always within reach. And that was just the visible side of the occupation. Jacob had no doubt that Sectoids and Vipers slithered unseen in shadowed corridors, watching, listening.
Hundreds of alien units hidden just beneath the surface, waiting for orders, and waiting for resistance.
His eyes flicked from checkpoint to rooftop, calculating angles, noticing where the hovercams lingered longest. He could feel it already: something was about to go down. Something big.
The young man came to a halt in front of a towering holoscreen. Its luminous surface bathed the plaza in a sterile, electric glow, drawing a gathering of citizens like moths to a flame. People paused mid-commute, shopping bags dangling at their sides, their expressions distant as they turned their gazes upward.
Onscreen, the image of the Speaker loomed.
All pale skin, unsettling eyes, and inhumanly fluid gestures. His voice was as polished as ever, rich with synthetic cadence, lacking the subtle imperfections of true human warmth.
Jacob, however, had long since tuned him out.
While the Speaker extolled the virtues of the 'Unity Accord' and praised ADVENT's unwavering commitment to peace, Jacob’s eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk. His hopes weren’t high, Central Officer Bradford wasn’t exactly the type to stroll through ADVENT territory with a parade behind him, but it didn’t hurt to look.
“ADVENT assures all citizens that today’s celebrations will proceed as scheduled.”
The screen flickered, switching from the Speaker’s pale visage to a sharp-dressed female reporter with surgically-enhanced cheerfulness in her voice.
Jacob smiled faintly. “Perfect.”
Then he froze.
His eyes snapped to a nearby man who had just turned away from the crowd, casually drifting towards the edge of the plaza like a leaf caught in the wind. Ordinary coat. Graying hair. But there was no mistaking the military poise beneath the civilian act.
No fucking way.
It was Central. John Bradford, in the flesh.
And he had been standing barely three feet away. Jacob hadn't even noticed him until he’d moved.
“Jesus!” He muttered under his breath. “Is he some kind of genetically-modified 007?”
Suppressing the urge to sprint after him, Jacob casually adjusted the collar of his stolen coat and started moving. He slipped into a slow gait, hands tucked in the pockets of his jeans, gaze drifting lazily across storefronts and food stalls. He didn’t want to appear too focused. Even a single wrong stare could get him flagged.
The Omnitrix remained a mild liability. Its red light had dimmed, but the thick shape and green-tinted faceplate still jutted slightly from beneath his sleeve. A few pedestrians gave it a cursory glance, but most seemed to write it off as some kind of tribal tattoo, maybe a fashion accessory with programmable LEDs. ADVENT wasn't short on weird bio-aesthetic fads these days.
Bradford--John--had stopped at the entrance to a narrow alleyway.
Jacob’s heart beat a little faster.
From where he stood, he could just glimpse the ADVENT checkpoint at the end of the block. Soldiers lounged in semi-relaxed posture, rifles slung but ready. Automated turrets stood guard atop streetlamps like watchful vultures. Jacob knew that very soon, a certain truck would explode there, causing just enough chaos to trigger the beginning of Operation Gatecrasher.
He reached forward to gently tap the old man’s shoulder, just a light touch to catch his attention.
But Jacob never made contact.
In the blink of an eye, the man spun on his heel with soldier-like precision, his grip snapping up like a bear trap. Before Jacob could register the motion, he found himself slammed against the nearest alley wall, the breath driven from his lungs.
Rough concrete scraped against his back. A solid forearm pinned itself horizontally across his neck, and with brutal efficiency, Central Officer John Bradford stared directly into his eyes.
No panic. No confusion.
Only a searing, tactical assessment.
Jacob squirmed, his boots scraping against the pavement, but made no attempt to fight back. His fingers instinctively hovered near the Omnitrix, ready to slam down on the dial if things spiraled too far. His chest tightened with every passing second, a sharp pressure mounting at his sternum as oxygen became a scarce luxury.
Bradford’s eyes scanned him with all the surgical sharpness of a battlefield veteran, memorizing features, judging threat levels, and dissecting intent. The man’s forearm never wavered, as if made of iron.
“Who are you?” Bradford growled at last, his voice low and firm, each word hammered like a nail. His breath steamed slightly in the cool alley air. “Why are you following me?”
The glare in his eyes cut deeper than the Omnitrix’s familiar glow ever could; ice and fire in equal measure, trained for decades to see through enemy deception. For a second, Jacob thought he might snap his neck without a moment's hesitation.
But he didn’t.
Not yet.
“Y-you’ve met a friend of mine…” Jacob wheezed through gritted teeth, each word forced past the pressure on his throat. He coughed, struggling for air. “T-tall… orange… mean fellow. N-no eyes. Walks like a dog.”
There was a beat of silence, long enough to let the implication sink in.
Bradford’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment, he finally stepped back. Jacob dropped to his knees with a harsh gasp, both hands instinctively clutching at his sore throat. The alley spun slightly in his vision.
This wasn’t a game. No pause menu. No health bar. Just pain, raw and immediate.
Bradford didn’t apologize. He didn’t offer a hand, either.
“What do you know about that thing?" The older man asked, his voice lower now but no less sharp, like a knife pressed just shy of the skin.
Jacob coughed again before responding, rasping through his healing voice. “I call him Wildmutt.”
Bradford’s brow furrowed.
“A callsign." Jacob added quickly, shrugging. “Yeah, it’s childish. But he’s the one who saved Pratal Mox. Cleared out that convoy. Probably bought you enough time to reach the Commander without ADVENT sniffing around. The Skirmishers found the clinic, but the Reapers confirmed it before the op, right?”
The XCOM officer crossed his arms, his expression shifting; skepticism, wariness… and a flicker of reluctant curiosity.
“How do you know all of that?”
Jacob tilted his head, smiling faintly. “Classified, I’m afraid.”
Bradford didn’t laugh. His jaw tightened.
“Just know I’m not on the Elders’ payroll.” Jacob continued, gesturing with a casual, almost helpless air. “I want to help. You’re going to breach the Commander soon, right? I’d like to sign up. Fight back. Make a difference.”
Bradford blinked, then actually let out a dry scoff.
“You appear out of nowhere, spouting classified op details—details buried in encrypted channels—and you’re asking to enlist?” He shook his head. “This smells like a trap.”
“I know about Peter Osei and Ana Ramirez’s current assignment aboard the Skyranger.” Jacob said, tone suddenly firmer. The subtle shift in Central’s posture, tight shoulders, a slight inhale, told him the name-drop hit home. “I know this operation is codenamed Gatecrasher. I know that ADVENT checkpoint will be used as a distraction to draw them away from the clinic.”
Jacob spread his arms slightly. “And yet, have you noticed ADVENT hasn’t reinforced their numbers? I haven’t contacted them. Haven’t sent any signals. I could’ve sabotaged your entire mission by now if I wanted to. But I didn’t.”
Central turned his head slightly, one hand touching the comms device in his ear. He was listening, maybe confirming intel, or maybe buying time.
After a moment, he exhaled through his nose. “Hypothetically…” He said, slowly. “Let’s say you are here to help. This Wildmutt… can you summon it with a whistle? Because right now, you look like a civilian; thin, twitchy, no tactical posture, no weapons training. For someone claiming to know what’s coming, you lack confidence.”
He stared Jacob down again, unblinking.
“You’re asking me to trust a kid who shows up unarmed, without backup, during a black-level op. That’s not bravery. That’s a liability.”
“Look.." Jacob said, voice steady now despite the lingering rasp in his throat. “I’m here to help. You don’t have a reason to trust me. Honestly? You’d be an idiot if you did.”
He held his ground, arms out, palms open, not as a threat, but as a gesture of honesty. Vulnerability, even.
“But reinforcements from an unknown source with... let’s say unconventional assets? That’s not a threat. That’s a golden opportunity.”
Bradford didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His eyes were already saying it all: I’ve seen too many promises that ended in blood.
Jacob stepped closer, not too close, but enough to plant his words between them like a seed.
“I’m not asking for a gun or a comm channel. I’m not even asking for a ride. I’ll wait for the decoy to kick off. Then I’ll call in a friend.”
He paused, letting that phrase settle in.
“Codename: Stinkfly.” He added with the faintest smirk. “Don’t mind it. Names aren’t the point. Results are.”
Then, just like that, he turned his back on Bradford and walked towards the mouth of the alley.
Not a flicker of fear in his posture. Just calm determination.
Bradford didn’t stop him.
He simply stood there, watching the strange young man disappear into the neon glare of Paris towards the looming checkpoint where ADVENT troops were too busy scanning IDs and monitoring civilians to notice what was coming.
His footsteps echoed briefly on the concrete, swallowed quickly by the ambient hum of the city; by speakers announcing Reclamation Day festivities, by the distant crackle of magnetic rifles on patrol, by the ever-present drone of propaganda pretending peace was permanent.
Jacob didn’t look back.
This was going to be epic.
"What do you think?" Shen’s voice crackled softly in his earpiece.
Bradford didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the crowd as he stepped forward in line, blending seamlessly with the flow of civilian movement toward the ADVENT checkpoint. The steady thrum of propaganda from the overhead speakers buzzed through the plaza like static in his skull.
"The kid knows too much for his own good." He muttered finally, voice low, barely audible over the ambient noise. "But he’s right. ADVENT’s troop presence hasn’t shifted. They’re playing it safe. We still have our window."
The woman on the other end exhaled lightly, a thoughtful pause hanging in the silence.
"What about his claim of knowing what that thing was? Wildmutt? The Skirmishers' report on that creature was disturbing enough. He talks about it like it’s...tame."
"If he knows about our op, the clinic, and what happened in the convoy..." Bradford murmured, eyes narrowing. "...then he knows where that thing came from. He knows what it is. Maybe even who it is."
Shen’s dry chuckle came through. "Wildmutt, though? Seriously? And now we’re expecting someone called Stinkfly to show up next?"
"Yeah." Bradford said, stepping two paces forward as the scanner ahead flared with a soft red glow.
"Childish names." He added. "But the results weren’t childish. If this ‘Stinkfly’ is half as effective..."
He trailed off, letting the implication hang.
"We’ll just have to roll with it."
Bradford stepped near the scanner arch, ready for his own turn.
From the corner of his eye, he spotted the kid again, standing casually near a café cart in the previous sector, nursing a steaming cup of coffee. The strange green-and-black watch glinted on his wrist, half-tucked beneath his sleeve. As if aware of being watched, Jacob glanced over and lifted his cup slightly in a mock-toast, the smallest of smirks tugging at his lips.
Bradford didn’t return it. He just grunted, turned slightly away, and pressed a finger to his earpiece.
"Prep Gatecrasher. Sixty seconds."
Central surreptitiously inhaled, forcing his pulse to steady as he stepped into line. The distant murmur of the crowd became a dull roar in his ears, the sound of normalcy; manufactured, enforced, and hollow. He kept his posture loose, civilian-like, but his mind was wound tight, focused on every movement around him. The ADVENT soldiers, clad in black and crimson armor, seemed satisfied with the last of the processed citizens and gave him a curt nod forward.
He checked the micro-button on his collar, confirming that the earpiece was still transmitting. Then, with careful nonchalance, he stepped towards the scanner.
DING!
The tone was piercing, unnatural; too sharp to be benign. Bradford froze mid-step, instincts honed by decades of covert work screaming in his skull. The blood drained from his face as the reaction unfolded with brutal precision. Almost instantly, the ADVENT checkpoint erupted with activity. Dozens of troopers pivoted in sync, converging on him like wolves on a wounded animal, weapons half-raised but not yet drawn. The atmosphere snapped taut like wire.
A heavy-set officer in red armor stomped towards him, the polished steel of his boots hammering against the concrete with imperial authority. His snarl was guttural, his words gutted by venom.
"Mor Balaten!" He barked, voice sharp and cruel. The alien tongue sounded like shrapnel in Bradford’s ears, but he understood the meaning well enough.
Before he could react, the officer surged forward, slamming the butt of his magnetic rifle into Bradford’s gut.
Pain exploded through his abdomen like a firework behind his ribs. The air shot from his lungs in a strangled gasp, and he collapsed to his knees, one hand on the ground for balance as the world tilted sideways. He coughed once, dry, rough, and instinctively curled forward to shield his core. His vision blurred, but not enough to miss the red-armored brute looming over him with imperial smugness.
And then, out of the corner of his stinging eye, he saw her.
A baseball cap. A brown ponytail vanishing into the crowd.
Jane Kelly.
She was walking away from the checkpoint with no urgency, just another passerby, her strides purposeful but unhurried. The detonator was in her hand, masked by a folded pamphlet. She had finished her task.
The pain in Bradford’s body dulled beneath the flare of grim satisfaction. He straightened slowly, ignoring the spasms in his ribs, and forced himself to meet the officer’s hateful stare. For the first time in nearly two decades, his mask of diplomacy fell away. He let the fury surface, the raw, unfiltered hate for what the world had become, and for what ADVENT had done to humanity.
"Mor Balaten." The officer repeated, spitting the phrase again as if the words could erase Bradford’s defiance.
But the former soldier didn’t flinch this time. Instead, he lifted a single trembling finger to his earpiece, maintaining eye contact with the creature in front of him.
His voice was low. Quiet.
"Now."
And a second later, the world behind them exploded.
The shockwave hit like a thunderclap. Jacob instinctively threw an arm up to shield his eyes from the blinding light and sudden rush of hot air. The explosion’s echo bounced off the buildings, reverberating through the alleyways like the roar of a wounded god.
Beneath the sleeve of his coat, the Omnitrix pulsed brighter than before, glowing with a vivid, almost urgent green. It was reacting... anticipating the chaos around him, as if silently urging him to transform, to armor up, to survive.
Jacob lowered his arm, blinking past the veil of smoke and soot. From the narrow gap between two nearby towers, he caught a glimpse of something majestic breaking through the grey skyline; the Skyranger, her metallic hull glinting under the flashing sirens of Paris below. She soared towards the clinic at full throttle, the tactical roar of her engines cutting clean through the urban cacophony. If the Commander was still alive, she was on her way.
He tossed the empty coffee cup into the rubble-strewn gutter, the smell of scorched metal and burning plastic beginning to claw at his nostrils. All around him, civilians were screaming and scattering like leaves in a storm, their obedience overridden by sheer human panic. But Jacob didn’t move with them. He ducked low, weaving towards the right side of the plaza, keeping himself beneath the shattered remnants of a neon sign and the collapsing awning of a convenience stand.
Through the haze and flame, he finally spotted Central and Kelly, emerging from the wreckage like ghosts returning to the battlefield.
They sprinted towards an abandoned utility truck, its bed covered with a canvas sheet already flapping loose from the blast. Without pause, Kelly tore it off and reached inside, revealing a compact weapons cache. She tossed Bradford a rifle and snatched another for herself. Together, they strapped into their tactical harnesses with swift, experienced hands. In seconds, safeties were off, barrels primed, and fingers twitching for retaliation.
So that’s where they got their gear before Osei and Ramirez linked up. Jacob noted silently. It wasn’t random. It was staged. Calculated. Every move choreographed with the precision of a war-hardened machine.
The shriek of incoming thrusters shattered his train of thought.
A sleek, angular ADVENT transport dropped from the sky like a bird of prey, its anti-grav engines howling against the wind. Dust and cinders spiraled beneath it as it hovered for only a second before releasing its cargo.
With an almost casual menace, a red-armored Captain dropped onto the scorched pavement, flanked by three black-clad troopers. Their landing was precise, almost theatrical. They didn't even flinch at the flaming debris that littered the area.
Their helmets swiveled in unison. Target acquired.
Before Central or Kelly could reposition, the Captain barked a command in the alien tongue. The troopers lifted their magnetic rifles in eerie synchrony, and opened fire.
Jacob threw himself behind a scorched bench as magnetic fire carved through the air above him, slicing past like electric razors. The cacophony of alien rifles filled the plaza, but Jacob had already made his decision. He couldn’t wait for backup. Couldn’t hide. Not anymore.
His fingers flew to the Omnitrix, its core still glowing an urgent green against the chaos. He circled the dial, and the watch’s holographic face flickered, cycling rapidly through silhouettes, blocky, monstrous, lithe, insectoid, until finally it settled on one: Stinkfly.
He didn’t hesitate.
SLAM!
The Omnitrix’s core slammed down into his palm, and the world around him exploded with green.
A sharp whirring filled his ears as the transformation began. His skin rippled, cracked, and shifted as his bones contorted like steel cables being bent out of shape. A black exoskeleton surged across his arms and chest, swallowing his humanity in creeping plates of chitin.
His fingers retracted, folding inwards, then burst outwards again as three sharp claws formed at the ends of his now-elongated hands. The joints hissed, alien and fluid.
From either side of his skull, four stalk-like appendages burst through the skin, twitching erratically before stabilizing; two rising, two sloping down. Within seconds, they unfurled into massive orange compound eyes, their surface gleaming, their black slitted pupils scanning every corner of the battlefield.
His mouth dissolved into a snout filled with needle-like teeth. A brief shudder traveled down his spine, and then, with an audible crack, two jagged wings tore from his back, unfolding like blades snapping into place.
Finally, his legs buckled, and with a guttural snarl, split into four pointed limbs, each one designed for mobility, speed, and aerial dexterity. His boots had vanished, replaced by slick, chitinous points that tapped and clicked against the stone beneath him.
As the green glow of the Omnitrix faded, now buried within the exoskeletal armor at his chest, Stinkfly stood in his place; taller, alien, feral.
He took a moment to stretch his wings.
Once.
The membrane shrilled with a sharp, insect-like screech.
Twice.
The gust kicked up ash and embers around him, forming tiny cyclones at his feet.
Stinkfly’s multifaceted gaze scanned the chaos below, each lens analyzing motion, light, and threat level in a split second. One image seized his attention: a lone ADVENT trooper creeping around a pile of debris with his rifle raised, poised behind Central. The old man hadn’t seen him. If someone didn’t intervene immediately, he wouldn’t have time to.
Without hesitation, Stinkfly’s wings buzzed to life, a thunderous whine rippling through the air. The alien hero launched forward like a green-and-black projectile, his sleek form slicing through smoke and ash.
The trooper took aim, finger tightening on the trigger.
Too late.
With a full-body twist mid-flight, Stinkfly corkscrewed sideways, angling his tail like a javelin and slamming it with brutal force into the trooper’s chest. The enemy let out a clipped, metallic gasp as his body was hurled through the air, crashing spine-first into a towering statue of an Elder. The impact cracked the stone, and snapped his neck with an audible crunch. He slid down lifelessly, crumpled beneath the Elder’s gaze like a discarded puppet.
Stinkfly hovered in place, wings still buzzing with residual energy, and turned towards the stunned duo below. His four glowing eyes gleamed as he grinned.
“Heard you folks needed some backup!” He chirped cheerfully. “Stinkfly, at your service!”
Kelly’s rifle lowered slightly, her brow twitching at the absurdity. Central blinked, and for the briefest moment, it seemed like someone had just paused his brain.
But then, John Bradford, ever the soldier, recovered. He nodded curtly and resumed scanning down his rifle’s scope.
“We’ll ask questions later." He said, tightening his grip. “You want to help? Help. Osei and Ramirez are making their move. We need to break through and reach them before ADVENT repositions."
“Air support and suppressive goo coming right up!”
Stinkfly flapped higher, twisting midair in a smooth arc, bullets streaking past his wings, most of them unable to track his unpredictable speed. He zeroed in on a red-armored ADVENT Captain, barking orders and directing reinforcements from behind an overturned kiosk.
With a high-pitched inhale, Stinkfly reared his head back, then unleashed a torrent of bright green slime, fired in a wide arc straight from his gaping jaws.
The Captain barely had time to react before he was pinned to a metal bench, his limbs stuck fast by the viscous alien compound. He writhed, gun just inches from his hand, but completely out of reach. His muffled curses came in bursts as the goo hardened, binding him like an insect in amber.
Bradford didn’t need an invitation. “Move!”
He and Kelly broke from cover and flanked the remaining troopers. Gunfire lit up the ruined square, bullets shredding one soldier's chestplate while the other was dropped in a tight burst from Jane’s rifle.
The final soldier tried to flee, but didn’t get far.
“Ready for your landing, buddy?” Stinkfly chirped, snatching the panicked trooper by the helmet with two clawed limbs. “It’s gonna be a whopper!”
The soldier let out a strangled cry as Stinkfly swooped upwards, performed a loop, and hurled him down like a sack of meat. The alien’s spine crumpled on impact, his weapon skittering uselessly across the concrete. Without missing a beat, Stinkfly swooped down and slashed cleanly across his neck, ending it.
A moment of eerie silence followed, broken only by the low crackling of distant flames and the groan of a collapsing billboard.
Bradford approached the still-stuck Captain and gave the goo a scrutinizing look. “Impressive." He commented, then promptly put a bullet through the alien officer’s head.
Jane pinched her nose as she approached, waving her hand in front of her face. “Ugh. Okay. Now I get the name. You smell like fermented skunk puke.” She gagged slightly. “How do you even make that stuff?”
Stinkfly fluttered smugly in place, arms crossed. “Chef’s secret. Can’t reveal the formula. Trade secret among Lepidopterrans.”
Bradford chambered a new magazine and nodded towards the smoking skyline. “Let’s go. Osei and Ramirez need backup. The Commander isn’t far. No more distractions.”
“You got it, boss!” Stinkfly saluted with two limbs and buzzed ahead, wings kicking up dust and embers in his wake.
The battle was far from over, but the odds had just shifted.
“Tell… tell my kids… I…”
The voice was faint, cracked and gurgling. Ana Ramirez’s blood spilled in a hot arc across the pavement, her body twitching as she tried to speak through the pain. Her rifle slipped from her hands, clattering against the curb.
Things had been going fine for Peter Osei.
Until one of those ADVENT bastards flanked them, popped out from behind the security booth just down the ruined boulevard, and emptied half a magazine into Ana’s torso.
“Ana!” Osei choked, his voice trembling with rage and disbelief. His eyes snapped to the now-retreating assailant, ducking back behind his cover.
“Crasher-Two is down!” He barked into his comm, even as his legs refused to move. His partner’s gasping breaths rattled like broken glass.
“Damn it, Osei! You can’t take risks like that—” Shen’s voice echoed into his ear, sharp with tension.
But he wasn’t listening anymore.
Osei’s lungs drew in one sharp breath, his heart pounding like war drums in his ears. Red bled into his vision.
“Oh, so that’s how you wanna play it?” He hissed. “Fine.”
A shout rang out from one of the ADVENT troops—“Butts!”—though it was drowned out as Osei vaulted from cover like a possessed man.
He opened fire wildly, forcing one soldier to duck. Rounds zipped past his head as he sprinted across broken sidewalk, his boots kicking up sparks. The security booth was barely ten feet away—five—he dove over the low concrete wall—
And then he was on the bastard.
“How do you like it?!" He roared, smashing the butt of his rifle into the enemy’s helmeted face. A crunch. A scream. Osei kicked the soldier square in the ribs, sending him sprawling. He pounced, unloading blow after blow, snarling like an animal.
“I'll kill you! I’ll—”
KRIU!
A white-hot lance of pain pierced his ribs. He collapsed to one knee with a strangled cry, clutching at the spreading burn along his side. His breath came ragged and broken.
But his hand stayed wrapped around his gun.
It hurt. God, it hurt. But pain meant he was alive.
Gritting his teeth hard enough to crack a molar, Osei lifted the barrel of his rifle and pressed it directly to the killer’s neck.
“Asshole."
He pulled the trigger. Yellow blood sprayed the side of the booth like a ruptured fruit. The trooper spasmed once, then fell limp.
Osei exhaled, trembling, but the brief relief shattered as he turned—
And found himself staring down the barrel of another magnetic rifle.
The new ADVENT trooper had him dead to rights. No cover. No time. He tried to raise his weapon, but his body was too slow. His injured side screamed.
The trooper’s finger tightened on the trigger—
BANG!
A single, high-powered round tore through the soldier’s chest. The force of it lifted him off his feet, sending him tumbling backward in a violent arc. He landed with a crunch, rifle skidding across the concrete. He writhed, hands grasping for his helmet.
“He’s calling reinforcements!” Shen shouted in Osei’s ear. “You have to stop him—”
But Peter didn’t move.
Because he wasn’t the one approaching.
From the haze of smoke and heat, John Bradford emerged, his boots hitting the pavement with purposeful weight. Two steps.
One upraised foot.
CRACK!
The trooper’s helmet shattered against the curb with a wet crunch, neck bending at an unnatural angle. The ADVENT soldier stopped twitching.
It was, Bradford would later admid, one of the most satisfying feelings of his life.
“...Transmission terminated.” Shen muttered after a pause. Her voice sounded tight. Not quite disapproving, but not celebratory, either.
A sharp, rapid fluttering sliced through the smoke-filled air; an almost insectoid hum that made Osei’s skin crawl. He immediately swung his rifle up, finger tightening on the trigger as the source descended from above and landed in a crouch with a sharp skreee.
Wings flexed. Eyes glowed. A strange stench rolled in with the wind.
Osei’s breath caught in his throat. What the hell was that thing?
Before he could open fire, Bradford stepped in, placing a firm hand over the barrel and pushing it down with authority.
"Stand down, rookie.” Central said, voice low but commanding. “He’s with us. One of the good guys. Friend of the alien that saved Mox. Callsign’s Stinkfly."
Osei blinked, confused and still heaving from adrenaline. “Stinkfly?”
The insectoid creature groaned audibly and crossed his clawed arms. “I know I’m charming and all, but can we skip the name-shaming and get back to the mission?” He glanced behind Osei, eyes narrowing on the still, motionless figure sprawled across the pavement. His antennae twitched.
“Is she... dead?”
The question struck harder than Osei expected. He lowered his rifle. His voice came out ragged.
"I’m afraid so.” He spat towards the bodies of the ADVENT troopers nearby. “They flanked us. Got the drop on her."
Bradford nudged one of the corpses with the toe of his boot. The soldier groaned softly, not dead, just dying. He reached down, gripped the body by the collar, and turned it over.
—And froze.
The trooper’s helmet had split open from Osei’s earlier blows, and beneath the cracked shell was a face.
Sort of.
The features were... off. Human at first glance, but the skin had an unnatural pallor, almost gray-green. Veins pulsed with sickly yellow-ish light under the surface. The eyes were wrong, slit-pupiled, and devoid of empathy.
“What the hell are these things?” Jane Kelly asked, her voice tense and wary as she approached from the rear, rifle still raised.
Bradford’s face was carved from stone as he rose to his full height.
“Us." He said coldly. “Or at least, they used to be. Human hybrids. ADVENT’s reward for loyalty and obedience. Gene therapy. Indoctrination. Brainwashing. The works." He shook his head. “Disgusting."
Kelly let out a quiet breath through her nose. “I heard whispers. Rumors. I never thought they might be real.”
“No one wanted to.” Bradford replied, eyes scanning the carnage around them. “But now we’ve seen it for ourselves.”
He glanced to the side, his gaze locking onto Ramirez’s body. She hadn’t moved. No pulse. No signs of life.
“Confirmed. We’re one down.” His voice lost some of its steel. “Ana’s gone.”
Osei closed his eyes for a beat, jaw clenched tight. He didn’t speak.
Stinkfly hovered closer, wings keeping him aloft with a low whine. He dipped his head respectfully, glancing at the fallen soldier, then back at the others.
“I'm sorry.” He said quietly. “But we need to keep moving. This city isn’t done throwing monsters at us.”
Bradford nodded grimly. “Agreed. We get to the clinic. We get the Commander. We finish what we started."
He turned, raising his rifle. “Let's move.”
The shrieking wail of engines tore through the air like a banshee’s cry, scattering birds and drawing every eye towards the sky. Bradford snapped around just in time to see an ADVENT transport drop from the clouds, anti-gravity drives glowing a furious crimson as it screamed down over the park’s walkway.
It was coming in hot, too hot.
The side doors hissed with steam as they slid open, revealing silhouettes crouched in the shadows, weapons already raised.
"Damn it!” Bradford hissed, waving sharply to the squad. He could already hear Kelly’s boots pounding behind him as she closed the distance. “Move! Now! Everyone to the clinic!”
“I’m on the door!" Kelly called out, surging past him with a determined scowl carved into her face. In one smooth motion, she pulled out her datapad, thumbs already flying across the screen as she patched into the clinic’s external security grid.
Bradford took a defensive stance, eyes fixed on the treeline beyond the park. He could feel the rumble of the enemy’s descent in his ribs, taste the ozone of their thrusters on the air.
“ADVENT incoming!" Osei’s voice crackled through the comms, strained and urgent. “Three of them—”
The report was cut off, drowned by the harsh barks of gunfire. Red tracers lit up the air. Bradford gritted his teeth, resisting the impulse to jump in blind.
“I’ve got you covered!” Stinkfly’s reedy voice echoed as the alien hero took to the sky, wings fluttering with a mechanical whine. He soared up to the clinic’s rooftop, his silhouette stark against the rising smoke. Gobs of bioluminescent mucus shot from his mandibles, gluing down one trooper in a sickening splatter; an easy target for Osei’s precise rifle fire.
“Got it!” Kelly called out triumphantly, jamming her datapad back into her pocket. Bradford didn’t hesitate, he slammed his shoulder into the clinic’s back entrance, wrenching it open with a grunt. The steel door banged against the wall as he swept his rifle left and right.
“Clear, so far.”
The clinic was dark. Shadows loomed along sterile walls, broken only by flickering emergency lights and the hum of still-functioning ADVENT machinery. Bradford’s heart pounded. He moved swiftly but cautiously, pushing past overturned chairs and shattered displays as he made for the rear chamber.
And then he stopped.
It was there.
Just as Outrider had described in her intel drop: a tall ADVENT containment pod, unlike the others they’d seen. Elder symbology glowed faintly across its curved chassis. It pulsed with life, its tendrils and cables webbed into the surrounding terminals like some biological tumor feeding on the clinic’s nerves.
Bradford approached slowly, reverently.
“That’s it." He whispered, his voice caught between awe and disbelief. “Exactly what she described."
“Are you sure?" Kelly asked through the comms, breathless.
He didn’t answer. He stepped up to the pod’s interface, where a soft glow pulsed around the control panel. But something inside him didn’t want to wait. Not one more second.
“I see a control panel." Shen said through the channel. “If you can connect, maybe I can—”
SMASH!
Bradford brought the butt of his rifle down like a hammer, shattering the pod’s faceplate in a spray of glass and biofluid. The containment gel spilled out with a slosh, washing over his boots.
He didn’t care.
He let his weapon drop, arms outstretched, catching the falling body of the figure within.
The Commander.
Clad in the familiar stasis suit, limp but unmistakably human beneath layers of preservation tech. Central caught him with the care of someone holding a fallen brother.
He laid him down gently, eyes locked on the figure’s breathing chest.
“That’s him.” He exhaled, almost unable to believe it. “We found him. After all these years...”
He turned towards the exit, resolve steeling in his spine.
“Next time, Shen. You can have your diagnostics next time." He gave the stilled pod one last look. “We’re done here. Mission accomplished. We’re bringing him home."
He keyed his comm.
“Package secured. Let’s exfil. Now.”
“Just go!” Peter Osei shouted, his boots skidding through the spreading pool of Ana Ramirez’s blood as he pivoted into a new firing angle. His heart thundered against his ribs, but his aim stayed sharp. The rifle kicked once, twice, one round grazed the plated chest of an approaching ADVENT officer, forcing the bastard to stumble back and take cover behind a support beam.
“I’ll try and stall them here!”
Above him, wings thrashed the air. The fluttering pitch of Stinkfly’s descent echoed in the haze of smoke and chaos.
"Osei!" The alien cried, circling low overhead. "You’ll die if you don’t retreat!"
Peter didn’t even look up. His jaw was clenched, blood roaring in his ears, and every inch of his expression was carved from duty and defiance.
“That’s one of the risks I accepted when I signed in. Go!” He barked, snapping his rifle back into firing position.
Another trooper tried edging toward the clinic’s side door, thinking himself clever. Peter saw the movement, adjusted, and let loose another burst that forced the ADVENT soldier to dive back behind a shattered bench. The enemy shouted something guttural in their synthetic, corrupted tongue, and Peter turned instinctively towards the sound.
BANG!
BANG!
The first slug hit high, right under his left clavicle. The second struck lower, crashing through his sternum with a meaty crack. For a moment, he didn’t even realize he’d been shot. His hands still gripped the rifle, though his knees buckled.
Then came the pain.
It crashed into him like a freight train, a deep, burning agony that set every nerve on fire. His chest spasmed. His lungs shuddered, deflated, crushed by internal bleeding. Blood flooded his windpipe, bitter and hot, and he gasped reflexively, but there was no air, only drowning.
His fingers lost their strength.
The rifle tumbled from his grasp.
He dropped to one knee, vision swimming, breath shallow and broken. Each attempt to inhale was answered by a cruel, wet gurgle in his throat. The edges of his sight darkened. His muscles shook. His mind reeled.
He couldn’t breathe.
His hand trembled, lifting feebly towards the wounds, but it was no use. Everything was moving too fast. Or maybe… everything had slowed down.
From above, Stinkfly hovered, eyes wide, his mouth parted in something between shock and sorrow.
But Osei didn’t see him anymore. His head dipped, lips parting in a whisper that never made it past the blood.
A final thought passed through him, not regret, but duty fulfilled.
And then Peter Osei collapsed beside his partner in the mud and smoke of the battlefield, still facing the clinic. Still watching the path to the Commander.
Still protecting.
“Crasher-One is down!” Jane Kelly shouted into the comms, her voice sharp with grief and urgency as she dove through the blasted door into the clinic’s rear chamber. A magnetic bolt lanced past where her head had been half a second earlier. She slammed into the wall, teeth gritted. “Sir, there’s no other exit—!”
“Make one!” Bradford snapped, his voice taut with exertion. He was already hoisting the stasis-suit-clad figure of the Commander onto his shoulders. Old friend, maybe. Ancient history for Bradford. But for Jane, it was a stranger they’d bled for. A ghost from before the world fell.
She didn’t question him.
“Right!” She growled, reaching to her belt and unclipping a grenade with practiced efficiency. “Breaching charge, out!” Jane tore the pin free and chucked the device against the far wall, steel and concrete pockmarked with age and neglect. “Heads down!”
The grenade clattered against the wall’s surface and blinked rapidly, pulsing red like a countdown to retribution. Jane turned away instinctively, shielding her eyes with an arm as she dove behind the overturned table. Bradford ducked back into the protective cover of the doorframe, the weight of the Commander sagging against his back like a ghost refusing to let go.
For a heartbeat, nothing.
Then—
BOOM!
The room lit up with fire and dust. The back wall disintegrated in a thunderclap of debris, blown outward in a fountain of fractured masonry and billowing smoke. The force of it rattled the cracked foundations. Sunlight pierced through the new opening like a blessing from the old world.
“All right!” Bradford roared, stumbling forward with the Commander slung over his shoulders like a prize from a war too long fought. Jane shouldered her weapon and turned to watch the door, gun at the ready.
“Move, Kelly!”
“Don’t have to tell me twice!” She snapped, backpedaling through the smoke and haze, laying down wild covering fire at the breach behind them. Magnetic rounds zipped past her head, searing the air with heat and pressure. One bolt struck a cabinet next to her, tearing it apart in a spray of splinters and glass.
A second grazed her shoulder. She hissed, ducked lower, her whole body taut with adrenaline. The shoes on her feet, high-grade tactical, expensive, made for city infiltration, were still not worth the damn price if they couldn’t dodge bullets.
“Damn it!”
She turned just in time to see Bradford stumble, the Commander nearly sliding off his back.
“Central?” She called, raising her rifle again.
“Flesh wound!” He barked through gritted teeth, clutching his leg with one hand while the other tightened on the Commander. “Where the hell is our evac?!”
“Right here!” Firebrand’s voice crackled in her ear, bold and defiant over the sound of wind and thrust.
Jane spun, eyes wide.
The Skyranger dropped from the sky like divine intervention, anti-grav engines burning gold as they leveled out just above the blasted courtyard. A wash of heat rolled over her from the turbines. Ropes descended like lifelines from the heavens.
“Come on, soldier!” Bradford yelled, his voice hoarse. He seized one of the dangling lines and looped it around his arm. The Commander shifted against his back, deadweight, but he didn't flinch. He didn't drop him.
Jane moved to cover him, firing short bursts from the hip as more ADVENT troops poured in. The return fire came in waves, red-hot bolts slamming into concrete, gouging chunks from the wall, carving pits into the ground near her boots. One scorched her sleeve. Another clipped her belt.
She pulled the trigger again, and heard the sickening click of an empty magazine.
“Shit!”
She slung her rifle over her shoulder, turned, and ran full-tilt towards the rising evac.
Shots chased her, hot and deadly. The air crackled around her ears. Something tugged at her ponytail; a magnetic bolt vaporized a pine cone beside her foot. The floor bucked and hissed beneath her boots.
The lines were rising.
"Jump for it!" Bradford shouted.
Jane didn’t hesitate. She sprang.
She reached, but her grip faltered.
Her hand scraped rope, then slipped.
She gasped as the line tore past her fingers. She was falling, doomed to crash against the bloodied stone—
“Gotcha!”
Two black claws gripped her shoulders, lifting her before she hit the ground. Jane cried out in alarm as she was hoisted into the air with a lurch, legs swinging helplessly behind her.
Stinkfly’s wings buzzed with frantic power, his four eyes wide and focused. He beat the air like a hummingbird on a battlefield, dragging them both upwards in a chaotic ascent towards the bay doors.
Jane clung to his chitinous arms with everything she had.
They crested the open hatch, and she scrambled, half climbing, half collapsing into the troop bay of the Skyranger. She rolled onto her back, panting hard, lungs burning with the recycled, purified air.
Above her, red light strobed.
Below, the battle still raged.
But for now, they were in the sky.
And they had the Commander.
A sharp beep-beep-beep cut through the tension-filled air of the Skyranger’s cabin, drawing the attention of both Central and Kelly. Even Firebrand glanced up from the cockpit, eyes flicking towards the rear through the transparent barrier of reinforced glass.
Stinkfly, hovering near the ceiling, narrowed all four of his orange compound eyes towards the pulsing light on his forehead. The Omnitrix’s symbol had begun to flash an ominous crimson, its glow strobing like a heartbeat, a warning just shy of a siren.
“Oh, finally!" The Lepidopterran muttered, wings twitching.
ZIUM!
A sudden column of blinding red energy enveloped the alien from head to toe, flaring out across the cargo bay like a miniature sun. The metal walls pulsed with reflected light. Everyone squinted or shielded their faces against the flare.
In a second, it was over.
The alien form was gone, replaced by the familiar silhouette of a lean, human figure. The light faded to nothing, leaving only the soft hum of flight and the afterimage of the burst.
Jacob Lee stood in Stinkfly’s place, shoulders rising and falling with controlled breaths. His eyes flicked down to the watch-like device embedded into his left wrist, now dimmed, with only the occasional blink of red light.
He grinned. “You definitely lasted longer than last time.” He murmured to the Omnitrix, then looked up and waved casually to the others. “Heyo! I don’t suppose XCOM’s accepting applications for part-time alien-transforming superheroes?”
Kelly stared at him.
Central blinked, his expression unreadable but unmistakably weary.
From the cockpit, Firebrand’s dry voice crackled over the comms. “Just when I hoped today couldn’t get any weirder…”
Chapter 3: Interrogating a Shapeshifter?
Chapter Text
Tension clung to the air like static as the Skyranger’s landing struts made contact with the Avenger’s hangar floor. The metallic thud reverberated through the ship’s frame, but the silence inside was louder.
Everyone was on edge.
Most of all, Jane Kelly.
Her hands moved with slow, deliberate precision as she loaded a shell into her shotgun, the familiar click-clack slicing through the quiet hum of cooling engines. The barrel settled not-so-casually on Jacob Lee, who sat still near the jump seats, arms resting on his knees, eyes scanning the interior as if cataloging escape routes he already knew he wouldn’t take.
As far as XCOM was concerned, Jacob Lee wasn’t a guest.
He was a question with too many variables, and until they had answers, he was a prisoner.
No one had explicitly told Jane to keep him at gunpoint, but neither had anyone told her not to. And in this war, silence was as good as an order. Central glanced her way once, his sharp eyes flickering over the weapon, but said nothing. His attention had already narrowed to one point alone: the Commander.
The ramp hissed and lowered. Cool, recycled air from the hangar rushed in as the outer hatch opened, and the world beyond returned in all its motion and noise. Among the first to rush towards them was Lily Shen, her dark hair swept back and eyes wide with urgency. She led a medical team bearing a stretcher that shimmered faintly under the glow of overhead lamps.
Jacob stiffened at the sight. It wasn’t the wounded Commander that made his gut twist; it was what came next. Procedures. Containment. Questioning.
Judgment.
As Kelly was summoned to help Central maneuver the stasis-suited man onto the stretcher, Jacob found himself momentarily alone. He sat in the relative quiet of the Skyranger’s rear compartment, the only sounds around him the soft whirring of servos and distant commands echoing from the hangar bay floor.
He exhaled, slow and even, trying to keep himself calm. Don’t shift. Don’t panic. Don’t do anything weird. Being human was harder than it looked.
That’s when he heard footsteps; calm, casual, confident.
He looked up just as Firebrand, still clad in her pilot’s harness, helmet glinting, descended from the cockpit. Her expression was unreadable, of course, but it was as if Jacob could detect kindness.
“Hey." She said, her voice softer than he expected.
Jacob blinked, then nodded once. “Hey.”
She came to a stop beside him, glancing towards the Commander’s stretcher as the medical team was almost ready to push him away.
“Everyone’s focused on getting the Commander stable.” She murmured. “Nobody’s stopping to thank you. Probably too rattled, or too busy trying to figure out what the hell you even are.”
Jacob looked away, jaw tensing slightly. “Not exactly new.”
Firebrand chuckled under her breath. Then, to his surprise, she gave him a light bump on the shoulder with her closed fist.
“So, thanks.” She said. “Whatever you are.”
He gave a small smile, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
It wasn’t much. But for the first time since stepping foot on the Avenger, Jacob Lee realized he had one thing that might get him through the next few hours alive.
“You!”
The commanding bark rang throughout the hangar, snapping both Jacob and Firebrand to attention. They turned to see Jane Kelly striding towards them with her shotgun held firm, her stance unmistakably military; alert, assertive, and not remotely in the mood for games.
Jacob raised an eyebrow as she approached, the tension behind her eyes making itself known with every purposeful step.
“I was told to keep an eye on you.” She stated, giving her shotgun a subtle nudge towards the corridor where the medical team had just wheeled the Commander away. “But everyone’s too tied up helping Central and Shen to play babysitter right now. So, lucky you! You’re getting a front-row seat to history in the making. Move.”
With a resigned exhale, Jacob patted his knees, then stood in one fluid motion, brushing invisible dust from his pants. “Guess I can’t complain about the view.”
He gave Firebrand a quick, mock-sincere salute, hand slicing upwards in a textbook military gesture. “See you around, Firebrand.”
The pilot smirked and responded with finger guns, complete with her own cheesy pew-pew sound effect. “Try not to get dissected.”
Jacob allowed himself a small laugh and then jogged to catch up with Jane, who was already marching ahead, wasting no time.
The two made their way deeper into the Avenger, navigating a maze of reinforced corridors and humming systems that pulsed with activity. Voices echoed; urgent, clipped, focused. It was clear that every operative on board understood the significance of what was happening. The Commander had returned.
And that changed everything.
As they passed through the pressure-sealed door into the medical ward, the ambient hum was replaced by a rush of frenetic energy. Red lights glared from overhead warning panels, bathing the room in an eerie glow. Terminals flashed with readouts too complex for anyone but Shen and Tygan to decipher, and even they were working with the sharpness of people who knew they had little margin for error.
Lily Shen stood hunched over the Commander’s stasis pod, fingers flying across a touchscreen. Beside her, Dr. Tygan hovered like a hawk, eyes darting between vitals, monitoring algorithms, and the subtle flex of preserved muscle tissue beneath the glass casing.
Jacob slowed instinctively, drawn in by the scene’s intensity. Central stood nearby, hastily discarding his battlefield armour in favour of his familiar grey utility vest, the one he always wore in the Commander’s presence.
But it was Tygan who noticed Jacob first.
Their eyes met. The scientist stilled, one gloved hand frozen mid-air above a diagnostic tube. For a heartbeat, he simply studied Jacob. There was no fear in the man’s gaze; only clinical curiosity. Evaluation. Calculation.
Jacob blinked once and tilted his head slightly, offering no words, only a silent question: You know, don’t you?
Had Tygan already reviewed the mission footage?
The doctor didn’t respond. Instead, he returned to his work with renewed urgency.
“Carefully!" He snapped at one of the assistants, who’d fumbled a cylindrical port as she guided it into the suit’s interlocking frame. “There are potentially decades of neuromuscular atrophy to contend with. If the Commander wakes before the brain’s metabolic centers stabilize, we could lose him.”
The assistant paled and nodded, adjusting her grip and moving more slowly.
Jacob turned to glance at Kelly, who’d remained a half-step behind him the entire way, her shotgun never wavering. Though her gaze occasionally flicked towards the Commander’s pod, her focus always returned to him.
Measured. Cautious. Dangerous.
Yes. Jacob thought. She was exactly as sharp as the game and its spin-off sequel suggested. Quiet steel behind calm eyes.
And while everyone else in the room was working to save one man, Jane Kelly was still doing her job, protecting everyone else from what Jacob might be.
He didn’t blame her.
“Ah... I wish we had more time.” Lily Shen murmured, her brow furrowed in frustration as she hovered over the console. The overhead lights painted streaks of blue across her face, amplifying the tension. “The chip embedded in the Commander’s neural cortex has been auto-evolving its encryption protocols. It’s rewriting itself faster than we can safely decode. I've been tracking the progression of its algorithms, and with just a few more hours, we could’ve anticipated the next layer of encryption and planned a more controlled extraction.”
“I do not disagree.” Dr. Tygan intoned, his voice steady but urgent, each syllable enunciated like a scalpel’s cut. He stood beside her, arms crossed behind his back, but his posture betrayed a tightly-wound tension. “However, the current neural activity suggests we are approaching a threshold. If we delay, we may risk irreversible synaptic degradation. There will be no Commander left to save if we hesitate. We must proceed with the removal procedure immediately.”
The final cable clicked into place with a soft clunk, like a lock sliding into position on a vault.
“We’re ready.” Lily confirmed, already grabbing a datapad from the cluttered desk behind her. Her fingers danced across its surface, pulling up biometric data, vitals, and synapse response charts. Her lips were a tight line.
“Good.” Central Officer Bradford straightened, brushing off his vest as though preparing to step into an old uniform for a final time. His tone was clipped, authoritative, but underpinned with something else; something personal. He took a slow breath, eyes falling on the motionless figure encased in the stasis suit. “Then let’s not waste another second.”
He turned towards the pod, the room’s tension congealing into a moment of reverent stillness.
And then, unexpectedly, his gaze cut to Jacob.
“I haven’t forgotten about you.” Bradford said, voice low but firm, like a warning in a storm. “Soon as this is over, we’re going to have ourselves a very long, very detailed conversation.”
Jacob met his stare without flinching. He even allowed himself a hint of a grin, though he raised his hands in a half-mocking surrender.
“I wouldn’t expect anything less, sir.” He replied, tone casual, but not disrespectful. “Professional curiosity and all.”
Bradford didn’t respond. He just turned back to the pod, lips pursed into a tight line, bracing himself.
The sterile hiss of pressurized air filled the room as Dr. Tygan delicately released the locking mechanism on the Commander’s faceplate. The mask detached with an audible clack-hiss, sliding away with surprising ease for something that had entombed a man for decades.
Jacob stood rigid, just behind Kelly’s vigilant shoulder, watching the procedure with curiosity carefully tempered by self-preservation. He wasn’t about to lean forward for a better view, not with Jane Kelly’s shotgun still loosely aimed in his general direction, ready to swing back to center at the first twitch of movement she didn’t like.
“Remarkable." Tygan murmured, reverently placing the mask on a sterilized tray. He adjusted his glasses with the back of a gloved knuckle and leaned slightly towards the pod’s interior. “They’ve preserved his neuro-physiological integrity exceptionally well. Based on initial scans, I suspect the stasis pod employed some form of bioadaptive nanite matrix, possibly with regenerative or even self-replicating cellular structures. Minimal degradation.”
From beside him, Bradford folded his arms, exhaling through his nose. His gaze remained locked on the Commander's face, unreadable.
“Just like twenty years ago." He said at last, his voice lower, softer, almost hollow. “We were still calling it a war back then. Still pretending we had a fighting chance.”
His eyes dropped to the grated floor, distant and heavy with something Jacob couldn't quite name; nostalgia, guilt, loss. Perhaps all three. “We had no idea what was coming.”
A series of shrill, rhythmic beeps emanated from the console overhead, snapping everyone’s attention forward. Shen furrowed her brow at the biometric readout.
“Positive response from the cerebral cortex.” She confirmed, scrolling rapidly. “We have brainwave activity aligning with the pre-invasion baseline. No rejection. No collapse. It's working.”
“Excellent.” Tygan's eyes gleamed with the fervor of scientific purpose. He reached for a modified Skulljack resting in a sterilized tray beside him. Unlike the field model used in combat, this one was sleeker, more surgical, less like a weapon and more like a key. Still, the way it extended its razor-tipped filament was far from comforting.
Jacob raised a cautious hand, his voice tentative. “Okay, hold on a second… Are you seriously planning to jam that thing into his mouth to remove the chip? I mean, logically speaking, wouldn’t the nape of the neck be a more, you know, informed choice?”
Tygan barely glanced up from his work, expression cool and clinical. “The original implant was deployed via oral insertion. Any attempt to reverse the procedure must follow the same neurological pathway to avoid triggering the chip’s self-defense protocols. Deviating from that route could result in catastrophic cerebral trauma.”
His tone was polite, even cordial. But it was also final.
“And now, if you’ll excuse us, we are about to undertake one of the most delicate neurological procedures in XCOM’s history. Perhaps… do try not to distract us?”
Bradford, ever the enforcer, threw Jacob a look that required no translation; Shut up and stay out of the way. It was a look honed by decades of battlefield authority and layered in enough silent threat to cow even the most confident resistance fighter.
Jacob raised both hands again, palms outwards in universal surrender. “Message received." He muttered. “No objections here.”
He stepped back, careful not to provoke Kelly.
The sickening crunch of metal puncturing flesh echoed through the medbay, and Jacob flinched instinctively. He couldn't see the gory details—Bradford's broad form stood planted between him and the operating table like a sentinel—but the wet, visceral sound painted a vivid picture in his mind. That noise… That wasn’t something you just un-heard.
“Readings are spiking, he’s destabilizing!” Lily’s voice cracked with urgency, her fingers flying across the tablet as she processed the streaming data. “Brain activity's surging past safe levels. If we don’t shut this down, he’s going to code!”
“Of course he is." Tygan snapped, frustration bleeding into panic as he hurled the Skulljack prototype into a sterile tray. The metal clattered and spun to a stop with an accusatory rattle. “These implants weren’t meant to be removed. They were built to last a lifetime, or end it. What we’re doing is medically reckless at best—”
A violent surge of electricity cut him off.
The lights dimmed, consoles blinked, and then the entire medical ward was illuminated in strobing red as arcs of blue-white current spat from the Commander's pod. Sparks burst from a nearby panel, and everyone instinctively ducked or raised their arms to shield their faces. Kelly, true to form, brought her shotgun to bear as if she could threaten a short circuit into submission.
“No, no, no—damn it, no!” Lily darted around the pod, eyes glued to her readouts, the glow of her datapad casting deep shadows across her worried face. “The implant’s initiating a full core overload, it’s trying to fry itself and the brain with it!”
Bradford spun towards her, jaw clenched tight. “What the hell is happening?!”
Tygan swore under his breath, teeth bared in frustration. “The stabilizing tubes we inserted weren’t just for the Commander, they were bridging us into the chip’s own network. Now that we’ve made progress, the implant’s activated a fail-safe protocol. It’s resisting us, rejecting interference.” He shook his head, tone grim. “Unless we reestablish access to its data stream and suppress the countermeasures, Shen can’t extract it. We’re going to lose him.”
That wasn’t how this was supposed to go.
Jacob stepped forward, his voice cutting through the chaos with unexpected steadiness. “You need another way in, right? You said you can’t reconnect to the chip?” He raised his arm, and with a soft mechanical whirr, the Omnitrix blossomed open, dial spinning, green and alive.
Every eye in the room snapped to it.
Bradford's glare sharpened. “What are you doing?”
“I’ve got something that might work.” Jacob said, trying to keep the tremor out of his voice. “But you’ve gotta trust me. Just this once.”
There was a long, silent beat, one suspended between life and death, suspicion and hope.
Bradford didn’t move. His eyes flicked from the glowing device to the spasming form of the Commander, then to the monitors, which now screamed with flat-lining tones and alert codes.
Then he sighed, slow and grim. “What do you have in mind?”
Jacob didn’t answer with words. His hand hovered over the dial. One flick, one spin, and the holographic silhouettes rotated until they landed on Upgrade.
He slammed his palm down.
A blinding flash of green enveloped Jacob Lee in an instant.
The transformation began beneath the skin; lines of dark circuitry racing like ink up his limbs, wrapping his body in segmented armor formed from living metal. Glowing green stripes pulsed with raw energy, snaking around his limbs before climbing his neck and jaw. As his face vanished beneath the morphing substance, a single, circular eye flared open, bright, unblinking, and alien.
Where Jacob had once stood now towered Upgrade, a gleaming, biomechanical sentinel. The back of his body shimmered with black alloy patterned in vibrant green circuit-like streaks, while his front was a seamless, bone-white surface, gleaming like polished ceramic. His single luminous eye blinked as if calibrating to its surroundings.
And then, Jacob’s voice resonated from deep within the synthetic form, layered with static, mechanical echoes.
“Time for a big upgrade!”
Upgrade lunged forward, melting into a slick mass of black and green techno-slime that slithered up and over the main console. In seconds, he engulfed the entire unit, stretching and seeping into its inner circuits like invasive fluid code. Monitors glitched, lights surged, then steadied.
The black mass pulsated once, and a single green circle blinked open from the surface.
“Stabilization curve reversing." Lily said, breath catching in her throat. “He’s… he’s neutralizing the overload.”
Tygan leaned closer, unable to disguise the awe in his voice. “Incredible… he’s not just halting the surge, he’s interfacing with Advent firewalls and rewriting them. Real-time adaptation. This… this is beyond hybridization.”
He grabbed the final Skulljack, his movements swift and decisive. “I’m initiating the final extraction procedure.” He paused, glancing back towards Upgrade’s central eye. “Whatever you are, hold that encryption suppression steady.”
“Trying!” Upgrade’s voice buzzed with exertion. “But this system is ancient—and human-coded. The alien overrides are hitting me like digital artillery!”
Thirty seconds. That’s all they had.
“Tygan?” Bradford’s voice cut through the tension like a knife. He stood with his fists clenched, eyes locked on the Commander as if sheer force of will might anchor the man’s life to reality.
“I have it!” Tygan shouted triumphantly. With a grunt, he yanked the device free from the Commander’s mouth; a small, jagged-edged chip. “Chip is out! I repeat, chip is out!”
“Engage protocol now!” Bradford barked.
Lily, already in motion, slammed her hand against a command panel. “Engaging neural re-sequencing! Power divert... now!”
Suddenly, arcs of wild electricity burst from the machinery. Consoles exploded in showers of sparks, and a surge of energy raced through the system, overwhelming Upgrade’s tenuous control.
The biomechanical coating liquefied in an instant and collapsed from the console, the black and green mass folding in on itself as it disconnected violently from the mainframe. With a mechanical grunt, Upgrade tumbled backwards, landing hard on one knee.
The Omnitrix on his chest began to beep rapidly.
“Uh-oh…”
A final flash of red swept through the room, and just like that Jacob Lee was back, breathing hard and glancing at his palms as if to ground himself in his own skin again.
Bradford turned towards him, eyes flaring with something between suspicion and reluctant gratitude.
Jacob forced a smirk, still on one knee. “Someone better tell me I didn’t just waste that cool entrance.”
Behind them, the Commander’s monitors began to steady. The rapid, dangerous pulses began to slow. Green replaced red.
Tygan approached the Commander with clinical precision, a small penlight in hand. His brow furrowed in focus as he leaned in, gently pulling back one eyelid and observing the response to the flash of white light. Bradford stood firm on the opposite side of the medical table, arms crossed, every muscle in his jaw locked in anticipation.
“Pupillary response within normal parameters." Tygan straightened, nodding with practiced assurance. “Vitals are returning to baseline. The procedure...” he added with emphasis. “...is complete.”
A breath finally left Bradford’s chest. Relief didn’t soften him much, it never did, but there was a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He leaned forward, lowering his voice as if speaking to an old friend in a quiet bar, not a man who’d just been dragged back from the brink.
“Told ’em it’d take more than a twenty-year nap and some alien machinery to keep you down.” He placed a firm hand on the Commander’s shoulder. “Welcome back, Commander.”
From across the room, Jacob barely managed to stifle a grin. He raised one hand to his mouth, pretending to cough. That line, it had sounded badass in the game’s cutscene. But now, hearing it live, delivered with gravel in Bradford’s throat and war-worn grit in his voice?
Even cooler.
He almost clapped.
Almost.
“I would recommend transferring the Commander to his quarters for rest.” Tygan said, wiping a sheen of sweat from his brow and massaging the back of his shaved head. “The body has survived the trauma, but the mind... well, it needs peace. We will continue to monitor his vitals remotely, ensuring his recovery without infringing on his privacy.”
He turned slowly, and this time the shift in tone was unmistakable. “But as for the rest of us… I believe we have an unexpected guest to formally address.”
Aw, man.
Jacob winced. The words weren’t even out of Tygan’s mouth before every gaze in the room rotated towards him like turret tracking lasers. Shen’s expression was a that of raw engineering curiosity. Tygan’s, cool and analytic. Central’s... well, Central just looked like he hadn’t stopped suspecting him.
Even Kelly cocked the shotgun; not pointed, but clearly still in play.
Jacob smiled awkwardly and gave a sheepish two-fingered salute. “So… does this mean I don’t get a fruit basket?”
Silence.
Then, finally, Bradford gave a long, slow exhale. “Let’s move this conversation somewhere more secure.”
He didn’t raise his voice, but it wasn’t a suggestion.
The mood shifted. The urgency was gone, but tension remained, focused now on Jacob. Suspicion filled the silence where relief had been seconds ago.
Jacob sighed and followed as the eyes stayed on him and the room began to thin out, techs retreating, medical staff returning to their duties.
Yeah.
He definitely didn’t like the way they were looking at him.
The interrogation room looked like something straight out of a low-budget spy thriller.
Bleached white walls. A single metal table bolted to the floor and two uncomfortable chairs that squeaked every time someone shifted in them. It even smelled sterile, like recycled air mixed with faint ammonia. All it was missing was a dangling lightbulb and a half-empty glass of water.
Jacob Lee sat in one of the two chairs with his legs stretched out, boots crossed at the ankle, fingers tapping out a rhythm of impatience on the cold tabletop. He’d seen this scene in plenty of movies before,; and usually, the next part involved yelling and someone throwing a chair.
Kelly stood by the door like a stone statue. Still armed. Still watching him with the kind of wary focus one usually reserved for mutons or live grenades. Jacob gave her a lazy smile. She didn’t return it.
The silence lingered.
A hiss. The door unlocked.
Here they came.
Central Officer Bradford entered first, a datapad tucked casually beneath one arm, though his eyes were anything but relaxed. Tygan followed, clutching a leather-bound notebook like it was a medical chart. Lily Shen brought up the rear, a slim tablet in one hand and a calculating gleam in her eyes.
No one spoke at first.
Bradford took the seat across from Jacob. Shen and Tygan flanked him, choosing to stand. They weren’t here to intimidate, necessarily, but they were certainly here to make a statement.
Jacob raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, leaning back just far enough to project confidence without tipping over.
The Omnitrix on his wrist remained inert. Still recharging. Still on cooldown. Still useless if this turned ugly.
But Bradford didn’t seem like the type to throw the first punch. Tygan was too professional, and Shen… well, Shen looked more likely to prod him than shoot him. He took a breath and let his casual expression settle into place.
"Is this the part where someone asks if I want a lawyer?" He drawled.
Bradford didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.
Instead, he opened the datapad and began scrolling. "Let’s start simple." He said. "Name, origin, and exactly what the hell you are."
Jacob smiled faintly. Here we go.
"Jacob William Lee." He began calmly, folding his hands over the table. "Born January 18th, 2010, in New York City. Recently disillusioned by ADVENT’s propaganda and lies. I severed ties and set out to locate the Resistance leadership... to offer my assistance in reclaiming Earth from its occupiers."
He tilted his head slightly, the corners of his mouth twitching into a knowing smirk.
"I imagine you'd like to hear about them; the transformations. And why I have intel even your field operatives shouldn't know exists."
It was a calculated move. In truth, he'd been born in 1999, but claiming to be thirty-six while looking barely past his last twenties would raise far more questions than it answered. Better to bend reality gently, rather than snap it in half.
Bradford made a noncommittal grunt, his fingers flying across the datapad with the mechanical precision of a man who’d filled out one form too many during the early years of the war. He didn’t look up.
"Our lead scientist..." Bradford motioned with a jerk of his head towards Tygan, who stood quietly recording his own notes by hand, "...has noticed you manipulating the device on your wrist. What’s its role in your transformations?"
Smart guy. Jacob mused. Can’t slip anything past the egghead.
"I found it in the woods." He said, extending his left arm for display. The device gleamed under the sterile lights; alien, but not of the Elders. "It was sealed in some kind of capsule, maybe a pod. I call it the Omnitrix. It lets me shift forms by rewriting my genetic code to match different alien species."
He demonstrated, clicking the button to raise the dial with a soft chwik. Shen instinctively leaned closer, eyes narrowing in a mix of curiosity and reverence.
"Press the core, rotate the dial..." Jacob narrated as he mimicked the sequence. "...and select the form best suited for the mission. In a pinch, I can turn the tide of an encounter."
Bradford raised an eyebrow, skepticism plain across his face. "A watch that turns you into aliens? You’ll forgive me, but we’ve spent decades cataloguing every known invader on this planet. And I don’t recall anything resembling that... ‘Upgrade’ thing you became."
Jacob shrugged. "Is it really so hard to believe the universe is bigger than the Elders? That they may have crossed paths with other civilizations beyond your understanding?"
He leaned forward, tone even. "I’m not saying they built it. Frankly, I don’t know who did. But whoever made the Omnitrix, I think they wanted it hidden; somewhere remote, hard to find, harder to misuse."
Bradford didn’t answer. Instead, he turned towards Tygan.
"Doctor. Is any of this remotely plausible?"
Tygan had stopped writing, his pencil now pointing towards Jacob’s wrist as though it were a relic under glass. “The Elders excel at genetic manipulation." He began thoughtfully. "Consider the evolution of Vipers into Thin Men; organisms designed to infiltrate and adapt. Shifting DNA is not beyond their reach."
He tapped the pencil against his notebook. "The real question is: is the device bonded to him?"
"I’d say yes." Jacob replied. "It doesn’t come off. Not without a fight."
He flexed his fingers, as if to reinforce the point. "Once, a Stun Lancer tried to cut it off. There was a... feedback pulse. Vaporized his baton in an instant." He gave them a quick, casual shrug. "So unless you're trying to amputate me for science, I’d suggest you don’t test that."
A beat of silence followed, heavy with shifting glances.
Shen tilted her tablet back slightly. "Self-defense mechanisms. Autonomous, too?"
Jacob nodded once.
Bradford’s face was unreadable. Tygan scratched a few more lines into his notebook, lips pursed, and Shen was already mentally designing scanning rigs, if her glinting eyes were any indication.
Jacob rested his elbows on the table again and tried not to look too pleased with himself.
"How did you gain access to our intel?"
Bradford's voice was even, but the weight behind it pressed on the room like gravity.
Jacob smacked his lips, only mildly sheepish. “Isn’t it obvious? Upgrade can interface with almost any form of tech. I jacked in through one of your Resistance relays and pulled what I needed.”
No one looked impressed. Shen stiffened slightly. Tygan stopped writing and looked directly at him.
It was a serious breach, no one needed to say it out loud.
Bradford stayed quiet, rubbing his chin. “So. You were also Wildmutt… and Stinkfly?”
Jacob gave a light shrug. “I’ve got an alien for every situation, sir.” He exhaled. “Look, I want to help. You’ve seen what I can do, and I’ve still got seven more forms locked and loaded. There are ten total in the Omnitrix.”
Bradford stared at him for a few seconds, thinking. Then gave a short nod.
“While what you’ve done would normally earn the equivalent of a court martial…” Central set the datapad down with a flat thud. “I can’t overlook the fact you saved both Corporal Kelly and the Commander. That earns you a measure of trust. For now.”
He leaned forward slightly.
“Do you have any experience with firearms?”
Jacob blinked. “Uh… no?”
Bradford stood up slowly, the chair legs scraping faintly on the floor. “You’ll be an asset in the field, sure, but that watch of yours has limits. A recharge period.”
He looked away in thought before continuing. “You’ll need a fallback option. A sidearm, at the very least. Think of like our Sharpshooters.”
“Cool." Jacob nodded, trying to hide the uncertainty in his tone. “So I just… go to the shooting range and ask one of your rookies to walk me through the basics? I mean, they usually miss their shots under pressure, no offense, but I assume they do know how to hold a gun, yeah?”
Bradford didn’t smile, but his eyes twitched with what might have been the ghost of one.
“I had someone else in mind.” He pulled up a profile on his datapad and tapped it. “Since the rookies are out there earning their stripes and the Commander needs rest, we’ll borrow someone with less to do.”
“Who?”
“Firebrand.”
Jacob blinked. “Wait—the pilot?"
That was unexpected.
He turned towards Tygan. “Might I ask why our only airlift specialist should be pulled from her post for this?”
Tygan looked to Central. Bradford didn’t hesitate.
“Because this will get her ass moving instead of drinking at the bar and waiting for the next evac call.”
There was a spark of frustration behind his words, though not unkind. Maybe even protective.
“She’s the best pilot we’ve got. Hell, maybe better than Big Sky back during the first war. But she’s hot-headed. Too sharp for her own good, and too grounded between flights.” He gave a small nod. “Better to keep her engaged than let her spiral.”
Jacob let that sink in.
“Well. Guess we’re both strays with nowhere else to go.”
“Central, if I may?” Tygan cleared his throat and gestured between himself and Jacob. “I would like to conduct a full scientific analysis of each of Mr. Lee’s transformation forms, assuming, of course, that he consents to the procedure. The data could provide valuable insights not only for the scientific archive but for potential battlefield applications. It would also allow us to present a comprehensive assessment to the Commander before any future deployment.”
Jacob leaned back slightly, considering, then shrugged. “Sure. I figured you'd be interested in that goo Stinkfly spat.”
Tygan nodded, adjusting his glasses. “Yes. That secretion displayed adhesive, corrosive, and kinetic properties all at once. Highly unusual. However, I also recall you referring to that form by another name?”
Jacob gave a small nod. “The Omnitrix gives me a kind of baseline knowledge for every species I transform into: their biology, instincts, and even what they call themselves. Lepidopterrans is their actual species name. ‘Stinkfly’ is just a name I came up with so I wouldn’t have to say Lepidopterran out loud in the middle of a fight.”
“Understandable.” Tygan said. “We’ll use the simpler names for field briefings, but retain the originals in our scientific records. That knowledge could make future encounters significantly more manageable.”
Bradford shifted his stance, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “Fair point. If you’re going to be working with us directly, we’ll need to formalize your place in the roster.”
He glanced down at the datapad in his hand. “Starting as a rookie would technically be standard, but given your performance on the field and what you just did for the Commander, that would be underselling it.”
Bradford straightened, tone firm but approving. “Effective immediately, you’re being assigned the rank of Corporal. Do you have a callsign in mind?”
Jacob didn’t hesitate. “’Slipstream’ will do, sir.”
Bradford looked him in the eye for a beat, then extended a gloved hand.
“Welcome to XCOM, and our war to take Earth back, Corporal.”
Jacob reached out and grasped the hand, shaking it once, firmly. He winced slightly. Bradford’s grip was no joke. The man was built like he could still tear through a Muton squad barehanded.
Still, the Shapeshifter kept his expression neutral. “Glad to be here.”
Chapter 4: Learning the ropes
Chapter Text
Screams...
Explosions...
The hologlobe flickered wildly, projections distorting as arcs of static crackled across its surface.
The ceiling above them groaned, then collapsed.
The base was under attack. They were under attack.
"Doctor!" Someone shouted, scrambling towards Raymond Shen, who was struggling to remain upright, gripping the edge of a console as blood trickled from his temple.
But where was Vahlen?
He turned towards the entrance to the bridge just in time to see a Muton storm through, bayonet raised. Instead of driving the weapon through him, the alien slammed an elbow directly into his face. A flash of pain, and then, darkness.
"Vahlen!"
"Easy."
Samuel O'Connell jolted upright with a start, heart hammering in his chest. His breath caught in his throat as the echo of screams faded into silence. His eyes darted around the dimmed room, trying to make sense of what was real.
A firm hand was on his shoulder, steadying, and not restraining. Familiar.
He turned sharply. "Central?" He asked, voice raw and disbelieving. "Is that you?"
The man standing beside him nodded, a small but genuine smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Bradford leaned back slightly in his chair, which creaked under the shift of his weight.
"That's me, Commander." He said, the relief in his voice plain. "It’s damn good to have you back."
O'Connell exhaled slowly, tension bleeding from his shoulders. He raised a gloved hand to his chest, brushing over the unfamiliar texture of tactical gear layered over a new uniform.
He scowled.
"Who dressed me?" He muttered. "I swear, if anyone tried anything while I was unconscious—"
Bradford chuckled, shaking his head. "Good to see that sarcasm survived cryostasis intact."
"Cryostasis?" The Commander frowned. "How long was I out?"
"Just one day" Central replied with a shrug. He stood and began pacing across the room with a purposeful stride. "Long enough for us to get the base prepped for your arrival. We’ve been busy." He paused, tone darkening slightly. "Lost two rookies during the last op."
O'Connell sat up straighter.
Bradford continued, glancing back over his shoulder. "But we picked up a possible replacement. Promising skillset. Let’s just say… special abilities."
He raised his hands and made air quotes around the words, his expression carefully unreadable.
Samuel looked around the room. It was warm, comfortable, almost identical to his old quarters beneath the surface of XCOM’s first base. But it wasn’t the same. Something was off. A little too clean. A little too new.
“How’s the Council?” He asked, eyes still scanning the unfamiliar yet familiar space. “Shen? Vahlen?”
Bradford let out a slow breath, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Sir, you have to understand—”
“How many years?” O’Connell cut him off, voice low but direct. His hands tightened around the edge of the blanket wrapped over his chest. “How long, Central?”
Bradford met his eyes. “Twenty, sir." He said with a quiet nod, as if trying to soften the blow. “It’s March first. Twenty thirty-five.”
O’Connell didn’t need a calendar to confirm it. Everything in the room—design, tech, even the faint hum of the power systems—told the same story.
He exhaled through his nose, then reached up to pinch the bridge of his eyes. “Figures.” He muttered. “Well, hell of a way to wake up.” He waved towards the chair. “Sitrep, Central. You’re talking to a man who just lost two decades of his life. You mentioned cryostasis and a… rookie?”
Bradford nodded and sat down again, resting his elbows on his knees. “We pulled you out in Paris. Acted on solid intel the moment it came in. I deployed with two rookies: Osei and Ramirez. Good soldiers, but without your leadership, it was rough.”
He paused, jaw clenching slightly. “At least this time, I was in the field. Not sitting behind a desk.”
O’Connell frowned. “John, you’re not still carrying Berlin around, are you? Christ. That was twenty years ago. I was the one in charge. I was the one they scapegoated when the Council turned tail.”
Bradford cracked a faint smile. “Yeah. I guess we can finally agree on that."
He leaned back in the chair, adopting a more formal posture. “Still, luck was on our side. We had help. A volunteer found us and joined the mission. He’s the reason we got out alive, and the reason you’re still breathing.”
O’Connell followed Bradford’s gesture towards a nearby monitor. A digital scan of his skull was displayed in high resolution, highlighting the former location of the neural implant.
“What do you mean he saved my life? Is he a recruit?” Samuel paused, rubbing his jaw and wincing. “Is that why it hurts like hell?”
Bradford gave a short laugh. “Partially. But he’s no ordinary recruit.” He reached for the datapad clipped to his vest and passed it over. “His name’s Jacob William Lee. Kid’s got a device—a watch of sorts—that lets him transform into alien lifeforms. Not like the ones we fought during the invasion. Something entirely different.”
O’Connell stared at him.
Bradford held the look.
“You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was.”
The Commander lowered his eyes to the datapad. There it was: a full report, complete with mission footage and debriefing summaries. Images flashed across the screen: an insectoid creature spitting slime at an alien patrol, tearing apart a black trooper with its claws, and shielding Central and a woman in a ballcap from a collapsing structure.
“…The hell am I looking at?” O’Connell muttered, zooming in.
“That’s Stinkfly. Or at least, that’s what he calls that form.”
“And you’re just rolling with this?”
“We didn’t have much of a choice." Bradford said plainly. “He’s not ADVENT. Doesn’t work for the Elders. He saved Kelly in the field and kept you alive through a procedure that should’ve killed you. The science team’s gonna run tests, but frankly? He might be the wild card we’ve been praying for.”
O’Connell stared at the footage for a few more seconds, then sat back and handed the datapad over.
“ADVENT.” O’Connell read the name off the footage, rolling the word over with distaste. “What the hell is that?”
“A global regime.” Bradford replied. “One-world government under alien control. The Elders sit at the top, but they don’t show themselves much anymore. Speaker Innmann is the face of the operation, though he’s nothing more than a mouthpiece. They control the cities.”
“Ah.” O’Connell raised a finger, as if struck by sudden inspiration. “So we’re the insurgents now? Running black ops and blowing stuff up like good ol’ Bin Laden?”
“Freedom fighters." Bradford corrected evenly. “There’s a difference.”
“Right. Just like how ISIS hated us because the West was full of hypocrites.” The Commander leaned back against the pillows. “Not seeing much daylight between then and now.”
Bradford didn’t take the bait. “The aliens keep people compliant with propaganda and fear. They promise a better life inside their city centers; plenty of food, clean water, jobs, even advanced gene therapy. And for the average person, it all looks… legitimate.”
“Sounds like Eden.” Samuel said flatly. “Walking the Earth, no less.”
Bradford’s expression turned cold. “Not when people start disappearing.”
That made O’Connell pause. “…What?”
“I’ve had the same doubts. I’ve even questioned the fight." Central admitted. “But I met someone who used to work inside New Providence, one of their major hubs. He saw the truth up close. People vanish; entire families, gone without a trace. ADVENT blames us, of course. Says the Resistance is to blame for the abductions.”
The Commander frowned deeply. “And they expect people to believe that?”
Bradford exhaled through his nose. “They’ve got the PR machine to sell it. And they do. I almost wish the numbers they blame on us were accurate. If we had that many people defecting and joining the Resistance, we’d already be kicking down the Elders’ front door.”
Samuel looked left and right before tossing the blanket aside. “Guess I don’t have a choice.” He swung his legs over the edge of the bed. “Better to start moving than sit around wasting time. Anything new around the base?”
Bradford glanced down at his datapad and swiped to the next page. “Doctor Tygan’s been asking to speak with you. He’s in the lab, says he’s got some intel and research updates you’ll want to see.” Central looked back up, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “Just like the old days, huh?”
“Almost.” The Commander said, flexing his hands slightly. “We never got very far before the HQ got hit. Vahlen didn’t even finish the laser schematics before the aliens tore through us.” He paused. “So... did we invent that tech ourselves, or what?”
“Magnetic rifles are standard-issue for ADVENT now. Seems like they’ve taken weapons development far past what we had.” Bradford shrugged. “Maybe Tygan can reverse-engineer something useful. Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Samuel placed his feet on the cold floor and began to stand, only to be hit by a sharp bolt of pain running up his spine and down his legs. He grunted and nearly collapsed, catching himself on the bedframe.
Bradford was at his side in an instant, gripping his shoulders to stabilize him. “Easy, sir.”
“What the hell is wrong with me?” O’Connell gritted his teeth. “Why do I feel like I just got hit by a goddamn truck?”
“You’ve been suspended in cryostasis for two decades.” Central ran his hands from Samuel’s torso down to his knees, checking for any signs of instability. The Commander flinched at the contact. Bradford nodded. “Tygan warned us there’d be side effects, even with ADVENT’s medical advancements.”
Bradford walked over to the far side of the room and picked up something leaning against the wall. He returned and held it out.
Samuel stared at it.
“…A cane?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and offense. He slapped the offered item aside. “You’re kidding me. I’m not some fragile old man, Bradford.”
“It’s temporary.” The XO replied calmly. “Until your bones and muscles get used to full activity again. You’ve been dormant longer than most people stay retired.”
O’Connell scowled, but didn’t argue further.
“Look at the upside.” Bradford added with a dry chuckle. “ADVENT’s gene therapy kept your body in near-perfect condition. You haven’t aged a day.”
Samuel snorted, standing with effort through the usage of his not-so-innovative object. “Yeah, lucky me.”
The soldiers were going to be thrilled to see their fearless leader limping around like a retiree.
“Whatever. If it makes you and the rest of the 'concerned parties' feel better.” He waved Bradford off dismissively. “Go on, John. You’ve got a war to help me run. Also, be sure to send that kid with the superpowers to Tygan as I go visit him. I wanna shake hands with my saviour.”
Bradford gave a crisp salute, posture just as sharp as it had been twenty years prior. “Yes, sir.”
He made it halfway through the doorway, then paused and looked back.
“It’s damn good to have you back, Commander.”
O’Connell didn’t respond right away. He just stared at the door after it hissed shut, then glanced down at the cane in his hand.
“…Yeah." He whispered. “Let’s hope it still matters.”
Jane Kelly stared down at the shotgun cradled in her arms. She shifted her grip, cocking it to the side, testing the balance and weight. A quick glance at the magazine confirmed it was ready. With a calm breath, she raised the weapon, centered the iron sights on her target, and squeezed the trigger.
BAM!
The ADVENT cardboard silhouette exploded in a shower of splinters, its chest and left shoulder obliterated in an instant. Jane gave a satisfied nod, stepping back to assess the shot. Clean. Brutal. Just the way she liked it.
She adjusted her stance, side-stepping along the firing line to test different angles. Before she could fire again, a low whistle interrupted her focus.
“I’ve gotta say…” Drawled a voice beside her, tinged with a thick Scottish accent. “That gun’s not subtle, but it sure as hell gets the job done.”
She turned slightly to see rookie Derek Brown, arms crossed, a lopsided grin on his face. He studied the remains of the target with raised eyebrows. “I hope I get something like that when the promotion comes through. What did you say your class was again?"
“Ranger.” Jane replied without looking at him, racking the shotgun again and sliding in another shell. “Close-quarters, fast strikes. Not even a Muton could take this full blast and keep coming.”
Derek hummed thoughtfully, stroking the edge of his scruffy blond beard. “I wouldn’t count on that. Those bastards aren’t just muscle: they’re trained, armored, and smart enough to take cover. Not like the Berserkers. Mutons know how to take a hit and stay standing.”
Jane glanced over her shoulder, raising a brow. “Spoken like someone who’s never met one up close.”
“I'm just saying.” He shrugged. “You don’t bring a knife to a war, yeah? You bring a plan... and probably backup.”
She smirked at that but said nothing. Instead, she turned back to the range, adjusting her stance once more.
“Guess we’ll find out soon enough."
BAM!
The target didn’t stand a chance.
“I heard we’ve got a special rookie now." Derek said, glancing around the shooting range. “Saved your life during Gatecrasher, didn’t he? Got recruited on the spot. What was his name again?”
BAM!
Jane’s next shot went wide, the pellet scatter chewing into the wall behind the silhouette. She clicked her tongue in irritation, muttering a curse under her breath as she readjusted her aim.
Derek winced at the sharp report of the gunfire. He fumbled for a nearby pair of headsets, slapping them over his ears with both hands. “Right. Lesson learned." He muttered.
“Jacob Lee.” Jane finally replied, still eyeing the target downrange. “If there’s such a thing as a perfect soldier, he’s damn close. The guy can actually turn into aliens; ones we’ve never encountered before. During the evac, I slipped from the rope. He grabbed me mid-fall, and pulled me back up by the shoulders like it was nothing.”
She paused, lowering the shotgun slightly as she rubbed the back of her neck, a little sheepish. “Now that I think about it, I never actually thanked him for that. Guess I was too focused on following Central’s orders. I was assigned to keep an eye on him right after.”
“Transformations, huh?” Derek tilted his head. “That reminds me of an old pre-war flick I watched in a Haven a while back. District 9, I think it was called.”
Jane turned towards him, one brow raised. “Seriously? How’d you even get access to that kind of stuff? Most of that media was scrubbed when ADVENT took over.”
Derek grinned knowingly. “Havens are full of forgotten treasures, if you know the right people. You’d be surprised what still circulates out there; books, movies, even old news clips. Just takes the right barter.”
Jane let out a short chuckle, shaking her head. “Guess we’ll have to trade playlists sometime.”
“Only if you don’t blow my ears out first.”
Smartass.
The Ranger snickered, then raised the shotgun again and squeezed the trigger.
BAM!
This time, the shot went wide, some of the pellets missing the center mass, but the dummy’s right arm was blown clean off the frame. Derek flinched and pressed his headphones tighter, muttering something under his breath about ear protection yet again.
“I also heard the guy’s already a Corporal like you." He continued. “And apparently, he doesn’t know the first damn thing about firearms. Why the hell would I be expected to cooperate with someone who can’t handle a sidearm?”
Jane shrugged, still focused on the target. “That’s what the shooting range is for. Besides, Firebrand’s been assigned to get him up to speed. While we’re down here breaking our backs hauling cargo and running drills, she gets to play instructor.”
“The pilot?” Derek raised an eyebrow. “Seriously? Isn’t she the one who burns through our booze stash faster than we can restock it? How’s she still the best damn pilot on the crew?”
“Maybe she’s got an iron liver.” Jane lowered her weapon and sighed. “Hell if I know.”
She went to take another shot, eyeing the target through the scope. But her expression shifted, her eyes widening slightly in alarm.
“Oh, crap. We’re supposed to help the engineers with that power cell they pulled from the supplier.” She quickly set the shotgun back on the rack and turned towards the exit. “Come on! If we’re late again, they’re gonna skin us alive.”
Derek just huffed and followed. “I swear, between hauling junk and being shouted at by GREMLINs, I’m starting to miss basic training.”
“Oi!” A voice shouted from outside the door. “You better get your ass up, buddy. I’m not afraid to knock this whole damn thing down if it comes to it!”
Jacob Lee stirred awake, blinking groggily at the ceiling. A low groan escaped him as he sat up, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His gaze dropped to the grey military jumpsuit he was wearing; standard X-Com issue, from what he'd gathered.
X-Com... right. The fog in his brain cleared a little. Still stuck in sci-fi boot camp. He nudged the Omnitrix on his wrist and watched the dial glow faintly with green light. Diamondhead’s silhouette flickered briefly across the interface.
At least I’ve got you if things go sideways.
He'd been given a room of his own, barebones and practical. Just a bed, a small table, a wardrobe with some standard-issue gear alongside his civilian clothes, and a private bathroom. Clean, but not exactly homey. Then again, it beat a holding cell.
“Oi!” The voice outside was growing louder, and more annoyed. “Last warning, newbie!”
Jacob stumbled to his feet and cleared his throat. “I’m coming, I’m coming!”
He shuffled towards the door and tapped the embedded wall panel. The indicator switched from red to green with a beep, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss.
Standing outside was a brunette with hazel eyes and a sharp expression. She looked to be around his age, arms crossed, posture relaxed but clearly unimpressed. Her stance leaned into the doorway like she owned the corridor.
Jacob hesitated, unsure of how to greet her. “Uh…” He raised his hand in a sloppy salute. “Good morning, ma’am. How may I help you?”
She just stared at him.
He stared back.
And then, to his surprise, she burst out laughing. Loud, unfiltered laughter that had her clutching her stomach with one hand and using the doorframe to keep herself upright with the other.
“Oh my God." She wheezed between breaths. “That was the best joke I’ve seen since I boarded the Avenger last year.”
Still chuckling, she gave him a curious look. “You really don’t know who I am, huh?”
Jacob blinked, puzzled.
She held up two fingers and made air quotes. “‘So thanks. Whatever you are’?”
Oh, hell.
“…Firebrand?” He guessed, cautiously.
“Ding ding ding!” She grinned, tapping her chest. “In the flesh. Commander wants you trained up on weapons, and lucky for you, I pulled the short straw.”
Jacob tilted his head. “Right, that. I still don’t fully understand why you got assigned to this.” He gestured vaguely at the ceiling. “Aren’t you usually flying the ship or… y’know, raiding the bar?”
“Multitasking." She said with a smirk. “And I’m not letting some alien-wristwatch-wearing rookie waltz into a combat zone without knowing which end of a gun fires."
So, this was Firebrand.
Jacob had to admit, he was quietly stunned. The pilot still wore her signature flying gear, complete with the fur-lined shoulders just like in the game. But no one had ever seen her face; not in the files, not in any footage. She’d been a call sign, a voice over comms.
“Everything alright, Corporal?”
Damn it.
He winced. No way was she going to let that pass without digging into it. Either he gave her something now, or she’d never stop needling him.
“…Let’s just say your work's been appreciated in the Havens, too.” He offered, arms folding behind his back. “But, uh… judging by your voice, I kinda expected you to be... older.”
Yep. He fully deserved a slap for that.
He braced...
...only to receive a firm pat on the shoulder instead.
“What, a twenty-five-year-old menace can’t get a little credit?” She said, raising an eyebrow. “I’ll take that as a compliment. Hell, I’ll make sure the Resistance gets real loud about my next stunt—make ‘em appreciate my grandious achievements even further."
Yeah. She earned that nickname just fine.
“Come on, Corporal.” Firebrand jerked her chin towards the hallway. “Let’s go.”
Jacob followed the pilot down the corridor towards the elevator, his eyes drifting over the walls. Crude graffiti decorated nearly every surface; XCOM’s crest hastily sprayed in red or white, alongside twisted depictions of aliens in varying states of dismemberment or decay. One showed a Sectoid with its head caved in. Another had a Viper strung up like a trophy.
He raised an eyebrow. “Who draws this stuff?”
Firebrand pressed the call button for the elevator. “Anyone who feels like it.” She said, stepping in as the doors slid open.
Jacob waited a beat, then followed. “Art therapy?”
She leaned against the wall, arms folded again. “It’s how some of the soldiers unwind. Let off a little steam.”
“Can’t hit the bar instead?”
“Oh, we usually do that.” She admitted with a half-smirk. “But sometimes, you just need to keep your hands busy. Options are kinda limited in a flying fortress surrounded by aliens."
Jacob gave a short nod.
“Yeah.” He breathed. “Definitely feels like the kind of place where people draw their problems instead of talking about them.”
Firebrand didn’t reply at first.
“Talking’s not always an option when you're gearing up to stab a Muton in the face.”
Jacob tilted his head back to glance at the ceiling. “What time is it, anyway?”
“Seven o’clock…” Firebrand inspected her gloved fingers like they were nails. “…in the morning." She added, almost like an afterthought.
Jacob let out a low whistle. “No wonder I feel like death warmed over.”
“You can’t win a war if you’re worried about beauty sleep." She quipped with a shrug. “Should’ve thought twice before signing up.”
That hit. He stiffened. “Hey!” He jabbed a finger at the Omnitrix on his wrist. “I’ve been kicking alien ass for months. And I saved the Commander’s life. Pardon me if my body isn’t used to this whole ‘military alarm clock’ lifestyle.”
The elevator gave a soft chime. The doors slid open.
Firebrand stepped out, throwing a look over her shoulder. “And yet…” She drawled, “…you still don’t know how to use a gun. Think I’m just gonna sit back if some ADVENT grunt tries to hijack my bird? Hell no. I’ll shoot first and fly later.”
“That’s—”
“This way, Corporal.” She was already walking.
Jacob sighed, trailing after her with a quiet scowl; one she couldn't see, but probably expected anyway.
She was enjoying this far too much.
The shooting range was nearly deserted, save for the soft hum of ventilation and the occasional flicker of a malfunctioning light overhead. The stale scent of gunpowder still lingered in the air, like a reminder of the countless rounds fired by restless soldiers trying to keep their edge.
Firebrand strolled confidently into the main firing zone, boots echoing faintly against the concrete floor. She made her way to the weapons rack and plucked a hefty magnum from a holster with the ease of someone long acquainted with its weight. With a flick of her wrist, she snapped the cylinder open and gave it a quick glance.
Then, with a casual precision, she began unloading it; each bullet landing in her gloved palm with a metallic tick, like coins dropping onto a tabletop.
Jacob watched from a few steps back, arms loosely crossed, eyes tracing every motion she made. There was something mesmerizing about the way she handled the weapon. Ownership. Confidence without bravado.
“You know the basics, at least?” She asked, not looking up as she reloaded the cylinder with a fresh set of rounds.
He nodded with a faint smirk, stepping closer. “Yeah, I’ve done my homework.”
“Confident?” She challenged, arching a brow.
Jacob raised one hand, ticking off fingers as he spoke. “Bullet, chamber, magazine, safety, barrel, and the grip—handle, if you want to call it that. Sure, there’s more to a firearm, but those are the big players. I know how to hold it, how to stand, where to keep my elbows, and not to flinch like a moron when it goes off.”
Firebrand’s expression shifted into something between amusement and genuine approval. “Alright, not bad.” She said, snapping the magnum closed with a satisfying click and giving the barrel a spin for flair. “The theoretical side seems solid. That’s more than I can say for most rookies. Half the time they’re trying to shoot it like it’s a movie prop.”
She offered him the revolver, grip-first.
“This beauty is standard issue for our Sharpshooters. Packs a punch, long range, dead accurate if you’ve got steady hands. Rangers, Grenadiers, and Specialists usually have their hands full with heavier or more tactical gear, so sidearms are a luxury for them.”
Jacob hesitated only for a second before taking the weapon. It was heavier than he expected, solid and cold steel against his skin.
“But..." She added, stepping back and folding her arms. “...you? You’re a special case. Central says you’ve got alien transformations and quick instincts. So yeah, this might not be your go-to tool, but I’d rather you know how to use it when things go sideways.”
Jacob adjusted his stance, shifting his weight from one leg to the other until he found something that resembled comfort. The grip of the magnum felt alien in his palm; cold, metallic, and heavier than it looked. He could feel the subtle imbalance, the pull of gravity towards the barrel, like it wanted to dip forward and betray his aim.
His gaze locked onto the cardboard target across the range; a crude representation of a Sectoid, its oversized head and wiry limbs painted in lurid tones. He inhaled slowly through his nose, lifting the weapon with one arm, just like he’d seen Sharpshooters do in the game.
He exhaled. Then pulled the trigger.
CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!
The gun kicked like a mule.
Two bullets veered wildly, one sailing past the dummy's right shoulder, the other missing so wide it might have hit the wall behind it. The third shot punched the ceiling above the target’s head, leaving a smoking crater in the reinforced panels.
Jacob blinked. His heart was racing, not from fear, but from sheer embarrassment. He lowered the weapon slowly, suppressing the urge to grimace. He’d managed to brace himself against the backward recoil, sure, but the outward torque of the magnum had completely thrown off his aim.
He could already feel heat gathering in his cheeks, that telltale flush of shame creeping up from his collar. And then, inevitably—
"Ahem."
Firebrand cleared her throat with theatrical restraint. He didn’t have to look to imagine the amused expression tugging at her lips.
“Not a hopeless case.” She said dryly. “But yeah... this is gonna take a minute.”
Jacob sighed, running a hand through his hair and half-hoping the Omnitrix would just start glowing and whisk him into a transformation out of sheer pity.
He holstered the weapon with an audible click. “Great. Can’t shoot straight to save my life, but I can punch a car in half as an alien.”
Firebrand chuckled, strolling past him to reset the target. “That’s fine. The car doesn't shoot back.”
Jacob groaned quietly. This was going to be a long morning.
And it was just beginning.
In the end, Jacob managed to hit some of his shots.
Not many.
Certainly not enough to impress Firebrand, who had been wearing a lopsided smirk for most of the session, stifling more than one chuckle at his expense. Still, a hit was a hit, and each one that landed on the cardboard Sectoid felt like a minor victory.
Progress. Glorious, frustrating, hard-won progress.
Jacob wasn’t sure how long they had been at it; an hour? Maybe more? The concrete walls and artificial lights of the Avenger’s shooting range made time feel like a suggestion rather than a rule. His shoulders ached from the repeated strain of adjusting his stance, firing, compensating for recoil, then doing it all over again.
Just as he was lining up another shot, a familiar voice cut through the muffled echoes of gunfire and ventilation hum.
"How's our Corporal's aim, Firebrand?"
Jacob nearly jumped out of his skin.
Startled, he almost smacked his palm onto the Omnitrix out of reflex, his thumb hovering dangerously close to the dial before he caught himself.
“Uh—sir!” He barked, straightening like a steel rod, hand flying up in a crisp salute.
Firebrand, by contrast, merely nodded towards the approaching figure with the kind of casual confidence that bordered on insubordination, but somehow, Bradford let it slide. He always did with her.
Jacob didn't understand how she got away with that kind of relaxed familiarity. Maybe it was respect.
“You're not wrong, Central.” Firebrand reported, resting the magnum casually against her shoulder. “He’s improving. Still can’t shoot the wings off a drone, but I’d give him another day or two. He might even hit the same spot twice.”
Bradford folded his arms and tilted his head, an amused glint dancing in his eyes. “That bad, huh?”
Jacob opened his mouth, then closed it. What was he supposed to say—I’m trying?
The XO continued, unfazed. “Well, we all start somewhere. Even Shen couldn’t fire straight her first week, and now she could probably shoot the antenna off a Viper at fifty yards.”
He gave Jacob a once-over, then added with a faint smirk: “Then again, Slipstream isn’t going to make a name for himself with a sidearm. I think we’ll all sleep easier once he’s back to turning into eight-foot bug-eyed monsters and punching holes through tanks.”
Jacob turned towards Firebrand, only to catch her just as she spun away to hide the laugh threatening to break free from her throat.
He sighed.
Jesus Christ.
He was never going to live this down.
“Aside from that...” Central turned to Jacob, leveling a finger at him. “I’m afraid I have to cut your training short. The Commander’s asked to see you in person.”
“Me?” Jacob blinked, pointing at himself, almost incredulous.
“Yes, you, Corporal.” Bradford offered a faint smile to soften the weight of the moment. “Don’t worry, you’re not getting tossed off the Avenger; not yet, anyway. Commander’s en route to Tygan’s lab. You’ll want to head there now.”
With a brisk nod and no further ceremony, Bradford turned on his heel and exited the shooting range, his boots echoing against the metal floor.
“Welp!” Firebrand exclaimed, tossing up two finger guns with theatrical flair. “Looks like class is dismissed. I’ve got a feeling I’ll be pulled into a briefing anyway.” She spun on her heel and began strolling away. “Time to prep my bird for launch.”
She only made it a few steps before pausing mid-stride and glancing back at him over her shoulder, one brow cocked and a mischievous smirk playing on her lips.
“Hey. You should swing by the bar sometime.” Her voice dropped into a conspiratorial tone. “You’ve got no idea the kind of wild shit that goes down when we’re not saving the world.”
Then, without waiting for a response, she sauntered off, humming under her breath, already mentally halfway to her Skyranger.
Jacob stood there for a moment, alone now, the weight of the encounter slowly settling on his shoulders.
He stared at the exit Firebrand had disappeared through.
The bar, huh?
Maybe he’d take her up on that. After all, the last time he’d had a drink with friends had technically been four months ago... but it felt like a lifetime.
With a breath and a final glance at the battered cardboard Sectoid, Jacob turned and made his way toward the labs.
Time to meet the man in charge.
Samuel O'Connell’s solo journey to Tygan’s laboratory had turned out to be more of a conundrum than anticipated, largely due to the cane he now begrudgingly leaned on.
He wasn’t crippled. He’d shoot the first bastard who dared say otherwise. But despite his stubborn pride, even he couldn’t deny the truth his aching joints and protesting muscles made brutally clear: twenty years suspended in a tank hadn’t done his body any favors.
Each step was a measured effort; an exercise in patience, pain, and persistent muttering under his breath. Yet, despite the stiffness in his limbs and the occasional jolt that made his teeth grit, he managed to arrive at his destination unaccompanied, avoiding the curious stares of soldiers or the sideways glances of passing engineers.
Now, he stood before the lab’s entrance: a wide, silver-plated door that shimmered under the harsh glow of the overhead lights like some sterilized gateway to knowledge or damnation.
He let out a slow breath, thumping the cane onto the steel floor for stability. Clasping its head with both gloved hands, he leaned slightly forward, posture tight and eyes fixed on the door with silent anticipation.
The Commander waited.
For the Shapeshifter.
With any luck, the young Corporal wouldn’t take too long.
God knew Samuel hated waiting more than he hated feeling fragile.
Footsteps echoed faintly down the corridor; sharp taps against metal flooring. Samuel O’Connell shifted his weight slightly, gripping the head of his cane as he turned towards the source of the noise.
A young man approached, his stride brisk but unseasoned, as though marching was something he’d practiced more in theory than in reality. He wore the standard-issue X-Com grey jumpsuit, but there was no mistaking the way it hung loosely on his frame. Too lean. Too tall. And far too relaxed in posture to be mistaken for a hardened soldier.
Under other circumstances, Samuel would’ve pegged him for a civvie. An intern, maybe. Some fresh-faced recruit who’d gotten lost on the way to engineering. But there was one detail that made him stand out: the strange, green-lit watch fastened to his wrist, humming faintly with unnatural energy.
Still, Samuel kept his face unreadable.
“You must be Jacob Lee." He said, extending a hand.
The young man accepted it with a firm shake, nodding. “Yes, sir. You must be Commander…?”
“Samuel O’Connell.”
He didn’t miss the subtle flicker in Jacob’s eyes as the Corporal sized him up; quick scans from the cane to the creases in his uniform, to the tired tension beneath his steady expression.
Samuel offered a bitter smirk. “I suppose realizing your Commander needs a cane to walk isn’t exactly inspiring for the troops, is it?”
He waved a hand as if to brush the thought away, though the frustration behind the motion wasn’t lost on either of them. “Temporary." He added gruffly. “Central keeps saying it. Eventually I’ll be the towering, muscle-bound poster boy everyone expects to lead the Resistance.”
“Sir.” Jacob spoke carefully, though the gears in his mind were visibly turning. “We both know what matters more is your experience. Tactical acumen, strategic insight. Not the size of your biceps.”
Samuel raised an eyebrow at him.
Smartass. But at least he was a respectful one. And if he kept hitting ADVENT where it hurt, Samuel could tolerate a little backtalk.
O’Connell approached the lab door, cane clicking softly against the floor with each determined step. Behind him, Corporal Jacob Lee followed in silence, though the hum of the strange watch on his wrist gave him an oddly commanding presence for someone so fresh to the organization.
The Commander raised a fist and knocked—two short raps, firm and precise.
A voice called out, muffled. “One moment!”
A beat of silence followed. Samuel shifted his weight slightly and began idly tapping his fingers against the head of his cane, eyes on the sealed door.
With a hydraulic hiss, the doors parted, revealing a familiar face. The same man who’d once performed emergency surgery on Samuel's ruined jaw with surgical enthusiasm and not nearly enough anesthetic.
“Ah. Hello, Commander.” The scientist greeted, his expression polite but distant.
Samuel lifted an eyebrow. “Doctor Tygan, I presume?”
He offered his hand, more out of obligation than genuine warmth. Tygan took it with a grip that was firmer than expected.
“Richard Tygan, indeed.” The doctor replied. Then, glancing over Samuel’s shoulder, he gave a subtle, respectful nod. “And I see you’ve brought our shape-shifting guest. Hello, Jacob.”
“Geez, Doc." Jacob grinned, tilting his head with a casual ease. “You’re gonna make me blush. Just say it; you’re buttering me up to get your hands on the Omnitrix, aren’t you?”
Tygan raised an eyebrow, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. “While I admit the device is of profound interest—a potential conduit between species, even—a more immediate concern is the small matter of humanity’s impending extinction at the hands of ADVENT. So, no, I won’t be stealing your wristwatch today.”
Samuel cleared his throat with theatrical exaggeration. “Gentlemen? Permission to enter, or should I come back with coffee and a croissant?”
Tygan stepped aside at once, sweeping an arm towards the interior. “Forgive me, Commander. Please, come in.”
The lab was a cathedral of science: immaculate and cold. A semicircular workstation stood at the far end, lined with meticulously ordered instruments and tools. There wasn’t a speck of dust in sight, nor a single piece of personal clutter. No family photos, no half-finished mugs of coffee. Just discipline, data, and sterile efficiency.
Then, there was the centerpiece.
Samuel’s gaze settled on a towering construct at the heart of the lab, rising from the floor to the ceiling in a lattice of hexagonal struts and containment rings. At its core, a volatile column of orange light pulsed and shimmered, held in place by an unseen energy field that flickered at the edges like lightning behind a veil.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” Tygan said, his voice filled with an undercurrent of reverence. “Capable of producing massive power yields: clean, stable, and completely harmless to organic life.”
Samuel opened his mouth to respond—
“If only the same could be said of all the aliens’ gifts.”
He blinked, turning towards the source.
Jacob.
The Corporal had spoken the words first. Not in a sarcastic or mocking tone, but with an eerie synchronicity, like he had pulled the line straight from the Commander’s mind.
Tygan tilted his head slightly, intrigued.
Samuel raised an eyebrow. Smartass and a psychic now? Wonderful.
“Right, Doc?” Jacob added, smirking faintly.
Tygan nodded slowly. “Indeed. One can only imagine what other ‘gifts’ we have yet to unwrap.”
“Right.” Samuel echoed dryly, shifting more of his weight onto the cane as he tilted his head. “Might I ask what exactly your role is in our little disavowed operation? Mentally, I’m still stuck back in twenty-fifteen, when Doctor Vahlen ran our lab like a technocratic monastery.”
Tygan dipped his head in a gesture of respect, unintentionally revealing the vicious scars that ran from behind one ear to the other, like crude stitches slashed across the back of his neck. They weren’t fresh, but they were unmistakably earned.
“I am XCOM’s Chief Science Officer.” He replied. “I oversee all matters of research and development, in addition to the… procedure you so recently underwent.”
“You mean the one where you sawed half my head off?” Samuel’s brow twitched as he narrowed his eye. “Because I’m still doped out on painkillers and it feels like my jaw’s about ready to fall off every time I blink too hard.”
“Yes, well…” Tygan’s expression didn’t change. “My apologies, Commander. The circumstances were far from ideal, but the operation was necessary.”
Without another word, Tygan turned and walked deeper into the lab, gesturing for them to follow. Samuel trudged after him, grimacing slightly with each step. Corporal Lee, ever quiet, moved like a shadow in their wake.
“I’m not sure how much Central has already told you." Tygan continued, navigating between workbenches laden with neatly arrayed instruments. “But we discovered something while extracting you from the alien stasis chamber.”
“In my head?” Samuel asked, pausing.
“In your head." Tygan confirmed without flinching. He approached a sleek terminal and began tapping in a flurry of commands, each press echoing with mechanical precision.
Monitors lit up in quick succession, displaying MRI scans, X-ray overlays, and three-dimensional neural renderings in shifting hues of blue and red.
Samuel took a few slow steps forward, eyes narrowing as a glass containment unit slid forward from the recessed platform at the center of the display. Inside, suspended in a magnetic field, hovered a small, metallic object; no bigger than a walnut, but unnervingly alien in design.
Smooth, black surface. Subtle ridges. A faint, internal glow that throbbed like a heartbeat.
Tygan nodded towards the object. “That is what we found embedded in your occipital lobe. Tightly integrated into your cerebral cortex. The surgical removal was... complicated.”
Jacob leaned in slightly, the blue hue of the containment unit casting ghostly shadows across his features. “Mmmh.” He murmured, eyes narrowing in thought. “I analyzed its schematics when I went Upgrade to pull you out of that pod, Commander. It’s… well, definitely alien. Old-world, too. Not your typical ADVENT hardware."
“And I thank you, Corporal.” Samuel replied, voice firm but tired. “From the bottom of my heart, and on behalf of XCOM. I owe you.”
He rubbed at his mouth, grimacing slightly as the motion strained muscles still sore from surgery. His eyes returned to the device, the warped reflection of his own face staring back at him in fractured symmetry.
“I just wish it didn’t hurt so damn much." He added bitterly. Then, with a nod at the artifact: “Any idea what it does?”
Tygan’s expression didn’t change. His arms folded across his chest, his posture composed, clinical, but something flickered in his gaze. Caution, perhaps. Or uncertainty.
“That..." The doctor said slowly. “...is what I intend to find out.”
Samuel stared at the small construct hovering in its magnetic cradle. Despite its size, the thing radiated a quiet menace, like a live grenade disguised as jewelry. A thin band of light pulsed from its core, steady and slow.
Perfect. The Commander thought grimly. Out of cryostasis for one day and I’m already short a chunk of my skull. And now there’s a glowing alien paperweight with my name etched on it.
He exhaled through his nose and asked the obvious next question.
“Any idea who put it there?”
Tygan hesitated.
“That’s where it gets… complicated.”
He shifted his stance, momentarily looking older than he was.
“I don’t know precisely what it does.” Tygan admitted. “Its integration with your neural lattice was near-perfect—noninvasive, but... deliberate. Whoever implanted it knew exactly what they were doing.”
He stepped closer to the display, typing a few quick commands to zoom in on the device’s cross-section. Lines of energy shimmered like a spiderweb through a three-dimensional schematic.
“If I had access to the equipment I once used during my tenure with ADVENT… the deep labs, the synthesis chambers, the neural decoders; I would already have a complete analysis. Perhaps even a means of safely reactivating or disabling it.”
Samuel snorted softly. “You’re asking me to wish I was back in an alien prison, Doc?”
Tygan allowed a thin, humorless smile. “Only as a theoretical convenience.”
Jacob tilted his head, one hand resting on his hip. “You said it was integrated with his occipital lobe, right? That controls visual processing. Maybe it’s some kind of—what? A tracking node? Brain-linked surveillance system?”
“Or a transmitter.” Tygan replied. “Or a data storage unit. Or something entirely beyond our current classification schemes.” He gestured to the hovering device with one gloved hand. “We are dealing with technology decades—if not centuries—ahead of anything humanity has ever produced.”
The Commander hmmpf-ed. “Then get to work. I want to know if that thing is a beacon, a bomb, or a backdoor. That's your first research order under my command."
Tygan gave a small bow of the head. “Understood, Commander. I’ll prioritize the analysis.”
O’Connell pivoted towards the door with a weary exhale, his cane tapping lightly against the polished metal floor. Jacob trailed behind him, keeping pace a step behind.
“I suppose I should check in on the bridge." The Commander muttered. “See what Central's stirring up.”
“Mr. Lee?”
The voice halted both men mid-stride. They turned to see Doctor Tygan now holding a notebook in one hand and a sharply pointed pencil in the other, already prepared for whatever scientific process he was planning to wring out of the Corporal.
“I thought it prudent to begin cataloguing your transformations.” The doctor said, his tone as dry and focused as ever. “A complete log of your forms, their abilities, strengths, and any limitations. Tactical documentation for deployment purposes.”
He casually gestured with his pencil towards the Commander. “I’ll begin analysis of the cerebral device as soon as I’ve completed the initial draft of Mr. Lee’s ten forms.”
Jacob groaned, his head falling back in mild theatrical agony. “Aw, man! Like, right now? That’s gonna take hours, and it’s gonna be boring!” He threw his hands up for added flair.
O’Connell couldn’t help the amused snort that escaped him.
“Not everything in this war’s about shooting aliens, Corporal. More often than not, you’ll be waiting around while research finishes, projects develop, and data gets crunched. That part?” He patted Jacob’s shoulder lightly. “That takes days. Sometimes weeks. Welcome to XCOM.”
Then, shifting back towards the hallway, he added over his shoulder, “Now, do as Doctor Tygan requests. That’s an order.”
The doors slid shut behind him just in time to muffle a very faint curse muttered under Jacob’s breath.
The Commander allowed himself a small smile as he walked away.
Let the kid sweat for once.
Chapter 5: Tactical measures
Chapter Text
“I heard you, Shen. Once we recover the prototype, you’ll be the first to know."
There stood Bradford--Central Officer John Bradford, Samuel O’Connell’s second-in-command--engaged in a brisk conversation with Shen through his earpiece. A part of Samuel wanted to reprimand him, if only mildly; if Shen was actively coordinating something on the Avenger, he should have been informed. Protocol mattered, especially now, and being left out of the loop didn’t exactly inspire confidence in his own chain of command.
Still, there were bigger concerns at the moment.
The Commander moved forward, his gait slow but measured. The cane in his hand didn’t exactly project dominance, but he made the best of it, maintaining his composure with the same grit that had defined him during the invasion. The synthetic tap of his tool echoed on the metallic floor with each step towards Central.
Then—
“ALERT!”
Red strobes flooded the room, accompanied by the ear-splitting howl of the Avenger’s internal sirens. Samuel froze mid-stride, his body tensing instinctively. The room was instantly cast in flickering crimson, and every head turned towards him; technicians stationed at their consoles, engineers working on subsystems, and several off-duty soldiers hanging near the upper railings. Their eyes were sharp, confused, alert.
“UNAUTHORIZED PRESENCE DETECTED!”
The automated system’s voice was shrill, emotionless, and loud.
Samuel raised his gaze to the ceiling, briefly disoriented by the red light shining directly on him.
"...Seriously?"
“Commander!” Bradford stepped forward with a sigh that could’ve powered half the ship’s generators with exasperation alone. He raised a hand to stop him from moving further. “Give me a second.” He muttered, clearly irritated by the situation. With a tired glance to the main console, he issued the override. “Execute Echelon Protocol.”
“ATTENTION. SENIOR COMMAND EXCHANGE ACCEPTED.”
The red lighting instantly receded, replaced by a calm blue hue. The siren cut off with a final beep. A handful of techs quietly returned to their stations, though more than a few were still staring, uncertain whether to salute or keep watching.
“Flashy.” Samuel said dryly, casting one more glance at the ceiling. “Any other surprises I should know about? Maybe a hidden disco protocol that kicks in whenever someone orders drinks at the bar?”
Bradford cracked a smile. “You’ll have to talk to Shen for that one. I asked to implement a more formal recognition system. Was hoping it’d be a little more ceremonious than this.” He gestured broadly to the bridge. “But with our tech limitations... it came out a bit underwhelming.”
“Nothing’s underwhelming if it keeps morale from collapsing.” O’Connell replied, his voice lowering just enough to carry weight. He slowly turned his eyes to the deck crew, many of whom were now blatantly studying him, measuring him, even. “It’s good to be back. Really.”
He gave them a respectful nod.
“Sir!” They echoed in practiced unison, snapping to attention with a crispness that surprised even him.
Ah, there it was; the tension, the hesitation, the curiosity. He could see it plainly: the crew knew who he was on paper, but seeing their Commander lean on a cane, visibly diminished from his cryogenic entrapment, likely threw off expectations. The stories painted him as a hardened tactician, not a recovering patient barely out of the medical wing.
No matter.
He’d earn their respect again the old-fashioned way: by outmaneuvering ADVENT and sending every last alien straight back to whatever cold planet spat them out.
“So..." Samuel began, casting his gaze over the bridge’s primary holoscreens. “...what’s all the fuss about?”
The central display shimmered with shifting silhouettes; vaguely humanoid blue figures engaged in an aggressive assault on what appeared to be an armored convoy. Flashes of plasma lit up the screen like lightning in a thunderstorm.
He turned towards Bradford with a raised brow. “Did you launch an operation without my approval, Central?”
“Hardly, sir.” Bradford gave a sideways nod to a nearby technician. The young man’s hands darted over the console, and the image changed, zooming in on a bulky, cylindrical device half-buried in wreckage. It pulsed faintly, framed by ADVENT crates and scorched debris.
“We intercepted data on a magnetic power converter.” Bradford explained. “Fully alien tech. If Tygan’s right—and he usually is—it’s capable of adapting our own infrastructure to interface with alien power cores. If we can secure it, we’ll finally have a working energy grid for the ship. That means full systems: weapons, shields, engine calibrations. Everything.”
Samuel studied the device on screen, then shifted his focus to the hologlobe’s flickering interface. Technicians scrambled around him, trying to coax more stability out of the aging projection systems.
This place was holding together with duct tape and desperation.
“I see.” He muttered, his tone low. “Let me guess, you’ve already put together a squad.”
“Yes, sir.” Bradford confirmed. “They’re closing in on the drop point now.”
The Commander’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Slipstream isn’t among them, right?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” He nodded, satisfied. “I don’t want the Corporal on the field until he can handle a pistol without making the ceiling flinch.”
Bradford’s mouth twitched. “The kid won’t be thrilled.”
Samuel smirked. “It’s a damn good thing he’s not an officer, then. He’s got enthusiasm, but that doesn’t replace training. He’s a strategic asset, but he’s still human. And humans take time to recover.”
Bradford inclined his head. “Understood. Firebrand’s standing by. Estimated time to contact: two hours.”
“Perfect.” O’Connell took a few steps forward, eyes sweeping the command deck. “I assume the post has been restructured for active oversight? Like the old days?”
“We’ve adapted.” Bradford motioned to a series of eight monitors at the front of the bridge. “Four linked to live vitals from the squad. The others are routed through their helmet cams. Video feeds come online once Firebrand hits airspace.”
Samuel stepped closer, examining the dark monitors. It was crude compared to the sleek overlays he’d used before the war, but it would do.
“You also mentioned a surprise." He said, leaning slightly onto his cane. “I do love surprises, Central. Go ahead. Impress me.”
With a half-smile, Bradford turned to the flickering hologlobe and entered a command sequence.
The spherical display shimmered, then collapsed into a flat projection. A 3D tactical map emerged from its base, still unstable, but functional. The terrain was rendered in luminous lines, interlaced with tactical markers, elevation data, and real-time scans from a satellite uplink.
“Tech’s evolved since twenty years ago, sir." Bradford said with a hint of pride. “Some of it scavenged. Some of it reverse-engineered. None of it standard issue.”
Samuel exhaled a quiet, appreciative breath. “You’ve done good work, Central.”
His eyes swept over the map again, locking onto the pulsing dot that marked the squad’s objective.
“Let’s see if they’re up to the task.”
“Fascinating.”
Oh, boy...
Jacob resisted the urge to roll his eyes, no small feat, considering his current physiology. He stood stock still as Doctor Tygan circled him like a wolf inspecting a very shiny, very dangerous statue.
Well... tried to stay still. Every time he moved, the crystalline plates that formed his limbs scraped or clicked faintly. It was like standing in a wind chime factory during an earthquake.
How the hell did Ben put up with this noise?
Tygan glanced up from his notepad, utterly absorbed. “What do you call this particular transformation?”
Jacob exhaled through a throat made of gemstone. His voice came out deeper, heavier.
“Diamondhead." He replied, the bass of his voice reverberating off the lab’s reinforced bulkheads. “Or a Petrosapien, if we’re going by species taxonomy. It’s a silicon-based lifeform; should be easy to verify through structural analysis.”
He crossed his arms, crystal plates grinding audibly as they slid against each other.
“One of the best, if not the best, form at my disposal.”
Tygan stopped circling and made another rapid notation. “And what capabilities does a Petrosapien possess?”
Diamondhead’s angular jaw quirked into something resembling a smirk. “Plenty.”
“I can manipulate crystal structures... crystallokinesis. That means I can create formations from beneath any terrain. Pillars, spikes, walls; anything I can shape, I can weaponize.”
He raised one jagged finger.
“I can also levitate or launch shards by manipulating microscopic mineral particles in the air. Think telekinesis, but limited to earthbound elements.”
He paused briefly, arms uncrossing as he flexed a palm outwards, fingers splaying into razor-edged claws of translucent blue.
“Lastly, I can generate crystals within objects and cause them to erupt, binding, impaling, or immobilizing whatever’s in the way. Even enemies, if needed.”
Tygan looked up from his notes. “Incredible. And I presume your durability is proportional to the density of your crystalline structure?”
“More or less. High resistance to blunt force, extreme temperatures, even ballistic damage. Though, high-frequency vibrations or focused sonic resonance?” Diamondhead tapped his chest with one solid clink. “Not a fan.”
“Fascinating.” Tygan repeated, now under his breath.
Diamondhead sighed again. “You say that every time.”
The scientist made one final scribble in his notebook, then set the pencil aside and approached the main desk. He nudged a few instruments out of the way before retrieving something that stood out starkly amongst the delicate lab tools: a hammer. It was larger than necessary for lab work: industrial, weighty, and clearly designed with serious impact in mind.
"Would you mind if I took a sample?" Tygan asked, holding the tool carefully. "Our supply of resilient materials is limited, but with proper analysis, Shen might be able to reinforce our equipment, possibly even improve our armor plating."
Diamondhead gave a low, amused hum. “Sure, why not? It’s not like I have a choice in the matter.”
With a grinding sound, he extended his arm, reforming it into a long, even slab. He adjusted the crystal structure, shifting the hand into flat-edged blades with clean angles and a proportioned width.
"Go ahead. I can regenerate most damage."
Tygan didn’t hesitate. He raised the hammer, adjusted his grip for precision, and brought it down in a single measured strike.
The hit landed with a heavy crack.
A section of Diamondhead’s forearm shattered, chunks of jagged crystal tumbling to the floor with a sound like breaking glass. The fragments were luminous, refracting light from the overheads in an unnatural shimmer. Tygan immediately began collecting them into a sterile containment tray.
Seconds later, the wounded arm began to mend itself. New crystals grew seamlessly from the broken edge, rebuilding the structure in real time. In less than ten seconds, it was whole again.
“Remarkable regenerative efficiency." Tygan said, eyes gleaming. “This will be invaluable, assuming the crystalline structure can be replicated or adapted for composite fabrication.”
Diamondhead rolled his shoulders with a faint clatter. “Knock yourself out, Doc. It’s not like this is the weirdest thing you’ve had me do.” He tilted his head towards a nearby rack of vials nestled in a specimen holder. The fluorescent green fluid inside them shimmered with unsettling viscosity.
“Case in point: those.”
Tygan followed his gaze. “Ah. Yes. The Lepidopterran samples.” His expression didn’t even flicker with embarrassment.
Diamondhead gave a sharp chuckle. “You had me puke into vials, man.”
“For science.” Tygan replied dryly, already returning to his notes. “Try to keep that in mind, Mr. Lee.”
Cool, I guess?
“So, uh...” The Shapeshifter shifted his weight from one foot to the other, crystal feet clicking faintly against the lab floor. “We’re done cataloguing all my forms now, right? You can finally focus on the chip?”
“Indeed." Tygan said, already turning back to his console. “With this session complete, I’ll direct my attention to the neural implant. The Commander is currently overseeing troop deployment. I anticipate progress on the device within the next several hours.”
Diamondhead’s crystalline eyes glowed slightly brighter. It was the Petrosapien’s version of a frown. “Guiding the troops? What are you talking about, Doc?”
“Chief Engineer Shen has located the magnetic converter." Tygan replied without looking up. “The same alien technology critical to stabilizing this facility’s infrastructure. As you and I have spent the last two hours documenting your physiology, Firebrand has been prepping for launch. Jane Kelly and her squad are likely en route to the drop point as we speak.”
There was a pause. A very still, loaded pause.
...
“Oh, hell no.”
The crystal warrior spun towards the lab door, every shift in his body accompanied by sharp, clattering notes. He slammed the wall panel, and the metal door hissed open with a mechanical groan, far too small for his towering frame, but he ducked under it without hesitation.
“And may I ask..." Tygan inquired calmly. “...where exactly you’re going with such urgency?”
Diamondhead flashed a razor-sharp grin over his shoulder. “I’m not missing the Commander’s first mission, Doc. I wanna see it go down with my own eyes!”
Tygan raised an eyebrow and tapped his pencil lightly against his notebook. “Wouldn’t it be wise to allow the Omnitrix to time out before reaching the bridge? Many aboard are... still unaware of your particular circumstances.”
Jacob waved a jagged hand dismissively. “It’s only been, what, five minutes? I’ve still got time before it runs out. And besides—who knows if they’re already boots-on-ground? If I wait, I miss it.”
“Mmmh.” Tygan scribbled a final note. “Your choice, Mr. Lee. But do try not to fracture the hallway tiles again.”
With a chuckle that sounded like grinding stone, Diamondhead stepped into the corridor.
Really, what was the worst that could happen?
Apparently, the worst that could happen was standing directly in front of a terrified technician when the lab door opened.
She shrieked, high, sharp, and theatrical, then promptly fell backwards onto the floor with a thud. The kind of scream that wouldn’t be out of place in a horror movie.
Diamondhead winced, frozen mid-step.
And just like that, every single head on the bridge snapped to the source of the chaos.
He grunted.
Well. So much for subtlety.
Knowing he was busted regardless, the crystalline alien ducked to fit through the doorframe and stepped onto the bridge. He raised his palms, hoping to appear non-threatening.
“Uh... it’s okay! I’m a Corporal! In your ranks!” He tried, gesturing at his chest, where the Omnitrix symbol pulsed faintly.
The technician on the floor scrambled back with wide eyes. Clearly, she didn’t find the walking gem monster reassuring.
“What the hell is going on?” Bradford’s voice cut through the tension like a scalpel.
Diamondhead turned, and immediately saw Central and the Commander heading his way. Central already had that look. The Commander’s eyes widened with cartoonish disbelief, and frankly, it was kinda funny.
“Uh, sirs!” The alien clicked his arm into a salute. “Reporting in!”
Bradford didn’t return it. He just put his arms on his hips—his signature move, Diamondhead now realized—and looked him up and down.
“Slipstream..." He said flatly. “...why are you on the bridge? And why, exactly, are you in an alien form made of... crystals?”
“That’s the Corporal?” O’Connell asked, staring at Diamondhead like he’d just been handed a new flavour of migraine.
Behind them, a few techs helped the frightened woman to her feet. Slipstream gave her a small, sheepish wave, then did his best to retreat to the corner of the room. The corner did not make him smaller. Or quieter. Crystals still clicked every time he moved.
“I heard about the mission.” He responded quickly. “And I was done with Tygan’s exams, so I figured I’d drop by. You know. Show support.”
Central sighed and rested his hands on his hips... again. The alien resisted the urge to comment. He’d done that pose at least six times during the tutorial phase of the game.
O’Connell, meanwhile, just dragged a hand down his face like a man questioning the last twenty-four hours of his life.
I never imagined I was controlling a half-invalid. Life’s full of surprises.
“All right, people!” Bradford raised his voice over the tension. “Let’s clarify a few things. This...” He gestured towards Diamondhead. “...is Corporal Jacob William Lee. Codename: Slipstream. If you see alien creatures on this ship that aren’t trying to kill you, odds are it’s him. If you see a flash of light, red or green, definitely him. Now get back to work. Our team's almost to the drop point."
“Sir!” Came the chorus, though with much less enthusiasm than earlier. A few still stole wary glances at the crystalline giant in the corner.
Samuel made his way over and tapped the tip of his cane lightly against Diamondhead’s chest. The contact rang out like a soft chime.
“So..." The Commander drawled dryly. "...what do you call this one?”
“Species is called Petrosapien." The alien replied with a faint grin. “But I call him Diamondhead.”
There was a beat...
...then a few of the techs laughed, tension finally starting to ease.
“Stinkfly. Wildmutt. Diamondhead…” The Commander muttered under his breath. “Are we in Disneyland? You’ve got a hell of an imagination, Corporal.”
Don’t praise me. Praise those showrunners and their cleverness.
He cleared his throat. “So, uh... permission to stay and watch the mission feed, sir? I’d like to study ADVENT’s tactics; learn how they move, what they prioritize. Might help me refine my approach when the time comes.”
Samuel rubbed a hand across his face, already weary, then gave a short thump of his cane against the floor.
“Permission granted. But make sure to change back. Most of the crew would probably prefer not to have a walking gemstone breathing down their necks.”
Right on cue, the Omnitrix began to beep.
Diamondhead glanced down at his chest and exhaled. “Finally!” He exclaimed. Then, he raised his arms in warning. “Might want to cover your eyes, people!”
Most didn’t listen.
The flash that followed lit up the entire bridge in a sharp, violent red. Even O’Connell let out a low groan and turned his face away from the burst. The glow burned itself into every shadowed corner of the room, before fading as quickly as it came.
When it was over, Jacob William Lee stood at the center of the bridge again; taller than average, sure, but definitively human now. He cracked his neck and tapped the Omnitrix, watching it pulse once in red before it dulled, signaling cooldown.
He looked around.
“Uh, Commander?” He whispered, leaning closer. “They’re staring.”
O’Connell didn’t even look away from the monitors. He brought two fingers to his lips and let out a sharp whistle that cut across the bridge like a blade.
“Show’s over!” He barked. “Back to your posts! If I have to reprimand anyone a third time, you’re all scrubbing latrines until next Christmas!"
That did it.
The crew jolted like they’d just been tasered. Heads ducked, hands flew across keyboards, and everyone suddenly had something very important to do.
“Thanks.” The young man murmured.
“Don’t thank me." O’Connell replied, eyes still on the monitors. “Just keep quiet and don’t touch anything that glows.”
Samuel blinked, eyes narrowing as the realization settled in. “Central?” He asked, voice edged with impatience. “Where are our troops? The video feed’s still down.”
Bradford touched a finger to his earpiece, jaw tight with focus. “Firebrand, this is Central." He spoke crisply, authority threading through his tone. “You are green for deployment on the ground. Proceed as planned.”
“Roger that!” Firebrand’s pilot shouted over the deep, metallic thrum of the engines, her voice managing to cut through the layered noise of the cockpit like a whip crack. “You heard the man, ladies. Hope you’re strapped in and ready to make some noise!”
In the hold, Jane Kelly ran one last diagnostic over her shotgun, fingers gliding across the weapon’s worn contours with unconscious familiarity. The weight of the blade on her back pulled at her shoulder; not heavy, just unfamiliar. She wasn’t a swordswoman by training, but if the damn thing cut through ADVENT armour like butter, she’d learn to love it.
A low chuckle from her right disrupted her focus. She looked up sharply.
Across from her, a young man with buzzed hair and an American accent stood with his arms folded, leaning against the bulkhead like he had something to prove. His name tag read MacDonald, though the smirk on his face screamed trouble.
“What’s your deal?” Jane asked, brow raised.
“Just funny." He said, grin widening. “A Scotsman and an Irishwoman, shoulder to shoulder. Figured you two were planning to rise up and burn down the monarchy or something.”
Jane’s face remained stony, but Derek, hunched quietly next to her, exhaled heavily through his nose. Whether it was a laugh or a warning was unclear.
If the American was trying to be charming, he was walking a fine line towards earning a busted nose.
“Cool it, Ronan." Came a voice from behind him. Donatella Rizzo leaned forward from her seat, brown eyes narrowed under the rim of her helmet. “Maybe don’t insult your squadmates five minutes before your first op.”
“What? It was a joke.” Ronan protested, looking around for support and finding none. “Just trying to keep things light.”
“Banter usually works better when someone actually laughs." The Italian replied dryly.
“Keep it cool back there." Firebrand snapped over the comms, her voice taut with focus as the Skyranger slowed to a hover. “Drop in ten seconds. Stand by.”
Jane adjusted the grip on her sword’s hilt, thumb brushing the release as she watched the descent lines deploy; metallic coils snapping downwards into the dry wind. The forest stretched beneath them, cracked earth and fractured stone bathed in rust-red dusk. It looked like a two-hundred-foot drop… until Firebrand’s flying danced them lower, stabilizing just above the scrub-lined terrain.
Still too high to jump without assistance, but just low enough to fall with style.
Ronan, apparently undeterred by the moment’s intensity, kept talking.
“Man, I wish Corporal Lee was with us.” He said, shifting his rifle on his shoulder. “If half the stories are true, this op would be wrapped up in five seconds flat.”
“He’s not.” Firebrand interjected sharply before Jane had a chance to shut him down. “Five seconds. Get ready!”
Jane’s knuckles tightened around her line. The tension in the hold was sharp now, like a spring coiled tight.
“Go, go, go!" Firebrand yelled, waving from the cockpit like she was flinging them into hell.
Ronan dove out first, whooping as he grabbed his line and dropped fast. Rizzo followed with practiced ease, the faint clink of her gear lost in the storm of rushing air. Both soldiers angled towards a rocky outcropping just off the highway, natural cover.
Derek turned to Jane and gave her a firm nod. She returned it, then hooked her harness onto the line and jumped.
The descent lasted three heartbeats.
Her boots hit the ground with a splash, shallow water beneath, hot and silty. A half-dried riverbed, baked to the consistency of mudcrete. She rolled with the landing and came up in a crouch.
Rizzo and Ronan were already in position, sweeping their fields. Derek landed next to her with a grunt.
They were on the ground. Alive. Armed.
Now came the hard part.
“Vehicles ahead." Rizzo murmured, raising two fingers and motioning towards the convoy nestled just past a narrow concrete bridge. A pair of trucks sat idling near a slope, sun-bleached and silent. “Convoy located. No visual on hostiles.”
Jane lowered into a half-crouch and swept her shotgun forward, eyes scanning the ridge lines and nearby rock formations. “We’re too exposed out here. No hard cover, no vertical advantage.” Her tone sharpened. “Keep moving. Eyes peeled. We regroup once we’ve got something to anchor behind.”
“Roger that." The team echoed; Rizzo, Macdonald, and Brown in near-perfect unison.
Boots crunched against gravel as they fanned out, weapons raised. The heat distorted the distance, but Jane’s instincts were screaming. Something about the quiet felt off.
Too quiet. Too easy.
She adjusted the grip on her shotgun and moved up, eyes trained on the nearest boulder like it owed her a debt.
“Squad is advancing." Bradford announced, eyes tracking the hologlobe as icons flickered across the terrain grid. “Firebrand’s confirming multiple KIA further north; scattered resistance signatures, but looks like the allied team’s either been neutralized or routed.”
Samuel O’Connell’s jaw tightened as he leaned forward, pressing a gloved finger to the console’s edge. “ADVENT’s not expecting another trained squad to waltz in uninvited. That’s our advantage; small, but potent.”
He tapped the cane lightly against the floor once, then pointed towards the 3D projection. A slowly rotating render of the desert corridor shimmered in front of them, terrain elevation shifting with every axis turn. “Keep the team tight. No splits. I want them advancing as a unit until we locate the first hostile cluster.”
Bradford glanced sideways, one brow lifted. “Sir? Wouldn’t a staggered formation or a two-pronged search double our coverage and accelerate the scan for the converter?”
“Negative.” O’Connell shook his head once, firmly. “Look at this!” He gestured to several key topographical features on the display; gullies, small dunes, a cluster of exposed vehicles. “Flat landscape, minimal cover, poor positioning for CQC if it comes to that. Splitting them up is begging for a flanking maneuver.”
He let out a low breath. “Besides, let’s not forget me.” His voice dipped into something darker. “I’m working with fractured intelligence, old field doctrine that assumed we'd be dealing with Thin Men or Sectoids in standard configurations. I doubt the enemy’s stayed stagnant for twenty years. I won’t have my first command decision be a body count.”
A beat passed.
Then he waved towards the officer. “Relay the order. Cohesive formation, forward advance. No exceptions.”
“Understood.” Bradford’s posture straightened as he tapped his earpiece. “Menace 1-5, hold current structure and proceed as a unit. Stay alert. Commander's directive.”
The hologlobe shimmered again as the squad moved closer to the bridgehead. O’Connell studied the changing data with a scowl etched across his features.
“Let me know the instant they see anything breathing down there." He said sharply. “ADVENT isn’t about to gift us that converter without a fight.”
Off to the side, Jacob smirked, arms loosely folded across his chest.
Any strategist with half a brain would’ve called the same play. Hell, most times, he would’ve done exactly that. It had to be one of XCOM’s golden rules: never split your squad unless you’re itching to trigger every alien patrol in a five-mile radius.
His eyes wandered across the bridge. The technicians, engineers, even the junior staff; they were all keyed in, watching O’Connell not just with attention, but with something closer to hope. Trust. Like they were finally seeing the old machine spin back to life after years of collecting dust.
Was it like this in the game? Jacob wondered. Is this why, when the tutorial goes south, the whole project collapses? Not because of logistics or funding, but because the crew loses faith in the Commander?
He chuckled under his breath, earning a quick glance from a nearby comms officer.
Well... The young man thought, smirk returning as he leaned back against a support beam. ...as Shadow Man always says... 'Good luck, Commander.'
The squad moved as one.
Or at least, they had, until a van to their left sprang open like a trap, and out stepped an ADVENT trooper flanked by a Captain. Reflexes kicked in. The four X-Com operatives broke formation in an instant.
Derek and Jane slid behind a felled log, bits of bark flying as they hit the dirt. Ronan and Rizzo sprinted for the nearest tree line, boots kicking up dry gravel.
"ADVENT contact." Jane advised into the comms, crouched low behind cover. "One Captain, one trooper. Engaging from the left flank."
She brought her shotgun to bear, settling the barrel atop the log. One eye closed as she lined up the bead with the Captain’s neck seam.
"Permission to engage?"
Five tense seconds passed.
"Menace 1-5." Bradford’s voice crackled in her ear. "Permission granted. Wipe them out."
The words might as well have been a symphony.
Jane squeezed the trigger.
BOOM!
"Gotcha!" She hissed through gritted teeth, watching the Captain erupt in a geyser of yellow. The armoured corpse collapsed into a bleeding corpse on the tarmac.
The trooper flinched, stunned, but only for a moment. He bolted, making a wild dash for nearby rubble. Ronan opened fire, his rifle stuttering with bursts, but the rounds just chipped the van’s side.
Too bad for the trooper that Derek was steadier. His burst drilled into the fleeing enemy’s backplate, punching clean through. The trooper staggered mid-stride, then collapsed in a graceless heap beside his commanding officer.
"Clear." Derek called, eyes already scanning for the next threat.
"Good shot, Brown." Bradford's voice crackled through the comms. "Commander has approved a field promotion."
"Sir." Derek acknowledged the praise, calm and professional, eyes still locked on the terrain ahead. Rifle raised, he moved along the flank, using the husk of an overturned truck for cover. "Glad I could be of service."
"Menace 1-5." Bradford continued, urgency creeping into his voice. "Converter is less than three minutes from total destabilization. Proceed to the objective. Upload the shutdown codes once the area is secure."
"Wait a second..." Ronan's voice slipped through the squad’s private channel, dripping with disbelief. "Are you telling me we’ve been dropped in without the actual codes for this unstable death trap? What kind of genius plan is that?"
Derek didn’t miss a beat. "You calling Central incompetent? Bold talk from the guy who missed a trooper standing still in the open."
Jane snorted, crouched behind a scorched electrical junction box. “He’s got a point, MacDonald. That shot was practically a freebie, and you still fumbled it.”
"I was aiming for a warning shot." Ronan muttered.
“Oh yeah?” Rizzo chimed in, taking up position near a rusted out car. “Remind me to stand next to the enemy next time. Might improve your accuracy.”
A chorus of muted chuckles followed; brief, but welcome. The tension cracked just enough to let them breathe.
Then Jane's expression hardened again.
"All right, jokes off. Eyes up. We're close."
A few cautious steps more, and there it was.
The converter.
The machine loomed atop the flatbed of a modified ADVENT transport, secured by clamps and surrounded by a cage of cracked energy coils. Sickly green light pulsed from its core, casting eerie reflections on the scorched earth around it. The hum it gave off was irregular, almost like a heartbeat on the verge of arrest. Sparks snapped from its surface, lighting the air with sharp, electric pops.
Kelly instinctively grimaced. "Command, package spotted. It… doesn’t look good."
“We’re aware, Menace 1-5. We're watching your feed.” Bradford’s voice cut in, just dry enough to be flirting with sarcasm. “The Commander wants a three-man sweep of the perimeter. One of you moves in slowly, no sudden touches. We don’t know what’ll set it off.”
Kelly nodded, though no one could see it. She tapped her earpiece and switched channels. "Derek, keep swinging left and stay low. Ronan, you’re on me, we’ll push straight ahead. Rizzo, use that tree to the right for cover, stay sharp."
"Roger." Came the replies, near-simultaneously.
They began to fan out, Jane inching forward with shotgun raised, eyes flicking between the terrain and the erratic green core. The buzzing was louder now.
Then came the yell.
“ADVENT TROOPS SPOTTED!”
Derek’s voice cut through the squad channel like a whipcrack.
Before she could answer, the sharp cracks of ballistic fire erupted, X-Com rifles barking lead into the open air. A second later, the hiss and screech of magnetic return fire lit up the sky. Orange bolts blazed past her cover, slamming into metal and dirt with terrifying force.
“Multiple hostiles engaged!” Derek barked again, barely audible over the chaos.
Jane dove for cover, her back slamming against a small, circular crate. The air reeked of ozone and scorched leaves. Rizzo’s rifle sang from the treeline, Ronan cursed as he rolled behind a boulder...
...and the green glow pulsed brighter than ever.
Samuel O’Connell stood still as a statue, his sharp eyes fixed on the tactical display above the bridge’s command console. Every flash of gunfire reflected in the pale blue cast of the 3D projection, muzzle bursts like sparks in the dark, tracer rounds flaring and vanishing, the skirmish unfolding piece by piece.
Another two ADVENT soldiers had entered the fray. A standard trooper took position near the front of the truck, shielded by a thick-barked tree. Farther back, the Captain knelt beside a rocky outcrop, maintaining line of sight on the exposed field. Their positioning wasn’t random; clearly, the ADVENT Network had relayed updated combat telemetry, and now the aliens were playing the long game.
Samuel’s brow furrowed. “They’re holding defensive formations around a volatile converter. Doesn’t add up. You’d think they’d fall back and let the thing melt down if it meant keeping us away from the tech.”
“Could be they’re buying time." Bradford suggested quietly, just to his left. “Or covering a data purge.”
“Either way, they’re pinned.” Samuel gestured with his cane. “And we’re wasting minutes.”
Then, the Commander’s expression darkened, jaw tightening. “Damn rookies. I hope to hell muscle memory kicks in before hesitation gets someone killed.”
He raised a hand. “Tell Rizzo to flush the Captain with a grenade. Blow that bastard’s cover to hell and open a lane for MacDonald or Brown.”
“And the trooper?”
“He’s not the priority. Let him run, if he’s smart. If he charges, we clean him up. But I’m not sacrificing lives just to look aggressive.”
Bradford gave a crisp nod, already tapping into comms. “Menace 1-5, new orders. Rizzo, frag the Captain. Others, prepare to follow through.”
O’Connell leaned forward slightly as the bridge lights dimmed to match the feed’s contrast. He could see her clearly; Donatella Rizzo, crouched behind a tree trunk, pulling the pin with practiced grace. The grenade arced high and bounced once on the dirt near the Captain’s cover before erupting in a white-hot detonation. Shrapnel and bark exploded outwards as the blast lit up the ridge, and the Captain went flying, limbs flailing, his red armor peppered with burns and metal shards.
“Solid throw." The Commander muttered.
Derek Brown’s follow-up shot cracked out across the ridge, but missed by inches.
MacDonald didn’t miss.
His rifle coughed once, and the already-wounded Captain jerked, then collapsed, motionless.
“Clean work.” O’Connell nodded once. “Bradford, mark MacDonald for promotion. He’s earned it.”
“Already on it, sir.” Bradford responded, a flicker of satisfaction in his voice.
Samuel allowed himself a breath. One enemy down, the converter still intact. Maybe these rookies would shape up after all.
Now... about that trooper.
"I'm going in!"
Samuel O’Connell’s head snapped towards the monitor, Jane Kelly’s silhouette breaking cover in a full sprint.
“What the hell?!? Central, tell her to sto—"
“Too late.” Bradford said tightly, already trying to patch in.
On-screen, Jane charged the lone ADVENT trooper like a possessed woman, her sword glinting in the low desert sun. Her timing was off... way off. The blade whooshed past air, missing the enemy’s shoulder by at least half a foot.
The trooper didn’t waste the opportunity. He pivoted on the spot, slammed the butt of his magnetic rifle into her ribs, and sent her staggering hard into the trunk. Her head cracked against the bark as she grunted, one hand going to her temple, teeth clenched against the pain.
O’Connell’s hands tightened around his cane. “Shit…”
But the trooper didn’t capitalize. Instead, the alien soldier turned tail and bolted, darting around the side of the truck and making a beeline for the rear.
He was running.
“What the fuck?” Samuel spat, jerking back towards Bradford. “Central, get her head back on straight and drop that bastard before he calls in reinforcements!”
Bradford was already there. “Corporal! Snap the hell out of it! Drop him, now!”
A shaky breath hissed through her comm. Then the familiar chunk of a pump-action reload. Jane staggered upright, shotgun raised. She leveled it with both hands, teeth grit, and pulled the trigger.
BOOM!
The spread punched through the trooper’s side armor, flinging him forward. He crumpled mid-stride, yellow blood spattering across the dirt as the force of the blast sent chunks of earth flying behind him. He didn’t move again.
A few stunned seconds passed on the bridge. Then, O’Connell’s voice broke the silence.
“We’re gonna have a long talk when she gets back.” He growled. His grip on the cane was iron-tight, knuckles white. “Charging an active soldier with a melee weapon without orders, without backup? That’s not courage. That’s amateur hour.”
He exhaled hard through his nose.
“I expected more from someone wearing our armour.”
"Clear!" Jane called out, still cradling her forehead with one hand and her ribs with the other.
Her squad converged on her position.
"You alright, Kelly?" Derek Brown’s eyes swept her up and down, checking for anything broken or bleeding. His jaw tensed. "You shouldn’t have gone for the kill like that. Could’ve gotten yourself shot."
The Ranger grimaced, nodding slowly. "Yeah. I know. My bad. I figured I could end it clean." She exhaled through her nose and gestured toward the rear of the truck. "No use whining now. Let’s finish this."
Rizzo took the lead with the tech. The Italian crouched beside the humming converter, the alien structure now glowing brighter with a disturbingly vibrant green pulse. She pulled her datapad out, hands steady, and initiated Shen’s override sequence.
A shrill electronic screech echoed from the device. Then a low, heavily filtered voice blared from its core like something out of a pre-war sci-fi B-movie:
"ACCESS GRANTED."
The device stopped pulsing. The area went quiet.
"Menace 1-5..." Bradford’s voice came through the comms after a tense moment. "Energy readings are stabilizing... or at least, not climbing. Eliminate any remaining hostiles, gather what you can, and prep for evac."
Jane’s eyes lingered on the alien tech. There was no telling what it did, or what it was worth. But the way it was guarded? It wasn’t just--
"CONTACT!" MacDonald barked, his rifle swinging up in a flash.
He squeezed off a controlled burst. One of the new ADVENT troopers dropped instantly, armor splitting under the impact.
But it was the shape behind them that made Jane’s blood run cold.
"That's a Sectoid!" She yelled, stepping back instinctively as the alien shrieked and lunged sideways.
The creature moved with uncanny speed, its pinkish-gray limbs twisting unnaturally as it scrambled for cover. One moment it was standing tall and rigid, the next it was a blur of motion, ducking behind a slab of rock near the ridge. Its eyes flashed purple for an instant, but not with fear. Something closer to calculation.
The thing looked wiry, almost delicate, like a rosebud sprouting fangs. But its movements? Precise. Intentional.
Dangerous.
The Sectoid glanced once more at the slumped corpse of its fellow trooper.
Then, it raised its clawed hand.
A soft hum filled the air, and the creature’s skull lit with an eerie, violet glow. Arcs of psionic energy lashed outwards, spiraling into a chain of warped light that surged across the field... and burrowed straight into the fallen ADVENT soldier.
The body twitched.
It jerked.
One limb at a time, it began to reassemble itself in grotesque fashion. Broken joints popped, bones cracked back into place beneath the armor, and the thing stood, trembling, as the helmeted head tilted to the side like a dog answering a silent whistle.
It wasn’t alive. Not really. But it was moving.
The creature let out a dry, croaking snap of its jaw.
The Sectoid responded with a guttural hiss, stretching one long, pink finger between its puppet and the stunned X-Com squad.
The zombie's head snapped around with a low, mechanical growl. Its eyes, or whatever sensors remained active behind that visor, locked onto its new prey.
Jane took an involuntary step back.
“Oh... shit." She whispered, heart now pounding behind her ribs.
“Not even the dead are allowed to rest." Bradford muttered, glaring at the 3D map. His eyes fixed on the third red blip, the reanimated corpse. “The aliens can control them too.”
“Fucking monsters.” Samuel growled. His jaw tightened as he leaned closer to the console. “We bury our dead with dignity. They turn theirs into weapons.”
The real dilemma sat heavy on his shoulders.
The psionic puppet, sluggish but relentless, was closing in. Meanwhile, the remaining ADVENT trooper and the Sectoid were unloading suppressive fire. Pinning the squad down. Forcing hesitation. If they waited, the zombie would be on them. But if they wasted time trying to kill the corpse, the Sectoid would be free to pull more tricks, and the trooper might flank and gun someone down.
Samuel’s fingers dug into the edge of the console.
Think. Think, Samuel. You’ve run this op clean until now. Don’t choke.
“...Sectoids are vulnerable to melee.”
The voice was quiet but firm.
Everyone on the bridge turned towards Slipstream, who remained leaned against the nearest support beam, arms crossed.
O'Connell pivoted with a sharp shift of his cane. “Repeat that, Corporal?”
“I’ve experimented with my alien forms, sir,” Jacob said, stepping forward. “Diamondhead excels at close-quarters. Arms can shape into blades. I’ve tested them on psionic folks before. Sectoids crumble fast under pressure.” He gestured towards the display. “Permission to relay a tactical solution?”
Bradford immediately moved to interject. “Corporal, you’re not sanctioned to influence live field ops—”
“Permission granted.” O’Connell cut him off coldly.
Bradford blinked, stunned.
“I trust Corporal Lee’s firsthand combat data more than ancient intel on alien behaviours. We’ve been out of the fight for too long.”
“Commander—" Bradford protested, but Samuel’s cane snapped up like a warning blade.
“One more word, Central, and I’ll have you escorted off this bridge. You’ve contributed all you can for now. Let someone else speak.”
That shut him up. Bradford backed off, stone-faced.
Slipstream stepped up to the console, eyes scanning the simulated battlefield. “We’ve got one grenade left. Use it on the trooper, flush him out, finish him off. Then Ranger Kelly closes the gap with her sword. If she kills the Sectoid, the zombie loses the psionic tether and drops instantly.”
Jacob glanced at O'Connell.
“No losses. Quick, clean, decisive. In theory.”
“That’s right." The Commander replied. “In theory.”
He raised a finger. “But theory doesn’t take odds into account. Say Kelly misses. What happens? She’s left standing, out in the open, with a Sectoid still breathing and a zombie two seconds away from ripping her in half.”
He lowered the hand. “Or a little better, she hits, but doesn’t kill. Then what? She’s wounded. Maybe crippled. The Sectoid runs. Maybe it gets shot. Maybe not. Either way, she’s bleeding on alien soil.”
O’Connell’s eyes locked onto the holographic battlefield.
“We’re gambling with lives here. A fifty-fifty.”
Slipstream nodded once. “Then you’re gambling for the best possible outcome, sir. A healthy Ranger walking away. Best alternative case, she’s hurt. But alive. And you’ve dealt with worse hands before.”
Silence fell across the bridge.
Bradford looked between them. “...Commander?”
All eyes turned to O’Connell.
He exhaled through his nose. “Give the order, Mr. Bradford. Trooper first. Then the Sectoid.”
A pause.
“And tell Kelly: no heroics. She misses, she pulls back. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Bradford touched his earpiece. “Menace 1-5, prepare to execute. Grenade on the trooper. Confirmed follow-up: Kelly, close on the Sectoid only after target neutralization. Proceed with caution.”
The bridge remained quiet, watching red and green markers flicker on the board.
"Command, with all due respect, are you out of your damn mind?!" Jane snapped, ducking just in time as a plasma bolt hissed past her ear. It slammed into the engine block of a nearby ADVENT car, erupting in sparks but, thankfully, not fire.
"I think they might be!" MacDonald barked into their private channel, diving for cover.
"Menace 1-5..." Bradford’s voice cut through the chaos, calm and cold as steel. "...that’s a direct order from the Commander. Eliminate the hostiles and secure the package. Fast. ADVENT's southern forces are circling back; they're onto our distraction."
"Roger."
Jane’s voice was composed. Professional.
Inside, she was seething.
She threw a glance at Derek. He nodded, grim and wordless, already reaching for the grenade at his belt. In return, Jane sheathed her shotgun and drew her sword.
Three fingers up.
Derek gripped the pin.
Three... two... one...
Her hand closed.
The blast came with a thunderclap, followed instantly by a storm of gunfire. Jane charged. She remembered the sprint, remembered the heat, the shrapnel, the shouting—
But not the swing.
Not the moment her blade carved towards the Sectoid.
She did remember the aftermath.
The alien reeled, clutching its thin chest, yellow blood spattering the boulder it had used for cover. It hissed, spat, and then shoved her backwards with a surprising burst of strength.
She hit the dirt hard, only to feel claws dig into her vest. The reanimated corpse, the zombie, was on her. Snarling. Slashing.
A cry tore from her lips as she took a hit to the ribs.
But the Sectoid... it was still close. Still limping away.
Jane’s hand shot to the zombie’s throat, gripping tight, holding it back. Her free arm reached for her strapped shotgun.
Angle it. Close range.
Squeeze.
BOOM!
The Sectoid collapsed in a heap, its psionic energy breaking apart like mist in sunlight. The corpse on top of her spasmed, then went limp.
Dead. For real, this time.
Breathless, aching, Jane let her head fall back in the grass.
“C-Command...” She wheezed. “Target’s down. Area is secure.”
Chapter Text
Silence.
Samuel O’Connell slowly turned his head, eyes sweeping across the bridge.
The room had fallen completely still. No voices. No chatter. Not even the habitual muttering of technicians as they typed away. Only the soft hum of data streams pulsing through consoles and the low, distinct oscillation of energy from the alien watch strapped around Corporal Jacob William Lee’s wrist filled the air.
Everyone, rookies, veterans, tech staff, was frozen in place. Watching. Processing.
The mission had been a success, but the weight of what had just happened was still settling in.
Then, unexpectedly, one of the rookies stepped forward.
His nametag read Eugène Bernard. Tall, lean, with a face that still had traces of civilian softness.
He raised both hands...
...and began clapping.
The sound echoed sharply in the sterile chamber; once, twice, then more. After a few seconds, others followed. Hesitant at first, then steadily growing louder, more confident. Applause spread like wildfire. A wave of relief, of pride, of respect.
Even Bradford and Jacob joined in. Reluctantly. Their claps were restrained, almost ceremonial, both men too professional to display unbridled enthusiasm in such a setting. But still, they acknowledged the moment.
Samuel let it ride for a few seconds longer, then gently raised a hand.
“Thank you..." He said, voice cutting through the room with practiced authority. “Thank you, all of you.”
He leaned on his cane, clasping the head with both hands as he stood tall at the center of attention.
“I know..." He began. “...that it may have seemed like this operation was carried solely on my back. That I, the Commander, was the only one driving it forward.”
He paused deliberately, meeting the eyes of each section of the room.
“But let me make something perfectly clear: every single one of you contributed to this mission’s success. Every technician running diagnostics. Every analyst feeding tactical data. Every operator keeping these terminals stable. This was not a one-man show.”
He nodded towards the tech bay. A few smiles emerged. Proud. Earned.
“And let’s not forget the atmosphere you rookies helped foster.” He tilted his head towards the recruits lined near the rear panels. “You gave me the space to think clearly. The presence of discipline, the absence of panic; that made all the difference.”
They straightened a little. It wasn’t praise they’d expected, but it struck them all the same.
“And finally..." O’Connell continued, eyes narrowing slightly with a hint of intrigue. “We had the tactical participation of someone... unique among our ranks.”
A murmur of shifting boots echoed quietly as all eyes fell on Corporal Jacob William Lee.
The Shapeshifter.
Jacob rocked back on his heels, hands disappearing into the pockets of his jeans. He didn’t say anything, just rolled his shoulders once and looked towards the floor, clearly uncomfortable under so many stares.
Samuel studied him a moment longer. The kid doesn’t like attention. But he’d better get used to it.
Because once word of his powers started spreading through the Resistance, and through the alien network, they would all be watching.
And they wouldn’t just be clapping.
“Now, enough with the celebrations!” The Commander barked, raising both his hand and cane high in the air for emphasis. His voice cut through the applause like a whip. “We’ve got a job to do. I want a recovery team assembled on the double to secure the converter and start prepping the facility for reactivation. And get a bed ready in the medical bay; Ranger Jane Kelly is to be treated immediately.”
“Sir!" The crew echoed together.
Samuel turned to his right. “Central? Slipstream? A word. Outside.”
Bradford gave a firm nod and stepped off the bridge, already reading the intent behind the Commander’s tone. Corporal Jacob William Lee, however, looked visibly surprised to hear his name. That reaction wasn’t unexpected, Samuel figured the boy hadn’t yet realized just how much attention he’d drawn with his field advice.
Nevertheless, Jacob followed without complaint, trailing a step behind the XO and the Commander.
Once in the corridor, O’Connell took a quick glance in both directions. Empty. Good. He tapped his cane once against the floor, firm but not threatening.
“Corporal..." He began, his tone more measured now. “...I want to extend my personal thanks. Your insight during that last engagement was instrumental. Because of your input, we completed the operation with zero fatalities and just one wounded soldier.”
A pause. Then, the faintest of smirks tugged at the Commander’s lips. “That doesn’t mean you’re getting a promotion to Sergeant. Not yet.”
Jacob stood up straighter and gave a stiff, awkward salute. “Sir! I was just doing my part as a soldier. Ensuring that our efforts led to a successful recovery of the resource.”
“Good thinking.” Samuel gave a satisfied nod. “Still, I’m afraid you won’t be deployed on the next op.”
“Sir?!?"
Slipstream looked between his superiors, brows high in disbelief. “But... but sir! I’m telling you, our performance metrics would skyrocket with me on the field! I’ll be good to go, I promise. Fully rested by then!”
O’Connell simply shook his head. “Not until your aim with a pistol improves. That is my final word on the matter.”
Jacob groaned, running a hand through his hair. “So what am I supposed to do around here? Just twiddle my thumbs and train with Firebrand?”
Samuel gave a casual shrug. “Hell if I know, Corporal. Start by actually talking to some of the other soldiers. You’re going to be part of this team, so act like it. Or better yet, lend a hand to Shen or Tygan. You’ve got alien physiology baked into you, make yourself useful with that, too.”
“Firebrand has mentioned some erratic behaviour in the Skyranger’s controls." Bradford added as he crossed his arms. “You could help her with diagnostics. Maybe you’ve got a form that mimics ADVENT engineering or something close to it. I believe the one you called ‘Upgrade’ fits the bill.”
Jacob blinked. He didn’t respond right away, clearly caught off guard by the suggestion. Eventually, he exhaled and looked to the floor. “Roger that, sir.” He glanced back up at Samuel, now with a more serious expression. “Just… consider me when you're drafting the next field op. ADVENT still doesn’t know what I’m fully capable of. I think that’s worth exploiting.”
O’Connell studied the young Corporal for a moment longer.
I like this kid.
“Affirmative.” He replied simply. “You’re dismissed. I’ll call if you’re needed.”
Slipstream gave one last salute, sharper this time, though still raw, and turned down the hallway, leaving the two senior officers behind.
As the sound of his footsteps faded, the Commander let his shoulders drop slightly and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“This mission could’ve gone better.”
Bradford glanced sideways at him. “Sir?”
Samuel didn’t answer immediately. He let the silence stretch a moment before speaking again.
“Don’t get me wrong. We pulled it off. We seized the converter, killed the hostiles, came back with promoted troops and just a single wounded Ranger.” He exhaled slowly. “But I can’t shake the feeling we were one decision away from a total disaster.”
Bradford adjusted the cuffs on his tactical vest, then crossed his arms. “Commander… Samuel… there was nothing more we could’ve done. This wasn’t just a win. It was a decisive one, considering our current resources. You coordinated, adapted, and took risks that paid off.”
He paused, thoughtful. “And if you're worried about repeating the deployment roster, don’t be. We’ve got eight fresh recruits itching to prove themselves. Rotation is necessary. Keeps morale, and our chances, high.”
Samuel nodded slowly but didn’t look convinced. He tilted his head back, gazing at the overhead lights as though they might offer an answer.
“I know I’ve proven myself to the Resistance. I’ve done what a Commander’s supposed to do.” His voice dipped, becoming almost reflective. “But that doesn’t mean I’m adjusted to this… new world.”
Bradford stayed quiet.
O’Connell’s gaze turned distant, haunted. “I’m still stuck in twenty-fifteen. Every time I close my eyes, I hear those damned Sectoids; the way they chirped, the way they moved, slithered like rodents on caffeine. You knew what they were the second they popped up on the field. Predictable.”
His eyes met Bradford’s again. “Now? I open my eyes and I see something that’s changed. Mutated. Taller. Thinner. Stronger. Smarter. They’ve evolved… and I don’t just mean biologically. They’re still out there, adapting.”
Samuel pushed himself off the wall, cane clicking against the metal flooring. “Next mission could be the last for any one of us. You remember how many Code Blacks we went through before the aliens found the original base?”
Bradford’s expression tightened, but he nodded. He remembered.
“Ten soldiers.” Samuel continued. “Fresh from recruitment. Most of them never even had a chance to unpack. Went out the next day on a standard op. Dead within five minutes. All of them.”
His lip curled into a bitter half-smile. “Cannon fodder. That’s what they were. That’s what they’ll be again if I start slipping.”
There was a pause.
“You’re not slipping, Samuel." Bradford said quietly, but firmly. “You’re just awake. And trust me… right now, that’s exactly what X-Com needs.”
The Commander huffed quietly, the breath leaving him like steam from a cracked pipe. “I suppose there’s no point in rotting in a hallway.”
With a low grunt, Samuel O’Connell straightened his spine, or at least, tried to. The effort sent a dull ache along his lower back, a harsh reminder of his time in stasis and the months of muscle atrophy that would follow. Every step he took felt deliberate, anchored by the click of his cane on the metal floor. Rehabilitation would be a long road, no doubt. But the cane, however irritating, was more than a crutch.
He sniffed, eyes narrowing slightly as he scanned the hallway. “Anything else I should know about what’s going on around the base? Feels like I’ve been kept in the dark about a few too many things.”
Bradford gave a knowing nod. “We’ve had a lot to adapt to, sir. But if you’re asking about logistics, we’re currently docked in Greece. Northeastern sector.”
O’Connell paused and blinked. “Greece?” He looked up, as if trying to see through the ceiling. “That’s where we are?”
Bradford half-smiled. “This ship is the Avenger, sir. Shen and the engineering team restored it from an old alien supply barge and got it flight-worthy."
“The Avenger, huh?” Samuel repeated, lips twitching at the corners. “You name it after that movie?”
There was a brief flicker in Bradford’s expression. Barely noticeable, but still there.
“Maybe.” He said, noncommittally. “Figured it sounded hopeful. Forward-facing."
O’Connell grunted, amused but unmoved. “Cute.”
Bradford gestured subtly toward the lift. “You should swing by Engineering and meet Shen."
“Shen...” The name felt distant and recent at the same time. Samuel nodded to himself, turned, and began thumping his cane steadily towards the elevator at the far end of the hallway.
He hadn’t taken more than a few steps before Bradford’s voice called out behind him.
“And, sir?”
Samuel paused, glancing back over his shoulder.
“No matter what happens from here on out… this is just the beginning.”
O’Connell studied his second-in-command for a moment. No pretense. No dramatics. Just a truth laid bare between two men who’d survived too much to bother with flowery sentiment.
He gave a curt nod, eyes sharp. “Yeah.”
A beat passed.
“I can agree with that.”
Then, without another word, the Commander stepped into the elevator, the doors sliding shut behind him with a hydraulic hiss.
If there was one thing Jacob William Lee had always hated while being 'alive' back home, it was those clichéd TV scenes where a character enters a room and everything suddenly goes quiet.
So naturally, that’s exactly what happened when he stepped into the bar.
He’d spent the last hour wandering the ship, trying, and mostly failing, to memorize the layout. He figured understanding the structure would help in the long run, especially if he was expected to move around during emergencies or assignments. But by the time he reached the bar, his patience had worn thin and the pilot's earlier invitation felt like the best available option.
The result?
Total silence the moment he crossed the threshold. Not a word, not even the soft clink of a bottle. Just a dozen pair of eyes locked on him.
It wasn’t a hostile silence. There were no scowls, no muttered insults, no one shifting in their seat like they were preparing for a fight. But the curiosity was palpable. Quiet recognition, caution, even a little wariness. And more importantly... awareness.
Suppressing the sigh rising in his throat, Jacob made his way to the far end of the bar and dropped onto a stool. His posture was casual, but he knew damn well how tense his shoulders were. A quick glance at his left arm confirmed the Omnitrix was still visible; intact, glowing faintly. No projection. No camouflage. No illusion.
He wasn’t defenseless.
If anyone in that room had a problem with aliens or gene-modified tech freaks, they’d be wise not to act on it. Jacob wasn’t looking for trouble, not even close, but if someone threw the first punch, they’d quickly find out he wasn’t the type to just sit there and take it.
He’d been underestimated before by ADVENT. It hadn't ended well for those guys.
So, Jacob leaned forward, elbows resting against the polished metal counter. Scanning the faces around the room, he realized he didn’t recognize a single one of the rookies here. Which likely meant that Kelly and her squad were still in the air or only just approaching the Avenger.
Behind the bar, a man with salt-and-pepper hair and the solid build of someone who’d survived far worse than hangovers was finishing up with a glass. He gave it one final wipe, then turned to Jacob with a raised eyebrow.
“You’re the alien guy, right?”
Jacob gave a half-smile. “Guilty as charged.”
Internally, though, his stomach tightened. First impressions mattered, especially with soldiers, and he wasn’t going to blow his first real interaction on the Avenger by acting like a freak or an outsider.
"Jacob Lee.” He offered, extending a hand.
The bartender set the glass down with a light clink and accepted the shake with a firm grip. “Michael Harrigan. But everyone calls me Mike.” He leaned in slightly, his posture casual but alert. “What can I get you? Everyone’s got a preferred poison around here.”
Jacob shrugged. “Not here to get plastered, show off, or win some unspoken drinking contest. Just give me something light, something clean.”
Mike nodded thoughtfully, then smirked. “Coming right up. Sounds like a whiskey ginger kind of night.”
He grabbed a highball glass, tossed a few ice cubes in, then flicked the whiskey bottle into a short spin before pouring it smoothly. A splash of ginger ale followed, then a thin wedge of lime for show. The whole process took maybe ten seconds, but Mike had a way of doing it like he was working a stage.
Jacob couldn't help but watch, just a little mesmerized. The guy moved like he'd been doing this for decades. Honestly, the last time he’d seen a bartender with that much flair was in Uncharted; the Tom Holland version.
“Here you go." Mike said, sliding the drink forward.
Jacob stopped it with the forearm wearing the Omnitrix. The device caught the overhead lights just right, its faint green glow pulsing softly.
“Cool watch.” Mike commented, giving it a glance with one arched brow. “Where’d you get that? Doesn’t look like standard ADVENT tech. Or human tech, for that matter.”
Jacob raised the glass in a silent toast to the air. “Let’s just say it’s one of a kind. Green neon’s always been my thing.”
Mike chuckled. “Well, as long as you don’t turn into a giant spider or something, we’re good. I’m not scrubbing webs or vomit off this floor.”
He hesitated a second. “You... can’t turn into a spider, right?”
Bingo. Arachnophobic.
Jacob smirked faintly. Spider Monkey popped into his mind, but the current version of the Omnitrix hadn’t that form unlocked.
“No, I don’t do spiders." He said flatly. No sarcasm. No edge. Just matter-of-fact calm. Then, with a slightly raised brow, he continued. “But I do have one form that looks like something H.P. Lovecraft would’ve sketched during a fever dream. If you ever feel like passing out cold, just say the word.”
Mike froze, glass mid-polish.
“Pass.” He said quickly.
Jacob sipped his drink, finally allowing a small, relaxed grin.
Yeah, he could work with this place.
“Excusez-moi, are these seats taken?”
The voice, rich with a French accent, nearly made Jacob snort his drink. Thankfully, he caught himself in time and swallowed, though the surprise still showed on his face as he turned towards the source.
It was that same rookie from the bridge; Eugène Bernard, if Jacob recalled the nametag correctly. The guy who had started the applause after the Commander’s speech. He stood there now, smiling, gesturing politely towards the empty booth seat beside Jacob. A second person stood just behind him: a woman with her arms crossed and an expression that read somewhere between reluctant patience and thinly veiled amusement.
“Uh, no?” Jacob answered, brow raised.
“Magnifique!” Eugène turned slightly to the woman behind him. “Come on, Lisa. We can enjoy that drink you owe me.”
The woman, Lisa, exhaled, stepping forward with resigned purpose. She slid into the booth on the opposite side of Eugène, effectively boxing Jacob in from both ends.
“I hope once you cash this favour in, you’re not going to start asking for more drinks." She said flatly.
“Oui, but we both know it will not end like that.” Eugène said with a grin, waving to Harrigan behind the bar.
Lisa didn’t even try to argue. “Yeah…”
Two fresh bottles slid across the bar. Eugène handed one to Lisa before raising his own. She matched him with a reluctant toast, and the bottles clinked above Jacob’s head, who instinctively leaned back with his own drink to avoid being caught in the middle of their celebratory arc.
He looked between them, then at his glass. He felt like furniture.
The Corporal tapped his fingers onto his glass.
“So, uh…” Jacob wetted his lips and shifted a little on the stool. “You guys new to the Avenger?”
“Got here last week.” Lisa replied, taking a long pull from her bottle like she was trying to forget something. “I doubt you would’ve noticed us. Command said you boarded just a couple days ago.”
“I did." Jacob nodded, eyes flicking between the two. They didn’t seem hostile, but they were definitely assessing him.
Eugène leaned closer across the booth, lowering his voice in what was clearly meant to be a conspiratorial whisper. “Is it true, then? You can turn into extraterrestres?”
Jacob gave a slow, knowing grin. “Confirmed. And I can’t wait for the day ADVENT gets a taste of it. They'll be scrambling for evac the moment they see me hit the field.”
Lisa looked him up and down again. “No way they’ll slot you into a normal rank like the rest of us. But if you had to choose… what class would you want? Ranger? Grenadier?”
He didn’t even need to think about it. “Ranger. No contest.” He tilted his head. “Speaking of which, where’s Corporal Kelly and her team? Haven’t seen them come back yet.”
“They’re inbound." Eugène replied, lifting his bottle and sniffing suspiciously at the rim. “Merde!” He cursed, scowling towards the bar. “You bastard! Did you put garbage in my drink, or what?”
Harrigan just smirked behind the counter. “Made a little twist on your usual cocktail. Only the finest blend for our favourite romantic, wine-sipping Frenchman.”
So the bartender liked to screw with the troops for sport. Jacob couldn’t help but find that amusing. At least this place had more soul than the sterile base in X-Com 2's mainline campaign.
His eyes shifted back to the two rookies. “So… what’s your beef with ADVENT?”
Lisa went quiet for a moment, staring into the amber liquid like it held her past. “Had a little sister.” She said eventually. “She lived in a Haven. ADVENT showed up dressed like peacekeepers. Said they were delivering aid, supplies, medical checks.” Her voice was even, but it had a serrated edge. “Next thing we know, the place is gone. No survivors. No footage. No statement.”
She didn’t say what happened, but she didn’t need to. The silence hung like smoke.
“My condolences." Jacob said quietly.
She waved him off, but there was no casualness in the gesture. “I’ll let her rest properly once I’ve helped bury every last one of them. That’s why I joined.”
Eugène rolled one shoulder, sipping a little more carefully from his drink this time. “Me? I volunteered because I knew from the start the Elders were full of it. Psionic overlords offering salvation? Pff.” He chuckled. “Any species with power like that would never waste it on mercy. I mean... look at us. Two World Wars and a Cold War, and that was before aliens even showed up.”
Jacob leaned back slightly, his drink resting on the counter as he gave a slow nod. “You’re not wrong." He muttered. “People like to pretend we’ve evolved past our worst traits, but they’re just wearing a different uniform now.”
Eugène raised his bottle and clinked it lightly against Jacob’s glass. “To fighting fire with fire, mon ami.”
Jacob returned the gesture. “To giving them hell.”
ENGINEERING, the sign declared in bold, utilitarian font, painted right across the top of a massive blast door trimmed with caution-yellow and an unsettling shade of alien orange. O'Connell raised a brow, then thumbed the access button embedded just beneath the stripe. The door split open with a sharp hiss, followed by the subtle clank of internal hydraulics.
"And I thought the old base was high-tech." He muttered under his breath.
His cane clacked loudly against the grated metal flooring beyond, reverberating with every uneven step. As he moved in, his expression soured at the sight of the stairs; grated latticework bolted into the superstructure, just steep enough to piss him off and spaced wide enough to remind him of his weakened legs. A small mercy, at least: a railing ran along the left-hand side. He muttered a halfhearted prayer to whoever designed that in and hefted his cane to waist height, using it like a third limb as he started the climb.
Voices floated down from above.
“—with some of the parts from your old engine." A woman said, conversational but focused. “Should fix the stabilization issue.”
Something clanged, a dull metallic impact, and the woman added with dry encouragement, “Come on, Rover. It'll work.”
“Rover?” Samuel murmured under his breath. He crested the last step just in time to register the chaos of the room. Engineering looked more like a high-tech scrapyard than an organized workshop. Toolboxes were open and overflowing, half-sorted components littered every flat surface, and the far corner was dominated by a circular workstation festooned with wires, screwdrivers, coils, and what looked like parts of multiple disassembled drones.
His eyes caught sight of a row of monitors, some showing internal systems, others live security feeds, and a sleek, humming armature assembling a chassis on one of the benches.
Then, movement. Fast and direct.
Something launched from the desk with a sharp buzz, rocketing straight at him like a mechanical hornet.
“Commander!” The woman’s voice barked. A warning too late.
“What the—”
Samuel instinctively ducked, cane raised, heart skipping a beat. The drone zipped overhead with a high-pitched whir, circled the open space above the entrance in a perfect arc, and came to a smooth stop behind its creator, hovering with a quiet, persistent hum.
The Commander straightened slowly, exhaling through his nose. “That was… unexpected.”
“Yeah, sorry about that.” The woman replied, setting down her wrench as casually as if nothing had happened. “Getting their tech to work with ours is like convincing cats to swim.”
Samuel’s gaze lingered on the drone, sleek, aggressive, and clearly not built by Earth’s pre-war standards, before shifting back to her. “And what exactly am I looking at?”
“This little troublemaker? That’s Rov-R." She said, giving the drone a pat like it was a pet. “A recon drone-slash-maintenance assistant. Don’t let the attitude fool you, he’s useful when he’s not being an overachiever.”
O'Connell planted his cane again, eyes narrowing just slightly. The thing had almost headbutted him at Mach 2, but he let it go. He focused on the woman instead, shorter than he remembered Shen himself being, but familiar. Asian-descent, soft brown eyes, short cropped hair that said practicality over flair. Her vest was half-unzipped and loaded with tools, and her cargo pants were stuffed with more gear than a field tech should reasonably carry. And then there was the tattoo on her bicep: a stylized fist, wrapped in circuitry.
Something clicked.
“Bradford said Shen was down here.”
The woman nodded slowly. “You were probably expecting my father.”
Samuel’s face stiffened.
“In all the chaos, I’m guessing Central didn’t tell you yet.”
She stepped forward, spine straightening. “Lily Shen. Chief Engineer. At your service, sir.”
Samuel blinked once, then took a deep breath, the pieces slotting into place.
Dr. Raymond Shen’s daughter.
He gave her a respectful nod. “I see the apple didn’t fall far from the toolbox.”
That earned a small smile from her, but it soured almost immediately.
“He’s... gone.”
Samuel felt his gut twist. He hadn’t asked, hadn’t dared to, but hearing it hit harder than expected. His lips parted, searching for the right words, but all he could manage was:
“Oh. I’m...” He swallowed, hard, as a searing wave of loss crept through his ribs and wrapped around his lungs. “I’m sorry.”
“Me too.” Shen nodded softly. “Dad gave everything he had to get us this far. This ship..." She gestured faintly around them, to the walls, the consoles, the flickering lights above. “...is his legacy. His life's work.”
Samuel glanced around the room again, this time with a different eye. Not just high-tech machinery and alien-derived equipment, but intent. Engineering that felt like it was built with purpose.
“Ship?” He echoed, tone laced with quiet disbelief.
She smiled, if only a little. “Yeah. The Avenger was once an alien supply craft. My dad retrofitted it, rewired it, and turned it into the mobile command center you’re standing in. He spent years on it.”
“I imagine...” Samuel said slowly. "...he would’ve wanted to give me the tour himself.”
Shen nodded. “He talked about you. A lot.”
Samuel’s brow lifted faintly. “That so?”
“He admired you.” She continued, voice firm. “He believed you were the only one who could actually pull this off, if you just had the chance.”
He looked away at that. Words like admiration or legend never sat well with him. “I’m a decent tactician.” He muttered. “But I don’t know about deserving all that.”
“Doesn’t matter if you think you do." Shen easily retorted, adjusting a screwdriver at her belt. “He did. And now? You’re here. That chance he talked about? You’ve got it.”
A pause settled between them.
Then, Samuel exhaled through his nose, squared his shoulders, and tapped the butt of his cane on the grated floor. “Well, I won’t let it go to waste. Let’s get to work. What’ve you got for me, Chief?”
That flicker of a smile returned.
“The power converter’s finally installed." Shen said, stepping around her workbench and motioning to several squat assembly stations, each one humming softly. “The Avenger is operational. Fully mobile. She’s not pretty yet, but she kicks, she fights, and from right here, I can fabricate just about anything you or Dr. Tygan come up with.”
Samuel looked past her at the machinery; some alien in form, others clearly jury-rigged from old Earth parts. “Looks like you’ve already started.”
“I have. We’re producing basic field gear: medkits, flash-bangs, and vests. Enough to keep your troops alive on a mission.” She patted one of the nearby automated arms. “Once Tygan completes his current batch of tests, I’ve got a few prototype weapons ready to push into full production.”
Samuel grunted in approval. “Good. I heard from Central that our newest addition’s been keeping Tygan busy.” He tilted his head. “What’s your read on Corporal Lee?”
Shen leaned back against the workstation, arms folded, her expression thoughtful. “From a technical standpoint? The device he’s wearing; a biomechanical interface that rewrites DNA on command? Preserves the user's mind through the process? It’s a feat of biomedical engineering I’ve never seen in my life.”
Samuel raised a brow. “You’ve examined it?”
“Not directly. That’s more Tygan’s field." Shen admitted. “But I’ve seen some telemetry. The Omnitrix—whatever its actual designation is—manages seamless transformation while maintaining a stable cognitive baseline. That alone is... absurd. Terrifying, in a way.”
“But?”
Shen’s gaze drifted to the ceiling. “But if it keeps working? It might be one of the most powerful tools we’ve ever had in this war.”
Samuel nodded slowly.
"Commander?"
He instinctively reached up and pressed a finger to his earpiece.
"Go ahead, Central."
"Firebrand has officially left the operation site. ETA is a couple of hours." Bradford reported. He hesitated for a beat. "Also, I’ve spotted Corporal Lee wandering around the ship. At this rate, he’s either lost or trying to memorize the layout."
O’Connell allowed a small chuckle to escape. "Smart kid. Let him figure things out. It’ll make integration easier." He exhaled through his nose, then turned slightly towards Shen. "Keep the crew on alert, Central. I’m heading back to my quarters; need to review some operational files while Tygan wraps up his end of things. And Shen..." He gave the Chief Engineer a pointed look. She straightened immediately, arms behind her back like she was being inspected. "...is going to start fabricating medical kits for the field teams."
"Understood, sir. Central out."
Samuel lowered his hand from his earpiece and turned to Lily. "That wasn’t just for show. Consider that your first official order."
"Yes, sir." Shen replied, gripping her wrench with new focus and resolve.
Rov-R floated back into view, hovering just in front of the Commander. This time, the little drone didn't buzz aggressively. Instead, it gave a quick series of optic flashes and a subtle bounce, almost like a nod.
"It was an honour to finally meet you, Commander." Shen added quietly, more sincerely this time.
The hangar was just as messy and hollow as Jacob remembered.
Scattered crates lined the walls, half-sealed containers spilled tools across the floor, and maintenance gear lay strewn around the towering figure of the Skyranger. The air carried that familiar mix of grease, fuel, and cooling metal. Industrial and stale. Lived in.
His eyes dropped to a pair of boots sticking out from underneath the aircraft's rear.
“Uh, Firebrand?” Jacob raised his left hand, the Omnitrix catching some of the light, and gave a small wave, even though he knew she couldn't see him.
"One sec!" Came her voice from beneath the hull, muffled but firm.
He waited.
After two full minutes, Jacob gave up standing straight and leaned against one of the Skyranger’s massive rear thrusters, arms folded. The distant clinks and ratcheting of tools echoed in the space, mixing with the low hum of the Avenger’s systems.
“There we go.” She finally said, sliding out from beneath the bird. Her gloved hand gripped the side panel as she pushed herself, and a rolling tool trolley, into the open.
“Ah. It’s you, Jacob.”
Her face was a mess. Black streaks of oil or grease coated her cheeks and forehead, her hair clinging to the sweat along her temples. Which raised a valid question: if maintenance on the Skyranger was a daily job, just how filthy could this thing get after one mission?
“Mind grabbing that?”
She pointed to a shelf across the hangar stacked with thick white towels, the kind meant for scrubbing grime off after a long shift. Jacob grabbed one and tossed it. She snatched it out of the air without looking and immediately started wiping her face.
“Damn it, Reggie." She muttered behind the towel. “You're gonna be the death of me.”
“Reggie?” Jacob blinked. “Who the hell is Reggie?”
“My bird.” She thumbed towards the Skyranger. “Ranger becomes Reggie. Easier to say. Besides, my baby’s been acting up lately. Lacks discipline. Keeps fighting me.”
She sounded half-joking, half-dead serious.
Strange as it was, Jacob didn’t find it as odd as he probably should’ve.
“I’m more surprised you used ‘he’ instead of ‘she.’ Most people would’ve defaulted to female for a ship.”
“My bird, my rules.” She shot back with a shrug. “Why are you here, anyway? If you’re here for shooting lessons, tough luck. Next session’s will be tomorrow. I just got back from an op. Need some… well, stress relief only Mike can provide.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You’ve met Harrigan, yeah?”
“Charming barman. Tampered with a rookie’s drink because he was French.”
Firebrand snorted. “French are bastards. We all know that.”
Jacob groaned and rolled his eyes towards the ceiling. “Can we skip the sarcastic racism today? Jesus. I figured maybe you’d tone things down a little in the base.”
“Cassidy.”
He blinked.
“What?”
She smiled, stepping back and wiping her hands on her pants. “Cassidy. Cassidy Marie Rowe. That’s who I am while I’m here. Firebrand’s resting, but she’ll be ready when it’s time.”
She extended a hand, still partly stained with oil.
He took it without hesitation. Firm grip.
“Jacob William Lee.”
Cassidy’s brow raised. “William, huh? Your friends ever call you ‘Bill’?”
He squinted. “No. Do yours mistake ‘Marie’ for the Spanish name ‘Mariah’?”
She burst out laughing. Lucky for him, she seemed to think he was joking. In truth, the jab had carried a bit more edge than he meant. Thankfully, it slid off her.
“Sometimes.” She admitted, still grinning. Then she took a breath and tilted her head. “So… why are you here, Jacob?”
“Heard from Central that Reggie’s been giving you major problems." Jacob said, arms still crossed. “Thought I might be able to help.”
Cassidy tilted her head, placing a gloved finger to her chin. “Well..." She drawled, eyes narrowing. “Unless you’ve got an engineering background in human-alien hybrid propulsion systems, plus a basic-to-intermediate degree in mechanical engineering, oh, and let’s not forget avionics, I doubt you’re gonna be much use.”
“You don’t have a degree." Jacob pointed out.
“Details, details!” Cassidy waved him off like it was a fly in her ear. “I’ve been buried in this stuff since I was old enough to lift a wrench. Sure, Shen’s a genius, no doubt about it, she’s in a league of her own, but I’m solid enough not to bug her every ten minutes just to fix Reggie’s latest tantrum.”
Jacob sighed and raised his left arm.
“It’s not me who’s going to help you.”
He pressed the glowing green core at the center of the Omnitrix. The ringed dial hissed as it popped upwards, clicking into position and flaring with light.
“One of my buddies is smart. Very smart. Interested?”
Cassidy’s eyes lit up. “You’re gonna do that transformation thing? In front of me?” She crossed her arms and grinned. “Cool. I’m curious to meet the brainy version of you.”
“Turn around.” Jacob said flatly. “Unless you wanna risk permanent retinal damage.”
Cassidy obeyed, pivoting on her heel and facing the Skyranger.
SLAM!
The Omnitrix activated in a burst of neon green energy, swallowing Jacob in a sudden vertical shaft of light. The glow pulsed violently outwards in a ripple of heat and power, but the noise of the transformation was sharper this time.
Inside the column of light, Jacob’s form warped.
His arms lengthened and bulked up, but instead of muscle, the texture turned sinewy and grey, almost amphibious. His skin shimmered briefly as the Omnitrix sank back into the base of his skin like a spinal node. His hair receded into his scalp in a blink, vanishing entirely, while his ears flattened into his skull. His eyes snapped open, now large, almond-shaped, and vibrant green with slitted pupils, cold and calculating. His teeth shifted too, compact and needle-like, topped with two curved canines in each jaw.
Then came the final change; his height plummeted.
Muscle and bone compressed inwards at rapid speed. He shrank fast, falling to half a foot, then less. By the time the light died out, the hangar looked like a completely different environment around him; giant-sized, warped in perspective. Toolboxes were now the size of buildings. The Skyranger looked like a skyscraper. The towel Cassidy had dropped on the floor earlier might as well have been a football field.
He landed lightly on all fours, then stood upright. Four inches tall. Cool grey skin. Big green-ish eyes. No hair. No eyebrows. Just a dome-shaped head full of computing power.
Jacob looked down at his four-fingered hands, then up towards Cassidy’s back.
Grey Matter had entered the chat.
“Cassidy!” The alien squeaked, his voice higher and more nasal than he’d expected. He grimaced at the sound, tiny grey hands balling into fists. “Ugh… Never gonna get used to that.”
Still, he shoved the thought aside. Mission first.
“I’m ready!” He called out.
Cassidy turned at the sound of his voice, eyebrows raised. She scanned the area in front of her and took a step closer to where he had been.
“Did you go invisible? Where the hell are you?” She asked, already craning her head around suspiciously.
For the love of—
“I’m down here!” He shouted, then jumped.
To his surprise, the little body could leap nearly three feet into the air. Compact, springy muscles coiled and released like a rubber band, letting him bounce with precision and speed. He used it again, hop, land, hop, until her eyes dropped to the deck and locked on to his position.
Cassidy blinked.
He blinked back, slowly, using his layered, horizontal-lidded eyes.
“Awwww!” She squealed, lowering to one knee in front of him. A single gloved finger came down and poked gently at the top of his domed head. “You’re adorable! I swear, I could put you in a little cockpit and use you as a bobblehead on Reggie’s dash.”
“H-hey!” Grey Matter recoiled, grabbing her finger with both hands and pushing it away with all the might his four-inch frame could muster. It barely moved. “I am not a pet or a decoration! Show some respect for advanced life-forms!”
He crossed his arms and turned to the side with a huff, trying very hard not to pout but not quite pulling it off.
Cassidy, naturally, giggled.
“Okay, okay, sorry!" She said, still grinning ear to ear. “So, what exactly is this little guy supposed to do? He’s, uh… well, tiny.”
“Thank you for the biology lesson, Mrs. Rowe." He said flatly, glancing up with obvious exasperation. “But I’m afraid you’re underestimating my species. The Galvans possess one of the most efficient intellect-to-mass ratios in the known galaxy. I may be small, but I can solve equations faster than a quantum processor, and I’ve been in this hangar for less than a minute and already identified four suboptimal configurations in your Skyranger’s auxiliary cooling relay.”
He pointed sharply at a nearby exhaust port, clearly annoyed.
Cassidy raised an eyebrow. “Wow. You sound like Tygan.”
Grey Matter gave a reluctant shrug.
I just adhere to the species' instincts.
"And the cooling relay? I've done a hundred checkups on that. It's functional."
"You'd be surprised by what details I can find." Grey Matter rubbed the smooth skin where his nose would have been, his large eyes scanning the Skyranger's body with mechanical interest. "I’m also considering a few upgrades. Stealth drives. Maybe even an energy-based deflector shield. Nothing drastic... yet."
Cassidy planted her fists on her hips, unimpressed. “Right. So what’s your big plan, Mr. Genius? You gonna crawl inside Reggie and tinker with his circuits like some kind of amphibious mechanic?”
Grey Matter’s small mouth curled into a smug smirk. “That’s exactly the plan. Get me access to the vent grid, and I’ll have full diagnostics running in five minutes or less.”
The pilot rolled her eyes but turned to the rear of the Skyranger. She crouched down near the maintenance latch and pulled a multi-tool from her belt, quickly unscrewing the square panel. A soft click, and the metal covering came loose, revealing the entrance to one of the aircraft’s primary maintenance shafts.
It looked like a black tunnel from where he stood. No internal lighting, no markers. Still, not a problem. He made a mental note to request a miniaturized LED mount from Shen for future dives like this...
...assuming he didn't whip one up himself.
Grey Matter took a few steps forward, bouncing slightly on his feet with excitement. He flexed his tiny flattened fingers, rubbing them together like a scientist about to conduct an unethical experiment.
"This is gonna be awesome."
Without another word, he leapt, landing cleanly inside the shaft. The metal walls closed in on him almost immediately, but the narrow crawlspace suited his frame perfectly. He was in his element now: surrounded by wires, conduits, and hardware no human could normally reach without disassembling half the airframe.
The fun was just getting started.
Notes:
This is one of the reasons I think Ben 10's aliens are effectively hard counters towards X-Com's aliens.
There are many aliens that are PERFECT for certain situations. Like, they're entirely made for that specific thing, no questions asked.
You'll see what I mean, soon enough.
Chapter Text
"Well..." Lily Shen exhaled, flipping the top sheet of the stapled blueprints over. "These are definitely advanced schematics."
She rested the stack of paper on her thigh, brow furrowed as she studied the dense technical drawings; handwritten notes in the margins, component outlines, wiring paths, and energy distribution layers rendered with surprising precision. After a beat, she looked up at Jacob Lee, curiosity beginning to override skepticism.
She hopped up onto her workbench, shoving aside a half-disassembled coilgun and a tray of mismatched bolts to make space. Rover hovered behind her, optics blinking as it glanced over the paper like a curious bird.
Across the room, Commander O’Connell stood silently with one hand resting on his cane, observing the interaction. His expression was measured, but his eyes occasionally flicked towards Jacob and Cassidy Rowe, who stood by the entrance with crossed arms. Cassidy’s posture was casual, but the faint smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her mood. Amused. Satisfied. And very likely entertained by whatever had led to the current situation.
Samuel didn’t have the full context yet, but he was starting to suspect the Corporal had surprised them all.
"We don’t have the materials to pursue this kind of thing." Shen said bluntly, tapping her knuckle against the page. "This setup would need alien alloys, Elerium, and at least two upgrades we haven't even unlocked yet. Right now? We’ve got nothing. Zero. Unless someone’s hiding a stash somewhere."
She glanced up again, tilting her head. “And no offense, but you don’t look like someone who spends nights drawing up advanced modular avionics. Where did this come from?”
Samuel leaned in slightly, mirroring the question without repeating it.
Jacob answered with a small shrug. “Wasn’t me. One of my forms drew those up. Grey Matter.”
That earned him a raised eyebrow from both Shen and the Commander.
"Grey Matter?" O'Connell echoed as he looked Jacob over. "I've been going over some of the preliminary reports Tygan compiled from your test data. If I'm not mistaken, that form belongs to the Galvan species?"
"Ye—" Jacob cut himself short, clearing his throat and straightening his stance. "Affirmative, sir."
The reply hadn't earned him any points. Neither Shen nor Cassidy seemed impressed either. Lily turned her attention back to the blueprints laid across the workbench, flipping a page with a quiet rustle, while Cassidy tried, and failed, to hide a grin behind her knuckles.
“I’ve read that the Galvans are impressively intelligent, even for their size." O'Connell continued, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “I imagine a collaboration between that form and Tygan’s team could accelerate some of our research efforts. Still, you referred to him in the third person. Why is that?”
Jacob shifted his weight, his fists clenching at his sides. “Because the Galvans' intellect doesn’t carry over. It’s embedded in their biology. I don’t retain it when I revert.” He gestured towards the papers. “Whatever Grey Matter designs or builds, it’s his work. Not mine. Once I’m human again, it’s gone. You could show me those schematics right now and I’d be better off trying to read Sanskrit underwater.”
“Hey now.” Cassidy stepped closer and slung a casual arm around his shoulders. “You’re still the guy who got Reggie running. That bird’s humming smooth, and I haven’t had to swear at an engine once since yesterday.”
Jacob opened his mouth to, probably, clarify who had really done the work, but decided against it. He exhaled quietly and looked away.
“You’ve done well so far." O’Connell said, his voice easing slightly. “And if you had any intention of selling us out, I suspect we’d already be buried under an ADVENT response team. Consider this your formal promotion to Corporal.”
The Shapeshifter blinked. “Wait... so I wasn’t officially a Corporal before?”
“Only in name. I wasn’t about to compromise the command structure for someone who could’ve been a walking lab experiment from ADVENT.”
Jacob grimaced. “That’s... comforting.”
“No hard feelings, Corporal." The Commander said, his voice casual as he adjusted his posture with a slight shift of weight. “Shen?” He turned to face the Chief Engineer. “What’s your take on these upgrades? I just need a baseline. Are they realistically within our reach? Provided, of course, we get our hands on the right materials.”
“They’re more than feasible, Commander.” Lily replied, already reaching across her cluttered workbench for a pencil. She leaned in, tapping her eraser against the page before circling several key components. “They’re also impressive. I’ve never thought of reversing polarity across power relays in this exact configuration. Grey Matter’s approach is... unconventional, but efficient. Honestly, I’d like to meet him in person, if that’s possible.”
“Get in line, ma’am.” Jacob muttered, rubbing his forehead. “Tygan’s already drawing up a schedule for lab time. Grey Matter’s practically booked. Though personally, I’d rather be out there putting my more... aggressive forms to use. There’s six I haven’t even tried in combat yet."
Samuel allowed himself a short chuckle and gestured vaguely with his cane. “Don’t worry, Slipstream. You’ll have no shortage of opportunities soon enough.” He then turned his attention towards Cassidy. “Speaking of which, how is his training going? It’s just after ten. I take it you’ve both been occupied before our little gathering here?”
“Yes, sir.” Cassidy jabbed a finger into Jacob’s chest, her tone smug. “The guy’s improving. I don’t cut him any slack, either.”
“I’d throw you out of the Skyranger if you did, Firebrand.” The Commander followed with a snort. “But seeing as you’re the only one we’ve got who can keep that thing flying, it seems that kind of punishment is off the table.”
“Glad to be indispensable, sir.” She retorted flawlessly with a mock salute and a grin that suggested she was only half joking.
Confident to the end... Samuel thought. Energetic and bold, almost the complete opposite of Big Sky, their former pilot from the Old World. That man had been calm, quiet, and professional, rarely speaking unless it was over comms or about mission parameters. He’d kept to himself, sticking close to the aircraft and avoiding the kind of camaraderie that now filled the Avenger’s halls. No bar visits, no jokes, no sharp remarks thrown during briefings.
But the world had changed. X-Com was no longer a global defense initiative backed by the world's governments. They were now a fragmented resistance cell, barely scraping by with salvaged gear, a refurbished aircraft, and a list of objectives far larger than their available manpower.
Still, if things went well, if they could build their network, hit the right targets, form strong alliances, then maybe, just maybe, they'd stop being reactionary. They’d become the threat ADVENT couldn’t ignore.
Samuel was convinced of it.
“Well, it looks like we’ve found a reliable purpose for at least one of your non-combat forms, Slipstream." He tapped his cane once against the floor for emphasis. Then, he pivoted slowly, glancing over his shoulder as he moved towards the exit. “Also, Corporal Kelly’s been raising hell down in the Infirmary. Apparently she’s been told she’ll need additional time of recovery, and she’s not taking it well."
Jacob’s posture stiffened slightly at that.
“She’s expecting you." O’Connell added, not bothering to turn around again. His voice trailed off as he disappeared down the hallway.
Inner peace.
The words held no comfort, only discipline.
She sat cross-legged upon the cold, elevated platform near her Sarcophagus, motionless, spine held in unnatural stillness as if tension alone was keeping her upright. Her hands, encased in tightly wrapped gloves, curled inwards into fists. She squeezed, not out of anger, but control. Control of the mind, of the body, of the thousand impulses a lesser being might indulge.
No flicker of muscle. No shift of breath. Her focus remained absolute.
In the blank void of her meditative trance, she reviewed the past operation; not in memory, but through calculated possibilities. One thousand six hundred distinct branches of potential. Different outcomes. Different reactions. Different patterns of resistance.
She had succeeded, of course. She always did. Victory was not a matter of chance but inevitability, the product of relentless refinement and devotion to the Elders. Yet the Skirmishers, those wretched traitors, had grown increasingly aggressive. Their boldness was a flaw of X-Com’s resurgence. Their movements had become sharper, more desperate, their incursions into ADVENT’s holdings more frequent and calculated.
Such behaviour would have consequences.
This analysis was ritual. She never moved forward without dissecting the past. That was how she honed her skill. That was how she remained superior. That was how she continued to earn the favor of the Elders.
Suddenly, the sanctity of silence fractured.
The teleporter at the far end of the chamber surged with light; loud, piercing, divine. It cast long, flickering shadows across the obsidian walls of her sanctum. The boom was deafening to most. But not to her.
Not after fifteen years of unbroken discipline.
Her eyelids remained closed, her breath unchanged. Yet her awareness extended in all directions. She knew who it was. She always knew. No creature could step into her domain unnoticed.
Still, she did not open her eyes.
If this intrusion lacked urgency, there would be a reckoning.
Her long, armoured fingers relaxed, returning to rest upon her knees. Her mouth curled slightly; not a smile, but something colder. Sharper. A baring of canines. Her patience, though vast, was not eternal.
They would speak, and it would be brief.
Because her time, like her talents, was not to be wasted.
Thunderous footsteps echoed through the chamber; precise, familiar. Each one struck the metallic floor like a war drum, a herald of interruption that reverberated up through the stone into her seated form.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, the sound minimal yet laced with quiet irritation. Her meditation had not been broken, not yet, but she prepared herself for the inevitable.
Her voice, when it came, was low and flat; controlled, devoid of warmth.
"Why are you here, Amon Cazzaks?"
As she spoke, her eyes opened; slits of glowing violet shone. Her gaze fell upon the ADVENT Major now standing at the perimeter of her sanctum, dressed in the standard-issue black-and-red combat plating of the Stun Lancer corps. His electric pike was sheathed across his back, and he dropped to one knee immediately, head bowed in respect.
"Forgive me, Fal-Mai Neylor." He said, voice strained but reverent. The name he used, the one given only in ceremony and high-level hierarchy, was not uttered lightly. "I bring urgent intelligence concerning X-Com's operations in the southeastern quadrant of the European sector. Specifically, Greece."
The Assassin let the silence stretch for several seconds, forcing the alien to hold his kneeling position.
"Your intrusion..." She began at last, her tone as cold and sharp as a honed blade. "...during a moment of disciplined clarity had best yield results worthy of the Elders’ sight. Or you will find your name removed from their favour."
Without protest or hesitation, Cazzaks reached to the magnetic clasp on his right thigh and detached a datapad, holding it upwards with both hands. The red visor on his helmet flickered slightly in the chamber’s pale light.
She uncrossed her legs and rose fluidly to her full height. Towering, easily double that of the kneeling soldier, her shadow stretched over him, engulfing him in her presence. Her boots struck the platform as she stepped forward, the soft metallic whine of armor shifting accompanying her measured movement. Her clawed fingers took the datapad without acknowledgment.
A prayer slipped from her lips. Spoken in the original coded dialect of ADVENT, blessing Cazzaks with continued service to the Elders, though the words carried no affection. Only utility.
With a swipe, she began scrolling through the files.
"Unknown species have begun interfering with ADVENT operations." Cazzaks elaborated as she browsed. "They have aligned themselves with X-Com’s field units. Their most recent confirmed appearance was during an engagement in Paris."
That caught her attention.
Paris.
That explained the disruption she’d felt rippling through the psionic Network. The Codexes had flared unusually around that region. Images had flooded her subconscious like static bursting through a screen: an empty stasis pod, containment locks overridden, and a trail of shattered conduits.
Her brothers would feel it soon as well, if they hadn’t already. The equilibrium of containment had been broken.
She turned her focus to the videos now playing on the datapad. The first feed showed an orange-skinned, heavily-muscled beast, a quadruped hybrid of reptilian and mammalian traits, plowing through an ADVENT patrol. It moved with terrifying speed and calculated brutality. The footage ended with a close-up of the creature’s maw, wide and bristling with serrated teeth.
The second clip featured an airborne entity with membranous wings and four glowing ocular tubes extending from its head. It dropped from above, grasping a trooper with unnatural precision and lifting him clean off the ground before hurling him into a wall with effortless force. The footage was interrupted mid-motion by static.
The Assassin narrowed her eyes.
"Do we have any identification protocols on these entities?" She asked, voice clipped.
"None, my Chosen. Their physiology doesn’t match any catalogued units. No prior sightings. No traceable signatures from our scanners. No known history recorded by the Elders during their interactions with interstellar civilizations."
But there was something.
A detail.
Subtle.
She replayed the first feed and paused it, then repeated the process with the second.
A symbol.
Both creatures bore the same green insignia; one embedded into the shoulder plating of the orange brute, the other glowing faintly from the flying creature’s forehead. Not standard ADVENT iconography. Not Reaper or Skirmisher. Not even alien sect identifiers from within the known ranks of the Elders' armies.
She tapped the screen, zooming in.
A circular emblem. Interlocking bands. Almost... tribal. Primitive in design, but the power behind it was anything but.
What was its origin?
Why did these unknowns fight alongside X-Com? Were they constructs? Reanimated entities? Mutations?
"Continue monitoring all regions for anomalous activity. Have psionic analysts scour the Paris site. And inform my brothers, subtly, that something has entered the battlefield beyond the parameters of the War." She paused. "While our rivalry for the Elders' favour shall not end, we must all prepare for what's to come."
She turned away, datapad in hand, her mind already calculating the next phase.
If X-Com had obtained a new ally, one capable of creating or commanding such biological weapons, then her task had just evolved.
Not merely to kill their Master.
But to understand him.
To break him open and learn exactly what he was...
...and what threat he posed to the Elders' Ascension.
God damn it.
How had no one thought to reconfigure the ship’s damn layout for someone with a cane?
Samuel O'Connell had once led squadrons through warzones and broken out of enemy encirclements. Now, he was wrestling with a goddamn staircase.
For the third time that day, he'd found himself facing a descent to another deck, courtesy of the Avenger’s archaic architecture; narrow, steep metal steps clearly not designed with injured personnel in mind. He gritted his teeth, shoved his weight against the wall, and descended slowly, one heavy thump at a time. Pain pulsed up through his hip with each step, and still he moved forward. Determination, or pure spite, kept him going.
At the bottom, he slammed his palm into the biometric pad with more force than necessary. The doors hissed open in a reluctant arc. If Doctor Tygan hadn’t finished his promised analysis, then this trip would not have been worth the trouble. He was already close to stabbing something, or someone, with his own damn cane.
Incompetence was one thing. He could tolerate mistakes. But procrastination? Not a chance. Doctor Vahlen had been slow on very few occasions, and even then, it was due to the complexity of the work, not a lack of urgency.
Smart, professional, and with a bite to her. A real scientist.
"Really, I should’ve asked her out." He muttered under his breath, though the thought evaporated as fast as it came. There was no time to dwell on the past.
Inside the lab, Doctor Tygan stood hunched over his desk, utterly absorbed in the alien chip floating inside a stasis cradle. The device hovered inside its containment field, casting distorted, blue reflections over the scientist's face. Tygan rubbed the back of his scarred scalp absently, eyes twitching as though replaying a mental recording only he could see.
"Unbelievable." Tygan whispered to himself. "So much of my research... derivative of this design. And I never saw it.”
“Doctor.” O’Connell announced his presence with a raspy cough into his elbow.
Tygan startled slightly, straightened up, and turned with a tight smile.
"Ah, Commander! Excellent timing. There’s been… progress.”
O’Connell gave him a skeptical look, resting both hands on his cane.
“Progress, Doctor Tygan? I was under the impression your analysis was already complete.”
Tygan turned to his nearby terminal, bringing up a high-resolution cranial scan. “And it is. I’ve successfully isolated several of the chip’s primary functions. Quite enlightening, really.”
O’Connell leaned forward slightly. “Is that my brain?”
“Indeed.” Tygan nodded. “The chip operates as a neural conduit. It was designed to transfer immense volumes of data directly into your cerebral cortex, far more than a normal human brain should be capable of handling.”
Samuel narrowed his eyes. “What data, exactly?”
“Unknown in totality. Most of it was lost when the chip's uplink was severed. However, fragments remain. Echoes... ghosts.” Tygan tapped a few keys. “Observe.”
The monitor shifted. Glimpses of memories, or simulations, flashed across the screen. Images danced through a blurred lens: squad formations, overhead maps, movement vectors, tactical encounters with alien units. Familiar and yet... distant. They weren’t memories. Not real ones.
"That’s Parker." Samuel frowned. “I can’t remember his first name, but I recall the callsign: Joker. Always cracking wise before the drops.”
“But not the man himself." Tygan corrected gently. "These are data constructs. Combat simulations, preloaded en masse into your mind, likely to simulate battlefield decision-making.”
The feed shifted to a more chaotic scene: a mass of X-Com troopers engaging a horde of mutons. Next, a brief frame showed a distinctly non-ADVENT alien, an Outsider, phasing through environmental cover.
Samuel blinked. “That’s not from my memory. Doctor, what exactly am I looking at? Are these—what—fabricated events?”
“Precisely. These weren’t personal recollections. They’re tactical combat scenarios, artificial war games injected into your consciousness. It’s... astonishing, frankly.” Tygan regarded him with renewed intensity. “The fact that your neural system withstood the cognitive load for so long, Commander, it’s a medical impossibility. You should have suffered total synaptic failure.”
Samuel scoffed. “So, I’m a walking corpse with a bootleg war simulator in his head. Fantastic.”
He looked past the monitor to Tygan’s side table, where several containers caught his attention; odd samples encased in sealed, reinforced glass. One contained viscous green gel. Another, jagged crystals embedded in black sediment. A third held something that flickered, unstable and glowing red, like flame trapped in solid form.
“And what the hell am I looking at now?” Samuel gestured with his cane, taking a cautious step closer.
“Ah, yes.” Tygan’s voice shifted to something resembling restrained glee. “Corporal Lee has graciously provided genetic and elemental samples derived from his alien transformations. You’re seeing examples from the Lepidopterran, Petrosapien, and Pyronite morphs.”
“Pyronite?” O’Connell raised an eyebrow. “That the one he calls Heatblast?”
“Correct. Though, as you might expect, I prefer to classify these forms with their proper taxonomies rather than the rather... comic-inspired nicknames Corporal Lee has assigned.”
Samuel squinted at the fiery material. “How does that even function? That’s a living flame. You’re telling me this thing is... alive?”
"Pyronites appear to be plasma-based lifeforms. Their ‘flesh’ consists of a volatile yet contained plasma core, stabilized by an outer shell composed of igneous rock-like material. It appears to be both armour and insulation.”
Samuel snorted. “Like the Human Torch with better skin care.”
To his mild surprise, Tygan offered a thin smile. “I doubt Mr. Lee will be shouting ‘Flame on’ during field ops, but the analogy is... not without merit.”
That earned a rare chuckle from O’Connell.
“As for the samples..." Tygan continued, more serious now. “I’ve begun theorizing their integration into our equipment. The Lepidopterran’s secretion, for instance, it hardens into an incredibly adhesive compound upon exposure to oxygen. Imagine Shen fashioning a grenade that immobilizes ADVENT units without lethality.”
Samuel nodded slowly, absorbing the implications.
“And the crystals?”
“Petrosapien residue. Near-diamond hardness with conductive properties. I believe it could be used to enhance powered armour or even weapon shielding.”
“So we’ve gone from planning to raid ADVENT convoys to reverse-engineering aliens our own guy becomes on demand. Huh.” He exhaled, leaning a little heavier on his cane. “Let’s just make sure we don’t turn the Avenger into a goddamn Saturday morning cartoon while we’re at it.”
“Understood, Commander.” Tygan replied with full seriousness, though his eyes still sparkled with scientific obsession. “But I believe we are only beginning to scratch the surface of what these forms can teach us.”
However, Tygan turned his attention back to the chip.
"Commander... while this may seem disconcerting—"
O’Connell narrowed his eyes at the monitor, where the flickering images still played: ghostly reconstructions of simulated firefights and alien contact scenarios. Echoes of a war he had lived, or maybe just thought he had.
"That's one way to put it." He snapped, venom in his tone. "How the hell do I even know which memories are real anymore? They had me boxed up and hallucinating for God knows how long. Who knows what they were shoving into my head the whole time." He shuddered at the thought.
"As I said..." Tygan continued patiently. "While this may seem deeply troubling, there is a silver lining."
Grudgingly, O’Connell tore his glare away from the monitor and turned his attention to the scientist, who returned to the terminal.
"This chip... it bears strong similarities to a prototype implant I helped develop, briefly, while working at the gene therapy clinic in New Providence."
Samuel frowned. "And what? You want to get your hands on one of those again?"
"Precisely."
He tilted his head. "And where exactly do we find one? In case you missed it, Doctor, New Providence isn’t exactly down the road."
Tygan clasped his hands behind his back, his expression measured. "Fortunately, such a journey won’t be necessary. It’s my understanding these implants were reserved for high-ranking ADVENT personnel; Captains and above. We happen to have one in storage. If I’m permitted to conduct an autopsy, I believe I can extract and analyze the chip without issue. The bullet holes made by Corporal Kelly and her team did not damage the internal structure."
O’Connell's gaze returned to the stasis chamber. The chip hovered there, eerily still, like it was mocking him.
"Well... a better understanding of what’s been shoved into my head would benefit all of us."
"My thoughts exactly, Commander." Tygan gave a brief nod. "Shall I consider that a directive to proceed?"
Samuel held up a hand, halting him. "One thing first. Do we have any ADVENT gear, weaponry, or armour, that we’ve recovered and catalogued?"
Tygan nodded. "Several crates, though preliminary study has not yet commenced."
"Start there. Understanding the aliens’ endgame is important, but my soldiers are bleeding out on the field. If there's a way to improve their survivability, I want it in place before we start poking at corpses again."
He tapped his cane once for emphasis. "Weapons and armour first. Then you can take the scalpel to the Captain. What kind of timeframe are we looking at?"
Tygan thought for a moment. "Nine days, if uninterrupted. Three to study the modular weapon systems, another three for their armour designs, and three more to perform the dissection."
"Fine. Do it." Samuel turned slightly towards the door, then paused. "And I want every result uploaded to my datapad the moment each stage is complete."
"Of course, Commander." Tygan gave a small salute, then turned back to his console, fingers already dancing across the keys.
But O’Connell lingered a moment longer, watching him work.
"You’re wondering about the scars." Tygan said without looking up.
Samuel didn’t blink. "Among many other things."
Tygan finally looked up, expression neutral. "The gene therapy clinic in New Providence wasn’t where I imagined ending up, let alone under alien occupation. I was fresh out of medical school when the invasion began. The pharmaceutical sector crumbled overnight once ADVENT consolidated control. Like many others, I needed work... and curiosity filled in the rest."
Samuel studied him, silently.
Tygan’s lips tightened. "Eventually, I began to see what we were really doing. It reminded me too much of certain chapters in human history; ones we vowed never to repeat. I tried to leave. I would’ve died doing so, if not for sheer luck."
"That’s when you removed the chip?"
The scientist gave a grim nod. "Yes. I didn’t trust anyone to do it for me, so I did it myself. In an abandoned shed in upstate New York. I had a basic surgical kit, some expired painkillers, and a car’s rear-view mirror to guide me. Took me several hours."
Samuel blinked. "Jesus. You’re telling me you carved that thing out of your own skull?"
"Deadly serious. The procedure nearly killed me. Infection, blood loss, shock; you name it. I passed out twice. I only survived because I managed to contact the Canadian Resistance afterwards. They smuggled me across the border, treated my wounds, and connected me to Central."
Samuel was quiet for a moment. Then he gave a low whistle. "You’re a tough bastard, Doctor."
Tygan gave a noncommittal shrug. "I was fortunate. Without their help, I’d have died in that shed, or been found by a Viper patrol."
Samuel finally turned towards the door, cane tapping once more on the floor.
"Well." He said, exhaling slowly. "I'm just glad a man with your mind, and guts, is on our side now."
He walked towards the exit.
"Make sure not to disappoint, Doctor."
And with that, he stepped through the door, letting it slide closed behind him.
The Infirmary was exactly what Jacob expected from X-Com: sterile, efficient, and quietly humming with restrained urgency. It was a far cry from the medbay modules he remembered placing in his campaign playthroughs back on Earth. In those, the Infirmary was a sleek construction project, slotted neatly into a cleared section of the Avenger’s lower levels. Clean lines, digital readouts, and assigned staff nodes.
This version? More makeshift. More real.
And that made sense. He wasn’t looking at a full-scale base developed after multiple missions and resource investments. This was the beginning; just a few weeks or months post-rescue, when X-Com barely had the manpower to scrub down the upper decks, let alone construct comprehensive facilities below. Medical supplies were probably scavenged. Beds cobbled together from whatever fit the criteria of 'sanitary' and 'sturdy.'
His eyes quickly landed on a familiar group: three soldiers huddled around one of the berths, where Jane Kelly was propped up against some pillows, clearly injured but far from defeated.
Jacob took a breath and walked towards them.
“Ah, there he is." Kelly said, catching sight of him before the others did. She leaned slightly to peer around Rizzo and Brown; MacDonald stood on her opposite side, arms folded.
She tried to sit up straighter, grimacing as the motion tugged at the fresh bandages wrapped tightly around her torso. She scowled down at them like sheer force of will might peel them off and accelerate her healing.
Jacob raised a hand in a half-hearted wave. "Sup." he greeted. “Heard the Irish devil wanted to see me?”
MacDonald chuckled, clearly amused. The big American had a dry humor that leaned towards tolerance rather than encouragement, but Jacob appreciated the chuckle anyway. Brown and Rizzo didn’t say anything; just rolled their eyes and looked elsewhere, clearly not in the mood for the Shapeshifter’s antics.
“Yes.” Kelly said, cutting in. She nodded towards the door. “Mind giving us a few minutes? No need for a crowd. I’ve already got the doctor hovering over me.”
Derek shrugged easily. “Fine by me. Been craving a drink anyway.” He glanced at the others. “You two coming? Harrigan said he put aside the good stuff.”
Donatella and Ronan followed him out, the latter casting a last glance over his shoulder at the two remaining occupants before disappearing into the corridor.
Jacob waited until the door slid shut behind them. He heard Kelly exhale, then watched as she let her head fall back onto the pillow.
“Damn." She muttered. “That was my first mission. I really wanted to be cleared for more already.” She gestured loosely at the chair beside her. “Sit.”
He obeyed without comment, dragging the seat closer and lowering himself into it with casual ease.
“Well..." Jacob began, drawing out the word. “Turnover’s part of the process. You can’t go on every op, especially not early on. The more you push it, the higher the odds you’ll get mind-zapped by a Sectoid or panicked in the field. Trust me, I’ve seen it happen.” He tapped the Omnitrix on his wrist. “And believe it or not, this thing doesn’t come with health insurance. Or trauma counseling. Even I am not going to be on every mission. The Commander’s going to hold me back for the important stuff.”
“Makes sense.” She said, rubbing the bridge of her nose. “Listen... I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. We had standing orders, and you weren’t exactly listed on any roster. We couldn’t take the risk. But...” She hesitated, then forced a sheepish smile. “Thanks. For what you did out there. You saved my life.”
Jacob shrugged. “Don’t mention it. Stinkfly was the right call.”
She blinked. Then grimaced. “Bloody hell, mate. How do you come up with those names?”
He leaned back, arms crossing with the air of a smug gremlin. “Would you prefer Lepidopterran over comms? I can commit to that if you want.”
Kelly gave him a flat look.
...
Then sighed. “You know what? Stinkfly it is. Not even going to try repeating that.”
Jacob snickered. He couldn’t help it. Seeing one of X-Com’s poster soldiers, the one who carried you through half of the early campaign in the game, reclining on a real medbay bed, grumbling about alien nicknames? It was surreal. But also kind of cool.
“So…” Jacob jerked his chin towards the door the others had exited through. “What’re their classes?”
Kelly tilted her head back against the pillow, her cap slipping slightly before she adjusted it back down. “Derek’s a Sharpshooter.” She said. “Guy only missed once during the op. Cool under pressure, too; didn’t even flinch when a trooper nearly clipped him.”
Jacob nodded. Figures. The guy had sniper vibes.
“Donatella’s a Specialist.” She continued with a grin. “Can’t wait to see her crack into ADVENT’s little black boxes. Bet their security protocols are going to love that.”
He snorted. “Hope she remembers to leave a thank-you card.”
Kelly chuckled, then thumbed towards the exit. “And Ronan? He’s our Grenadier. Poor bastard couldn’t shoot the broad side of a barn, so the Commander gave him a cannon to compensate. I just hope he’s better at blowing stuff up than he is at aiming.”
“Classic Firaxis logic.” Jacob muttered. “Miss three shots, here’s a rocket launcher.”
Kelly narrowed her eyes. "What was that?"
He grinned sheepishly. "Uh, nothing!"
Then, Jacob sighed and spread his arms. “And me? Still classless.” He gestured at himself with mock flair. “No skills, no abilities, no Soldier Card. Just me and the Omnitrix."
“Don’t worry.” Kelly offered him a crooked smile. “Train with that oversized magnum of yours and you’ll be up to speed in no time.”
He gave a slow nod, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his chair.
There was a pause before Kelly spoke again, her tone more curious now. “And the Commander?” She asked, covering a light cough with her fist. “What’s your read on him?”
Jacob leaned back and looked at the ceiling. “Well… judging by how the op went?” He nodded towards her bandaged ribs. “You’re the only one hurt. Everyone else walked away clean. Sure, you’re grounded for almost a month, but the rest of the squad? Ready for redeployment. And he’s already got more recruits in training. It’s not flashy, but he got the job done. Can’t argue with the results.”
Kelly groaned and threw her hands over her face. “A whole month stuck in here… I need a bloody drink.”
Jacob raised an eyebrow. “Pretty sure your prognosis doesn’t include vodka shots.” He gave her a once-over. “Aren’t you doped up on painkillers? Why the hell would you risk throwing booze into that chemical soup?”
“Because booze helps us forget.” She answered through her fingers, voice muffled. “That’s how it works in Ireland.”
He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fucking Irish people. You’re all the same.”
She shot him a look and jabbed a finger at him. “Don’t get sarcastic with me, William.”
Jacob blinked. “How the hell do you know that?"
Kelly grinned smugly. “News travels fast on this ship, Jacob. You and the Commander? Everyone’s talking."
He didn’t reply at first, but the quiet between them was comfortable now, easier than before. He’d wanted to ask her more, maybe dig deeper into how she felt about the war, about fighting.
A sudden vibration rattled through the floor, followed by the unmistakable deep roar of the Avenger’s engines kicking on. Kelly grabbed the railing on her bed, eyes wide.
“The hell was that?!?” She barked, bracing herself.
Jacob’s head snapped at the ceiling in dismay. “Aw, man! I missed it!"
“Missed what?”
He threw his arms up, exasperated.
“The Commander’s reaction to the Avenger’s first takeoff! I wanted to see it live, watch his face when they tell him this thing flies!”
Kelly blinked at him. “Wait, you didn’t know it flies?”
“Oh, I knew.” He sighed dramatically. “But I wanted to see it."
But next time?
Next time he’d be ready to catch the cutscenes unfold.
“You’re too trusting, John.” The grizzled man on the screen said, his voice grating with disdain. “The Skirmishers are ADVENT. ADVENT is the enemy. And the enemy…” He shrugged, as though the very idea bored him, and took a long swig from a battered green bottle. “...is food.”
Samuel O’Connell paused at the threshold of the bridge, brows arching beneath his greying hair. “Say what?” He murmured to himself. “Say that again?”
On the other side, John Bradford looked mildly unsettled. “Try not to remind me of that when we talk, Volk.” He rallied himself in the nick of time. "Look, I don't trust the Skirmishers much either, but they held up their end of the bargain. What about you?"
The gruff man, Volk, barely reacted. A moment later, he slammed a fist beside his cigar, a tendril of smoke curling upwards as his frustration bled through. “We’ll see.” The feed cut out. “Volk, out.”
The screen went dark, the last thing visible being his unimpressed scowl, now reduced to a fading afterimage.
Bradford stared at it for a moment longer, then exhaled. “I think… they might actually come.”
“Friend of yours?” O’Connell asked, stepping fully onto the bridge. His cane tapped against the floor with every step, drawing quick, subtle glances from the nearby staff.
Bradford turned and straightened, his expression immediately sharpening into something more official. “Commander.” He gave a brisk salute. “Good to see you this morning.”
“Central." O’Connell said with a nod, eyes flicking towards the darkened screen. “What the hell was that about?”
“That...” Bradford said, pulling up a few lines of encrypted data on a nearby monitor. “...was Konstantine Volikov. Callsign ‘Volk.’ He’s the leader of one of the three major Resistance factions we’ve identified so far. His group calls themselves the Reapers.”
“Reapers.” Samuel tasted the word, chewing on it like he would an old memory. “Where there’s one, there must be two more.” He rapped the cane once on the metal floor. “Sitrep, Central.”
“There are three major factions operating globally.” Bradford explained, already moving to a nearby console. With a few quick gestures, faction insignias and relevant data began populating the screen. “The Reapers, the Skirmishers, and the Templars. Individually, they're a thorn in ADVENT’s side. Together… they’d be a goddamn spear.”
“Let me guess." Samuel muttered. “They hate each other’s guts.”
“Correct.” Bradford said with a grimace. “They’re less of a coalition and more of a collection of grudges. The Reapers are loners and survivalists; half-ghost, half-sniper. The Skirmishers… well, they used to be ADVENT. They were soldiers bred and brainwashed by the aliens. Some of them broke free. Now they want payback.”
Samuel narrowed his eyes. “So I wasn’t hallucinating. Those images... they were ADVENT troopers.”
“Former troopers.” Bradford corrected. “Officers, shock units, even a few alien command units like priests. But they broke through the psionic conditioning. According to them, they’re free.”
“According to them.” The Commander repeated, flatly. “Are we certain they’re not compromised?”
“Volk certainly doesn’t think they’re clean." Bradford admitted. “But the Skirmishers have honoured every agreement I’ve made with them so far. Including this one.”
“This one?” Samuel leaned against a nearby console, ignoring the technician who now had to awkwardly reach around him. “What agreement didn’t you tell me about, John?”
“I didn’t hide anything from you, Commander.” Bradford replied quickly, looking more defensive than evasive. “But some of this was already in motion before we found you. I didn’t think looping you into an unstable negotiation halfway through would help the process.”
O’Connell studied him for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Glad to see you still know how to take initiative, Central. Even if you overstep.”
Bradford cracked a small, relieved smile.
“So..." O’Connell said, cracking a few of his aching bones. “What’s the plan?”
“The Skirmishers have agreed to send a representative to meet with one from the Reapers. A formal sit-down. Neutral ground. Both sides are nervous, but both agreed to proceed if we provide an escort team: two agents for each faction.”
“Sounds promising.” The Commander glanced at the holotable. “Where’s the meet?”
“Old Pechino, sir.” Bradford tapped the hologlobe, and the Chinese mainland spun into view. “Problem is, ADVENT’s got a communications jammer installed in the region: an alien transmitter. It floods the area with interference. No relays, no drones, no eyes."
A schematic of the transmitter appeared on the central display. Twisted metal spires bristled with psionic amplifiers and pulsing cables. It looked less like a machine and more like something grown.
“If we want this to go forward, we need that transmitter destroyed before the mission window opens.”
Samuel leaned closer, eyes scanning the design. “You’re keeping something back, John.”
Bradford sighed and placed his hands on his hips. “You always were good at reading people.”
O’Connell’s voice turned cold. “Out with it.”
“I used Lee as leverage.” Bradford said simply.
Samuel’s head snapped towards him. “Say that again.”
“The Skirmishers gave us the intel because one of their own, a contact named Pratal Mox, was rescued during an ADVENT convoy raid. The one where Corporal Lee transformed mid-fight. Wildmutt, if I remember correctly."
A ripple of laughter came from a few bridge techs. Bradford gave them a look that silenced the room immediately.
“Mox was impressed, and thankful.” He continued. “He wants to meet Corporal Lee in person. He’ll be the Skirmishers' rep at the summit.”
Samuel ran a hand down his face and sighed. “Well. I suppose there are worse problems than Lee being too useful.”
“I take it I have authorization to proceed?” Bradford asked.
“You do. I'll personally assign a team to take out that transmitter. Lee’ll be briefed for infiltration duty once the region is clear."
A technician suddenly stood and waved from across the bridge. “Commander! We’ve analyzed the terrain. We’re deep in the mountains. The Skyranger can’t reach the rendezvous zone.”
Samuel coughed lightly. “John... you didn’t account for that?”
Bradford turned with an amused grin. “Who said anything about the Skyranger?” He tapped his comms. “Shen, status report?”
The response must’ve been positive, because Bradford’s smile widened.
“Commander.” He said, gesturing to the holotable railing. “You might want to hold onto something.”
Samuel frowned. “Bradford—”
“This isn’t a base, sir. It’s a ship.”
There was a low, growing rumble. A metallic groan echoed throughout the hull. Then the floor shuddered violently. Consoles rattled. Warning lights flickered, then stabilized. O’Connell barely managed to grab the railing with one hand, the other clinging to his cane.
An unnatural, stomach-churning lurch followed. It was as if gravity had turned sideways for a second.
“Oh.” He breathed. “It flies.”
“We are airborne.” A tech confirmed. “All systems are green.”
“Then set a course for China." Bradford ordered, his voice suddenly carrying the weight of momentum. “Let’s fly.”
The Commander stood in stunned silence, winded by more than the motion.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Two of the three bullets struck cleanly: one shattered the Sectoid dummy’s artificial neck, and the other embedded itself into its left shoulder joint. The third ricocheted harmlessly off the floor beside it, sending a small spray of dust into the air.
Not perfect. But closer.
Jacob exhaled slowly, lowering his magnum with deliberate care. He let his gaze drift from the still-smoking barrel to the target, then back again. The grouping was tighter than yesterday. He hadn’t grown up around firearms. No military background. No real training before his death. He’d started from scratch, and that inexperience had cost him... initially. But he was improving. The results were beginning to speak for themselves.
He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and was just preparing to reload when a blur of motion interrupted his thoughts.
Several recruits sprinted past, cutting through the shooting range in a hurried line, heading for the exit. They weren’t joking around or laughing as they usually did after drills. Their faces were taut. Something was wrong.
Frowning, Jacob quickly holstered his weapon and stepped forward, placing a steadying hand on the arm of one of the passing soldiers.
“Hey, what’s going on?” He asked, tone neutral but firm. “You all look rattled.”
The man turned, revealing the sharp, weathered features of Vladimir Novikov, one of the more seasoned Ukrainian recruits. His expression was tense, his eyes narrowed with urgency.
“The Commander just returned from an operation deep inside enemy lines, мій друг." His voice lacked its usual warmth. “Word is, there may have been a casualty.”
Jacob’s stomach dropped.
“A... casualty?” He repeated, the words slow to leave his mouth.
Vladimir gave a grim nod. “We’re headed to the hangar now. Do you want to come?”
Jacob hesitated for only a second, then forced a nod. “Y-yeah. Of course. We should be there… for our comrades.”
Vladimir didn't respond. He simply turned and resumed moving at a steady jog. Jacob followed immediately, his boots slapping against the floor in rhythm with dozens of others.
The corridors were already packed. Personnel from every department were abandoning their posts to gather near the hangar. The narrow passageways of the Avenger, never designed for crowd control, became a bottleneck as soldiers, engineers, medics, and even a few scientists moved en masse. A human river, flowing towards the same grim destination.
Despite the chaos, Jacob and Vladimir managed to push through, slipping through the press of bodies with just enough room to keep moving forward. The low murmur of worried voices filled the air; people speculating, whispering names, dreading the worst.
The hangar was already full when they arrived.
Jacob stepped in and instinctively looked towards the front. The Skyranger sat in its usual place, ramp lowered and rear engines still humming from landing. Nearly every technician on the Avenger had abandoned their consoles and tools to stand in silence, forming a corridor of hushed reverence on either side of the ship’s exit.
At the very front of the crowd stood the Commander, his cane barely held at his side, his shoulders squared but his face hollow. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than ever, etched deep into his features. He looked like a man running on nothing but instinct and habit. Central stood next to him, arms crossed, expression unreadable. But Jacob noted how tight his jaw was clenched.
Then, the ramp shifted.
Eugène Bernard was the first to appear. The tall Frenchman scanned the crowd silently, his expression set like concrete. He gave no words, just a nod, stepping aside.
Behind him came two others; Erin Bailey and Calvin Mills. They moved slowly, each holding one end of a stretcher draped in semi-opaque plastic. The kind used for medical quarantine… or death.
Jacob’s heart froze in his chest.
He didn’t need confirmation. He’d read the squad roster earlier, had seen who was assigned to the mission.
Only four had gone out...
...and only three had returned under their own strength.
His eyes locked onto the covered form on the stretcher. The shape was too familiar. The proportions, the outline of the equipment still strapped loosely to the chest beneath the sheet.
Lisa Smith.
No one said it. No one had to.
Jacob stared in disbelief, barely registering the reactions around him. A few gasps. Someone near the front covered their mouth. An engineer quietly lowered his head.
She was gone.
Jacob shoved his way through the dense crowd, weaving between the clusters of silent personnel until he reached the Skyranger’s ramp. His eyes locked onto Eugène Bernard, who stood motionless, watching the covered stretcher as it was swallowed by the crowd.
“Eugène?” Jacob called out, his voice low but sharp.
The Frenchman turned slowly. His normally composed features were drawn tight, his eyes glassy but dry.
“What the hell happened down there?” Jacob hissed, keeping his voice just low enough to avoid drawing attention. The anger in his tone wasn’t directed at Eugène, but it had to go somewhere. The helplessness, the frustration... it needed a vent.
Eugène took a breath and exhaled slowly, then ran both hands down his face in visible exhaustion. “We got flanked.” He muttered. “An ADVENT trooper managed to loop around our position. We didn’t see him until it was too late. He emptied an entire magazine into Lisa before any of us could react.”
His jaw clenched, and he turned his gaze away, avoiding Jacob’s eyes. “We were doing everything right.” He added bitterly. “Tactically sound. We were winning. None of us even got scratched.”
Jacob’s hands curled into fists at his sides. Then, after a pause, he asked the question that had been clawing at the back of his mind:
“Do you think...” He hesitated. “Was it the Commander’s fault?”
He didn’t want it to be. He needed the answer to be no. The organization couldn’t afford infighting, especially not now; not when their leader was the only thing holding together the fragile unity among the factions. Still, the doubt lingered.
Eugène blinked, taken aback. “What? No, absolutely not.” His voice carried the weight of certainty. “The Commander had nothing to do with it. He led the mission exactly how he should have. That trooper just... got lucky. It was bad luck, that’s all.”
Jacob looked past Eugène, just in time to see the Commander approach the stretcher. Without saying a word, Samuel O’Connell placed a polished XCOM insignia atop the plastic sheet, near where Lisa’s chest would have been. The gesture was quiet, dignified.
The moment he stepped back, the hangar fell into a solemn silence.
As the body was being taken away, every person in the room, engineers, soldiers, scientists alike, rose into a unified salute.
Jacob swallowed the lump in his throat. “At least she's with her sister now, right?”
Eugène didn’t respond right away. He looked as though he were trying to form a reply but found none that would carry any meaning.
Then, he exhaled and shifted the subject.
“You should get ready, Jacob. I heard the Commander’s chosen you to escort the envoy to Old Pechino."
Jacob blinked. “Me?”
Eugène nodded, gaze steady. “Yeah. You're being sent in as part of the squad overseeing the meeting between the Skirmishers' and Volk’s agents."
Jacob stared down the corridor where the body had vanished. His stomach churned with unresolved emotions, guilt, anger, anxiety, but beneath it all was something else.
Determination.
Still... his nerves prickled with unease.
He hoped the Chosen Assassin would... could cut them some slack.
Jacob clenched his jaw.
He absolutely hated that alien unit.
Notes:
And next time, we'll finally see our dear protagonist tackle the alien forces, AND an army of ghouls; Left 4 Dead 2 style.
Also, I've been a dick. I had forgotten that even in Commander difficulty you could easily lose soldiers at the start of the campaign if reckless.
That fucking trooper flanked my minions and straight-up crit-ed Lisa Smith. She didn't even bleed out, just died.Fucking hell...
Oh, well!
Ah, btw, if everything goes well, I should have a cover for the story drawn by an artist ready to be shown to you all!
I'm very excited about that.
Chapter Text
He patted down his boots, tugged at the straps on his tactical vest, and winced at the way it hugged too tightly against his chest and ribs. The thing still felt stiff, almost unyielding, like it was strangling his range of motion rather than protecting him. Maybe it just needed a little more time to break in; either that, or he had to accept that XCOM’s standard gear wasn’t designed for someone like him.
Still, none of that mattered right now. What mattered was that he finally had a chance to prove himself. Of course, no mission against ADVENT was ever easy. Everyone aboard the Avenger knew that. But this one carried extra weight. It wasn’t just another skirmish against patrols or a raid on supplies. This was the first encounter with a Chosen. And those things weren’t soldiers. They were nightmares with names.
Jacob’s mind twisted around the same question it had been circling since the briefing: should he warn the Commander? The thought of the ambush clawed at his nerves, but how could he even begin to explain it? Say what, that he had a premonition? Or worse, that his run-ins with psionics, the constant backwash of alien power he felt in the field, had left his head scrambled enough to see things before they happened?
Both explanations sounded insane. Both were guaranteed to buy him a one-way ticket to the medical ward, with weeks, maybe months, of psych evaluations, observation, and tests he didn’t want to imagine.
And yet, keeping it to himself felt just as dangerous. Intel saved lives. Intel was the one thing XCOM thrived on more than guns or armour. Jacob wasn’t the type to hide what he knew, not when it might prevent casualties. But here? His back was against the wall, and every choice felt like a gamble with someone else’s life.
A firm knock at his private quarters pulled Jacob from the spiral of his thoughts. His brow furrowed, curiosity prickling, as he stepped to the door and pressed his palm against the wall pad. The panel slid open with a mechanical hiss.
“Oh!” Jacob’s body reacted before his mind caught up. He snapped upright into a sharp salute, boots together, spine rigid. “Sirs! How may I assist you?”
Standing at the threshold was none other than Commander O’Connell himself. Behind him loomed Central Officer Bradford, arms crossed in his usual stance that mixed authority with perpetual vigilance.
“May I come in?” O’Connell asked, voice steady, his cane giving the faintest tilt towards the interior. “There are matters to discuss before deployment.”
“Of course, sir.” Jacob immediately stepped aside, his arm extended.
The Commander entered without hesitation, moving with the unhurried confidence of someone accustomed to commanding a room regardless of its size. He lowered himself onto Jacob’s bed as if it were his rightful place, resting both hands atop the polished head of his cane. Bradford, by contrast, remained standing, adopting a position at O’Connell’s side. With his back straight and his arms now locked behind him, he resembled a silent sentinel. If a passerby had peeked in, they might have mistaken the pair for a dignitary and his imposing steward rather than the architects of Earth’s resistance.
“I trust Smith’s untimely death has not weakened your confidence in me." O’Connell said at last. His eyes fixed on Jacob with surgical precision, searching for the smallest crack in composure. The tone was measured, calm, but edged with something sharper: a leader testing his soldier’s resolve.
The question blindsided Jacob. He had braced himself for a lecture on discipline, or perhaps a reminder about the weight of protocol on the battlefield. Instead, the Commander confronted him with something far more personal.
“Uh... no, sir.” Jacob replied, after letting a brief silence pass. He chose his words carefully, determined not to stumble. “This war… it’s already shaping up to be planetary in scale, just like the last one. Casualties are inevitable, especially when the enemy still holds the technological advantage. Nobody doubts that.” He scratched at the back of his head, forcing his voice to steady. “Besides, the others returned without a single scratch. If anything, that’s proof you led them well. That counts for a lot.”
O’Connell studied him in silence, gaze unwavering. Jacob could feel the Commander weighing every inflection, every twitch of his expression, like a man who had spent decades reading faces across negotiation tables and war councils alike. He forced himself to remain still.
At last, O’Connell released a long, measured breath and relaxed his grip on the cane. “Good." He allowed, leaning back slightly. “That was what I needed to confirm.” His features softened, though only marginally. “Now, on to the mission. With the alien transmitter in Old Pechino's subway tunnels already destroyed, our comms are clean. No more interference, no more blind spots. Satellite coverage has been re-established, and we will have uninterrupted eyes and ears on the ground throughout the operation. You will not be isolated, Corporal, no matter how volatile the situation becomes.”
Relief washed through Jacob like a tide.
“That’s… good to hear, sir."
“Which brings us to your role on the ground,” Samuel said, narrowing his eyes as though weighing the Corporal in his gaze. “I won’t lie, Corporal, I haven’t had the opportunity to complete a thorough analysis of your transformations. That means, for now, we’ll need to rely heavily on your own expertise. I trust you’ll be transparent with me.”
Jacob gave a small shrug, his tone casual. “I mean… why wouldn’t I?"
“Good.” The Commander leaned slightly forward on his cane, his voice tightening with command authority. “Then let’s discuss orders and how they’ll be given. I want you to refrain from transforming unless you receive clearance first. You will tell me what form you intend to use, explain what it can do, and how it will benefit the current engagement. Only after I give the order will you activate the watch.”
O’Connell allowed himself a dry chuckle. “No pressure, of course. Once I finish reviewing your full dossier, you’ll simply wait for tactical input on which forms to employ. That’s the deal. All clear?”
Jacob exhaled through his nose. It was fair, he supposed. Technically, he was serving under a military jurisdiction, and with that came rules, restrictions, and oversight. It was no different than enlisting in the old U.S. Army; except this army fielded bleeding-edge alien technology alongside its rifles and vests.
“Crystal clear, sir.”
Besides, this was O’Connell. A commander with a proven mind for tactics and decades of leadership. Jacob’s inner fanboy might have known every last detail of Ben 10’s alien arsenal, but he wasn’t arrogant enough to believe his hobby knowledge outweighed the judgment of a field commander who planned entire theaters of war. Orders were orders...
...and in this case, probably the smarter play.
“Excellent.” Samuel leaned back and waved his free hand towards his second-in-command. “Bradford, would you continue? I’m still dealing with this damn throat. Weeks of physiotherapy and surveillance, and everything aches as much now as it did when I first woke up.”
The XO inclined his head. He unfolded his arms from behind his back, his movements precise, and placed his hands firmly on his hips as he turned to Jacob. “You’ll deploy with Erin Baley, our newest Ranger. Eugène Bernard and Donatella Rizzo will be paired together on the second team.” His tone was clipped and exact, his posture radiating discipline. “Your task is to escort Outrider while the others negotiate with the Skirmishers’ contact; Pratal Mox.”
Jacob couldn’t help the thought that crossed his mind as Bradford planted his stance, weight settled evenly, hands on his belt. Seriously, Firaxis should’ve nicknamed him ‘Hips Man.’ Jacob had watched that same stance play out across countless cutscenes in the old game. Seeing it in real life almost broke his composure.
“Sir, are you sure escorting Outrider is the right move?” Jacob asked, his tone half-serious, half-joking. He let out a quick chuckle. “I mean, she’s the Reapers’ contact, right? They hate the Skirmishers. It’s already going to take a miracle to make them sit at the same table. Don’t you think exposing her to… well, an alien shapeshifter might be a little counterproductive? I’ll have to transform at some point, and right now I’ve just got a gun.”
“That’s precisely the point, soldier.” Bradford gestured in his direction with a clipped motion. “The Skirmishers already know you can be trusted. The Reapers and Templars may have heard rumors, perhaps even gathered intelligence, about two unknown alien lifeforms: one working with X-Com, the other aiding the ADVENT Defectors. If Outrider sees you hold the line through direct intervention, it will demonstrate you’re not a liability. It’s proof through action, not negotiation. And once she accepts that, convincing the third faction will be easier.”
Jacob ran a hand across his face. It did make a certain amount of sense. Still…
“There’s still the possibility she just shoots me on sight, right?”
“Indeed.” Bradford raised an eyebrow, the faintest trace of dry amusement flickering across his otherwise neutral expression. “But your alternate forms are far more durable than this one. Resilience and survivability won’t be your problem.”
Jacob sighed, his shoulders slumping. He tossed his hands up in surrender.
“Orders are orders.”
“Good boy.” O’Connell pushed himself upright with a wince, his cane pressing hard against the floor as he rose. He stepped closer and clapped Jacob on the shoulder with a surprisingly firm hand. “Keep following them, and you might even earn a raise.”
“Wait...” Jacob blinked in disbelief. “I actually get paid?”
“Bradford.” The Commander ignored him entirely, turning towards his XO. “Go to the armory. I want every soldier checked, double-checked, and kitted properly before departure. If any of them forget so much as a spare mag on the way to Pechino, I’ll have your hide.”
“Aye, sir.” Bradford snapped to motion, his tone crisp and automatic.
“W–wait!” Jacob spread his arms wide, still incredulous. “What about my mon—”
“Be ready in thirty minutes, Corporal.” O’Connell cut him off mid-sentence, his tone firm but edged with wry humor. “Today is your coming-out party. At least you know what to wear.” His lips tugged into the faintest smirk before he turned away.
The door shut firmly behind him, leaving Jacob staring after the pair in speechless frustration.
“Gah, I don’t like this.” Jacob’s voice came out tight, his knuckles whitening as he swept his magnum across every shadow and crevice of the street they crossed. The barrel darted towards shattered windows, collapsed awnings, half-open doorways; anywhere a threat could crawl from.
He knew the Lost wouldn’t ambush them until they reached Outrider. But knowledge and instinct weren’t the same thing. He wasn’t a soldier, or at least, not like the others.
How did X-Com recruits manage to keep their nerves steeled, even with tracer fire whipping past their heads? The rookies he’d seen in training drills flinched, yes, but they never broke. Not unless a bullet struck them down or a comrade died screaming beside them. It was as though even the greenest among them were issued iron guts with their rifles. Jacob, on the other hand, felt like his stomach was tied into a sailor’s knot.
A fizzing spark overhead nearly made him blow his cover. One of the derelict streetlamps coughed out a pulse of light, buzzing alive for less than a second before dying again with a soft pop. Jacob almost jumped out of his boots, every nerve screaming at him to whirl left, unload the entire magazine, and reduce the phantom threat to rubble. Only sheer willpower kept him from humiliating himself in a storm of wasted bullets.
Old Pechino had once been a monument to human ambition, but now it was nothing more than a corpse of steel and stone. The lesser urban blocks, far from the watchful gaze of ADVENT’s skyscraper-mounted towers, had become mausoleums. Rusted shutters hung crooked from storefronts, paint peeled in sickly curls from the walls, and shattered glass crunched beneath their boots. Dust clung to everything, a film over cracked benches, broken vending machines, and scorched husks of cars left to rot at odd angles in the street. A derailed tram lay rusting on its side, the word PECHINO METRO barely legible through grime and soot.
The air carried a dry, metallic tang; burnt wiring and ancient ash. Each gust of wind lifted scraps of faded posters from the ground, curling edges flapping with hollow whispers. A newspaper page skittered past Jacob’s boot, its headline long-bleached but its date frozen in time: 2015. The year twenty-one million souls had lived here. The year twenty-one million ghosts had been born.
Erin Baley, walking point, adjusted her shotgun with casual precision and swept her flashlight beam across a row of abandoned liquor stores and diners. The bald Brit’s light carved fleeting tunnels through the gloom, catching faded neon signs that flickered uselessly against the night. She gave a short, sharp snort.
“Pull yourself together, alien boy. You wouldn’t want to embarrass yourself in front of command, right?”
Jacob grimaced. Right. The damn cameras built into their vests. Every stumble, every twitch, every cowardly glance was being streamed directly to the Avenger’s bridge, onto a bank of pristine monitors. O’Connell and Bradford were probably watching with popcorn by now.
He narrowed his eyes, squinting into a nearby liquor store where some shadow stirred against the broken shelves. His grip on the magnum tightened until his arm trembled. Nothing moved again. Just an empty shell of a building staring back at him.
Why in God’s name did I settle for a magnum? He thought bitterly. I should’ve asked for a machine gun. A flamethrower. Hell, even a stick with nails in it.
The young man froze mid-step.
Both he and Erin had stumbled across a makeshift campfire set up in the middle of the ruined street. The flames crackled weakly, their light licking over a crude roasting spit. Suspended above it was a Chryssalid head, charred black around the mandibles, half-burned but unmistakably prepared for consumption if the need arose. The smell was sharp, acrid; something between burnt shell and rotting meat.
Jacob’s stomach twisted at the sight, though a different part of him couldn’t help but lean in with morbid fascination. Up close, the insectoid’s details were striking: serrated fangs still glistening faintly in the firelight, armoured plates cracked open to expose pale tissue beneath. It looked far more real than any grotesque 3D model he had seen on his old computer screen back in his world.
Beside him, Erin stiffened. “Is that…” She murmured, her voice low, almost reverent.
“Yep.” Jacob’s mouth was dry. “We were warned about their tastes, weren’t we?”
Before Erin could answer, a voice, calm, almost mocking, slid out from behind the veil of rubble ahead.
“And if you’re hungry, there’s more where that came from.”
Both operatives reacted instantly. Jacob spun on his heel and brought his magnum to bear, already taking aim at the source of the sound. His finger tensed against the trigger as a cloaked figure stepped into view, half-gliding over the debris with practiced grace. A mask concealed her face, its eye lenses glowing a piercing yellow, like the baleful optics of an ADVENT MEC.
He had been faster than Erin, by a hair. The Ranger snapped her shotgun up a moment later, teeth clenched as her instincts caught up. But Jacob had been listening, counting each faint scuff of boot on gravel, each shift of rubble, long before she emerged. If it had been a real ambush, he would have pulled the trigger first.
But he knew from the game's cutscenes she would be there.
The figure halted in plain view, raising her hands slightly in a gesture that was neither surrender nor threat. Her voice carried a trace of amusement.
“Impressive reflexes.” The mask hissed with a click as she disengaged it, pulling it free and revealing a hardened woman beneath. Her gaze cut through Jacob like a razor, sharp and unflinching, and her jaw was set with the kind of steel that came only from surviving too many wars. “But highly unnecessary.”
Her eyes flicked over him, scanning his posture, his sidearm, his stance. Judging. Measuring. And in the way her expression didn’t change, Jacob could tell she had already come to a conclusion.
“That...” Bradford’s voice cut in through the comms. "...would be Outrider. Our contact.”
Commander O’Connell followed without missing a beat, his American lilt low but carrying through the channel. “So their kind fights in the shadows? Impressive. I’ll take her. I’m curious to see what the Skirmishers are capable of.”
The woman, Elena Dragunova, Outrider herself, let out a sharp scoff.
“They are only capable of barbarian actions, like all of ADVENT." She countered, spitting the word as though it were poison. Her hand moved casually to the radio on her shoulder. “You’ll see their true colours soon enough. As for us?” She clicked a switch, her voice turning almost ritualistic. “We prefer stealth. And truth.”
The effect was immediate.
Shapes shifted in the ruins around them. From rooftops, shadows stood up from prone positions, long rifles trained on Jacob and Erin. From behind burned-out cars, figures cloaked in rags and camouflage melted out of hiding, weapons raised and ready. Doors creaked open in abandoned shops, revealing more masked Reapers stepping into the firelight.
A dozen at least. Maybe more.
Some kept their weapons leveled, eyes hidden behind masks, barrels unwavering. Others were more relaxed, but the message was clear.
Jacob forced himself to breathe, to keep his magnum pointed down. Erin did the same, her jaw clenched but her posture loosening in silent acknowledgment.
Elena stepped closer, her boots crunching lightly on broken glass. She studied them both, though her gaze lingered on Jacob longer than it did the Ranger.
“So.” She tilted her head, her Russian accent sharpening the word. “X-Com finally decides to seek an alliance. I was expecting deadlier instruments of destruction in your hands.” Her eyes narrowed, fixating on Jacob’s lone magnum. “Yet here you stand. Why is one of X-Com’s best armed like a rookie recruit?”
Jacob’s hand twitched, and the Omnitrix on his wrist answered. Its green core pulsed, glowing faintly in the dim firelight. For a heartbeat, it burned brighter, spilling neon emerald across his knuckles.
Elena’s gaze snapped to it, her composure unshaken but her attention sharpened.
Jacob lifted his chin. “Let’s just say my abilities as an operative go far beyond what anyone usually expects.”
A scream tore through the streets, guttural and raw, bouncing between shattered buildings until it seemed to come from every direction at once. The noise slithered through alleys, climbed up the walls of ruined apartments, and sank its claws into Jacob’s ears.
He froze, spinning, gun sweeping from left to right as his pulse quickened. He didn’t need Tygan’s scientific analysis to know what it meant.
They were here. Or close enough that it didn’t matter.
“What the hell was that?” Erin snapped, shotgun snapping back into the ready position. “ADVENT?”
“Worse.” Outrider’s voice was calm, almost too calm, as she replaced her mask with a single practiced motion. “We need to move, now. My people will clean up this camp.”
Without hesitation she set off down the street, her cloak brushing against the rubble as though the ruins bent to her will. Erin fell in behind her, grim and focused.
“Jacob, take the right flank." The Ranger ordered, eyes scanning the windows of a collapsed tenement.
“Sure thing." Jacob muttered, crouching lower, shadowing their movement as he slipped closer to the edge of the road.
“Slipstream?”
He jerked at the sudden voice. This one came through private comms; O’Connell’s tone, low and measured.
He checked the others: Erin was covering their path with her flashlight beam, and Outrider was already vaulting over the husk of a burned-out sedan. Neither of them noticed. Jacob slipped back against the side of an abandoned truck, pressing his spine to the cold steel, and tapped his earpiece.
“Commander?”
“Remember what we discussed." O’Connell murmured, the static of the link making his words harsher, heavier. “No heroics. No sudden stunts. Outrider must focus on the threat ahead, not on whether the alien shapeshifter in her squad will betray her.”
Jacob breathed slowly, forcing calm. “Copy that, sir.”
“Stay sharp.” Bradford added over the open channel, his tone clipped and business-like. “Scanners are picking up life signs ahead.”
“The Lost.” Outrider confirmed grimly, sliding her rifle from its strap. She worked the bolt with fluid precision, her tone suggesting she had seen this scenario far too many times before. “Stay close.”
“Lost?” Erin’s voice was incredulous.
Outrider angled her rifle towards the middle of the road. There, half-sunken into the cracked asphalt, was an alien pod, the kind Jacob had only ever seen in X-Com’s old reports, or in the games. Its surface was blackened with age and scorched with ash, but faint green light still flickered inside its cracked hull. Jagged metallic tendrils jutted out at broken angles, embedded into the ground like claws.
Jacob felt his stomach churn. He knew these things. The abduction pods. The tentacles. The endless streams of civilians being sucked in like cattle. And now one sat there, dormant, but still pulsing faintly.
Tygan’s voice cut through comms, sharp and urgent. “Even after years of dormancy, these structures emit unstable radiation. The levels are low, but not without risk. I recommend you keep your distance.”
“Appreciate the warning, Doc,” Jacob muttered, not lowering his weapon.
“So what are we saying here?” Erin vaulted the rusted hood of a taxi and pivoted smoothly. “We’re dealing with bloody zombies?”
Tygan cleared his throat. “The pop culture comparison is… not entirely inaccurate. These unfortunate creatures are not truly undead, however. They are victims. Living tissue warped, their humanity stripped away, their minds lost. They persist only as husks, driven by violence.”
“You heard the man.” O’Connell’s voice thundered suddenly across the channel. “Engage at will. No restrictions.”
Jacob stiffened. The way the Commander lingered on no restrictions felt like it was meant for him. The Omnitrix burned faintly at his wrist, but he forced his eyes forward. He wasn’t about to transform without permission.
Then the first shriek came, closer this time; like claws on metal, like a human voice broken and dragged across stone. Jacob snapped his weapon towards the noise just in time to see movement explode from a gutted storefront.
The Lost came in a blur of twitching limbs and yellowed teeth. Its skin sloughed away from its chest, ribs exposed and dripping, eyes wild with mindless hunger. Jacob’s magnum barked three times, and each bullet hit home. The creature staggered mid-sprint, bile spraying from the wounds, before it collapsed in a grotesque heap at his feet.
His pulse surged, adrenaline flooding his chest. Training paid off.
“Fu—!” His curse was cut short as another Lost hurled itself out of the shadows, slamming him face-first into the cracked pavement. Its claws tore at his vest, its breath a foul reek of acid and rot. Jacob thrashed, hand outstretched towards his fallen weapon—
CRACK!
The creature’s head snapped back in a fountain of gore, and the body went limp across his back. Jacob shoved it aside, gasping, and looked up.
Outrider stood balanced on the roof of a rusted car, her rifle still smoking. She didn’t even acknowledge him, already lining up her next shot.
“What the—” Jacob started, scrambling to his feet.
“There are more of them!” Erin cut him off, her shotgun blasting as another Lost fell apart in the street.
And then Jacob saw them.
Dozens of shadows poured out of the ruined avenues ahead. Shambling, sprinting, screeching; they came in a tide of flesh and bone. Some staggered upright, others bounded forward on all fours like rabid beasts. Their limbs jerked unnaturally, their skin peeled back in strips, bile leaking from gaping mouths. The sound was worse than the sight: shrieks, snarls, and howls, each one more animal than human.
They streamed over burned-out cars, crawled out of ruined shops, and spilled into the road in a swarm of grotesque shapes.
Outrider fired again. Erin racked her shotgun.
Jacob’s chest tightened.
There were too many, howling and clawing at the air as if madness itself had been given flesh. No wonder Firaxis had designed the Lost to grant bonus actions for every headshot kill. How else could players survive an onslaught like this? Under normal circumstances, without that mechanic, an X-Com squad would have been buried under teeth and claws within seconds.
But this wasn’t a turn-based strategy game. There was no 'enemy turn' to wait through, no neat sequence of animations to exploit. The Lost weren’t going to politely stand in place while the Commander barked orders. They were here, and they were already closing in.
Jacob ducked behind a toppled fire extinguisher unit half-buried in rubble, his hands moving on instinct. He snapped three fresh rounds into the magnum’s chamber, spun the cylinder shut with a click, and braced himself against the cracked asphalt. His breath came ragged. His brain was screaming one thing: He needed an excuse. He needed clearance. He needed to go alien, now.
Then it struck him. A memory from hours spent staring at his laptop screen. The Lost were fragile enough on their own, but fire? Fire erased them like dry leaves in autumn. In-game, they would wander, stumble, and burn themselves out without even reaching X-Com’s firing line.
He toggled his earpiece, voice sharp with urgency.
“Hey, Outrider! Do the Lost have any kind of weakness we can exploit?”
CRACK!
Her rifle roared before she answered, the sound echoing across the dead city. A Lost fell in a shower of gore, its skull blown apart. Elena’s voice followed, calm and biting.
“Fire finishes them quickly. But unless you thought ahead and brought incendiaries, I doubt you have the luxury.”
Jacob opened his mouth, and Erin cut in, her tone clipped.
“I could toss my frag—”
“No.” Outrider snapped, another shot tearing through the night. “You’ll silence this mob, yes, but every other pack within three kilometers will hear the blast and come running. Explosives are last resort only.”
Jacob swore under his breath, lining up two more headshots before diving back into cover. His finger jabbed the comm again.
“Commander, you catching this? Outrider’s report says they’re vulnerable to fire. Permission to transform into Heatblast?”
“What the hell is he talking about?” Outrider’s voice cut across the channel, more enraged than curious. Another gunshot punctuated her words, yellow muzzle-flare bouncing across the stone facades like lightning. “Explain yourself!”
“Fire-based alien form..." O’Connell’s voice rumbled, dry as gravel. He wasn’t even speaking to Jacob. The Commander’s voice was muffled for a beat, like he had leaned back to consult Bradford. Then, a heavy thump, probably his cane against the Avenger’s deck. “Permission granted. Make it count, Corporal. Wipe them out.”
Jacob didn’t need to hear it twice.
He holstered his magnum, heart hammering. Dropping into a crouch, heneared his hand down onto the Omnitrix. The green dial rotated with mechanical precision, silhouettes spinning across the display until a jagged, flame-shaped figure gleamed back at him.
“C’mon.” He hissed. “Let’s do this.”
SLAM!
The world vanished in a wash of red fire. It crawled across his body like molten veins, scales of cooling magma bursting from his skin. His chest burned as if a furnace had been lit inside him. The Omnitrix’s core sank beneath the surface of his arm, glowing faintly beneath layers of cracked stone-flesh. His vision flooded with white heat, his eyes swallowed by fire until they were twin beacons.
He clenched his fists, feeling the inner inferno roar in approval. Sparks burst from his knuckles, dripping molten embers onto the broken pavement.
When the light died down, Jacob no longer stood.
Heatblast did.
He rolled his shoulders, flames rippling up his arms and spine, and spread his burning hands in an offensive stance. Energy thrummed through him like a second heartbeat, a roaring bonfire in his chest begging to be unleashed.
And because he couldn’t resist, because some part of him was still that kid at the keyboard, not the soldier surrounded by monsters; he threw back his head and shouted with everything in him:
“HEATBLAST!”
His spontaneous, thunderous battle cry echoed through the ruined street like a war horn. The sound alone was enough to redirect a cluster of five Lost that had been veering towards Erin and Outrider.
They froze for a fraction of a heartbeat, heads twitching, jaws hanging slack, then dropped low, screeching as they broke into a quadrupedal sprint. They came fast, unnervingly fast, nails scraping against the cracked pavement like claws on stone. Runners. Were they all this quick? Jacob’s flaming stomach turned. The game hadn’t done justice to the speed of desperation, nor the way it made your pulse hammer when all that hunger came barreling straight for you.
Heatblast wasted no time. He thrust his arms forward, and the inferno answered.
A roaring torrent of fire exploded from his palms, spilling into the street in a solid wall of living flame. The blaze devoured everything in its path; the air shimmered, shadows fled, and the charging Lost were instantly engulfed. Their shrieks tore through the air as their bodies ignited. Skin sloughed away in bubbling sheets; bone cracked under the heat; the stench of burning rot and seared cloth mixed with the acrid tang of ash.
And yet, they did not simply drop like the game’s clean animations had always shown. These creatures fought the fire. They thrashed violently, flailing their arms, clawing at their own skin, even ramming themselves headfirst into crumbling walls as if sheer blunt trauma could smother the flames. Smarter. More animal. No neat turns or tidy hit points, just living husks desperately trying not to die.
Heatblast ignored them. His flames had already signed their death warrant.
Instead, his attention locked on Outrider. She stood frozen in the middle of the carnage, her rifle slack at her side. The dim yellow glow of her mask reflected the inferno dancing around Heatblast’s body. He couldn’t see her expression, but he imagined wide eyes, perhaps a jaw hanging just slightly open. The veteran Reaper, master of shadows and silence, staring at him like she’d just seen a paranormal entity step down from orbit.
Too distracted, however, to notice the corpse clambering up behind her.
It lunged, black nails reaching for her throat.
Heatblast pivoted sharply, funneling his flames inward. The raging torrent condensed into a single molten sphere in his palm, pulsing with violent energy. He crouched, planted his two-toed feet into the asphalt, shut one blazing eye for aim, and pitched the ball with the precision of a practiced pitcher.
The fireball streaked past Outrider’s shoulder in a blur of searing orange.
It slammed into the Lost’s chest, detonating in a spray of fire and smoke. The impact drove the creature back several paces, its scorched flesh blistering and sloughing off. For one horrifying moment, it staggered upright through the flames, still snarling, still coming.
“Stay down…” Heatblast muttered under his breath.
Outrider had already recovered. She snapped her Vektor rifle up in one fluid motion, her voice a silent curse behind the mask.
CRACK!
The rifle’s report split the night, and the creature’s skull burst apart in a wet spray across the fractured asphalt. The fire from Heatblast’s strike consumed what was left, collapsing the body into a twitching, smoldering husk.
The alien's senses caught the scent immediately: burning rot and blackened marrow, so sharp and acrid it stung a nose he technically no longer had. The strangeness of the experience struck him like a blow. It was surreal, unnerving… and oddly grounding.
For the moment though, the street lay eerily still. The last echoes of the Lost’s screeches had faded into the ruins, leaving only the brittle crackle of burning corpses in the distance.
Heatblast strode over to Erin, who was standing at the shattered window of what had once been a bar. She wrenched her sword free from a Lost’s chest with a sickening squelch. The ruined body sagged limply to the ground, blood spraying in thin arcs while its innards gushed in a sluggish heap across the cracked tiles.
“Are you all right?" The fire alien asked, his burning features flickering with an uncharacteristic hint of concern.
The British Ranger leaned heavily against the wall, her breath coming fast, face slick with sweat despite the cool night air. “Fine. Still breathing. But…” She exhaled hard, wiping her forehead with the back of her glove. “We’re still nowhere near the evac zone, are we?”
Heatblast shook his head. “Command said it’s in the next block over. Not far. But far enough.”
CLICK!
The sharp sound froze him in place.
Heatblast slowly lifted both blazing hands, palms open, surrendering to the unseen threat he could already sense at his back. He didn’t need to look to know the cold, black eye of a Vektor rifle was fixed on him.
“Aw, come on…” He groaned, taking a cautious step back. “I know you’ve got me in your sights, Outrider. But really, there’s no need for this. We’re supposed to be on the same side here.”
A long, dangerous silence answered him. Not for long, though.
“We were not told X-Com had an alien working in their ranks. That was never part of the agreement.”
Heatblast swallowed the sudden knot in his flaming throat. She wasn’t bluffing. If she pulled the trigger now, the bullet might not kill him outright, but he hadn’t exactly tested the Omnitrix’s limits against high-caliber human rounds. And even if he survived, what then? His presence was already shaking the fragile foundation of this alliance.
Thankfully, the Commander’s voice crackled across the comms, steady and commanding, seizing the moment.
“Long story short, Corporal Slipstream carries a piece of alien technology; a device that allows him to transform into multiple extraterrestrial forms. But underneath all that, he’s human. As human as you or I, Outrider. I suggest you holster your weapon and save your strength for the real enemy.”
Heatblast slowly turned to face the Reaper. The molten glow of his body painted her mask in flickering light, but she didn’t flinch. She kept her scope centered on his chest, though the barrel dipped lower by a fraction, betraying hesitation. Her silence suggested calculation, not trust.
He raised a fiery hand in mock politeness. “If I may?”
Elena Dragunova’s masked visage tilted towards him.
“We’ve got a hell of a lot of Lost converging on this position.” Heatblast continued. “And unless you’d like to be torn apart limb by limb, I’d suggest we focus less on pointing guns at each other and more on reaching the rendezvous with your old acquaintance… Pratal Mox.”
At the mention of the Skirmisher’s name, Elena snapped her rifle away from him with a jerk, though the movement carried more fury than concession.
“Mox? Pratal Mox?!?" Her voice hardened into venom. “How dare you speak his name! He is no ally. He is a savage who—”
A chorus of screeches from behind the bar cut her tirade short. The guttural howls rattled through the broken glass and collapsed walls, growing louder with every heartbeat.
Heatblast lifted one smoldering arm and gestured casually towards the encroaching shadows, the flames licking off his palm casting the rubble in a ghastly glow.
“You can either trust X-Com’s word, Outrider..." He said, his voice low but steady. “...or we can waste our strength tearing each other apart while the Lost do the rest. Your call.”
He tilted his head slightly, his molten eyes narrowing with a spark of dark humor.
“What’s it going to be, друг?”
The Russian word left his burning lips with deliberate weight, a small shard of familiarity thrown across the gulf of mistrust. He’d practiced it before the mission, thinking it might come in handy. Now, with death closing in and her finger still tense on the trigger, he prayed it would.
Outrider finally lowered her weapon, though the gesture was hardly one of peace. She released a low, threatening growl through her mask before stomping past Heatblast and Erin, boots crunching glass as she shoved her way into the bar.
“The evac zone is this way.”
Heatblast clenched one fiery fist in triumph and punched it lightly into the air. Erin raised an eyebrow, caught between the sight of the scowling, metaphorically fuming Reaper and the literally fuming alien standing beside her.
“What did that word even mean?” She muttered.
“It means ‘friend’ in Russian.” Heatblast crossed his arms proudly, flames licking upwards from his shoulders. “A hot guy like me has to keep a few passwords handy. Useful for melting hearts on either side of the spectrum.”
Before Erin could retort, Bradford’s voice snapped through the comms.
“Menace 1-5, proceed to the extraction point. We don’t have time for chit-chat.”
The man practically spat the last words. His tone carried the kind of irritation that could curdle steel.
Heatblast snickered and tapped the side of his head, feeling the hard texture of the earpiece. “Roger that, Central.”
He still didn’t understand how the tiny device hadn’t melted under the inferno of his body. Then again, there was no logical explanation for why his clothes and gear simply blinked out of existence until he returned to human form. Omnitrix logic defied science.
He crouched low, palms hissing as he cooled them just enough to grip the frame of the shattered window, then vaulted inside the bar. The interior was worse than the street: overturned tables, splintered chairs, and a handful of corpses slumped in grotesque poses across the floor. Some had been gnawed on, others torn apart. Lucky ones, perhaps, spared the fate of being twisted into the Lost.
Then came the crash. The front windows exploded inward, raining jagged shards across the ruined bar. Snarls followed; their enemies had found them.
One of the figures lurching through the gap made Jacob’s molten chest tighten. Its frame was larger than the others, its movements sharper, faster. Sickly green pustules bloomed across its torso and shoulder, glowing faintly.
A Lost Brute.
Heatblast froze for a heartbeat, disbelief flashing through him. That wasn’t right. Brutes didn’t show up this early. In the game, they only appeared after the fight with the Chosen Assassin.
His fists flared with renewed fire.
“I’ll take the Brute!” He barked, voice hoarse and echoing like the crackle of burning wood. “You two mop up the rest. If I start throwing fireballs in here, this place turns into a funeral pyre.”
No time to argue. He charged.
The Brute lunged forward, jaws snapping with a wet CRACK, claws scything through the air. Heatblast ducked low, sparks trailing from his shoulders as the talons raked across the wall instead of his face. He drove his burning fists into the creature’s chest. The punch landed with the force of a sledgehammer, driving the Brute back a step and leaving scorched cracks in its flesh.
It screamed, but it wasn’t enough.
The monster snarled through blackened teeth and barreled into him, its claws digging into his shoulders as its jaws snapped inches from his molten face. The two locked in a savage grapple, Heatblast straining, forcing his burning palms against its rotting flesh, the Brute pressing forward with sheer, animalistic rage.
Flashes of gunfire lit the room around them, Erin and Outrider holding off the tide, but Jacob barely noticed. His world had narrowed to the reeking, bubbling maw inches from his head.
Then, he smirked.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” His face blazed brighter, flames leaking from him. “I’m made of fire.”
The Brute didn’t understand the words, but it understood pain.
Heatblast poured raw heat into its body. The pustules burst in sprays of green sludge as the shoulder flesh charred, cooking from the inside out. With a shriek, the Brute’s arm tore free at the socket, falling to the floor in a sizzling heap.
The alien seized the opening. He shoved the monster back, twisted their positions, and hammered blow after molten blow into its skull. Each strike cracked bone, flames spilling with every impact, sparks leaping across the wooden floorboards.
Finally, he gripped its head between his blazing claws and let out a guttural roar. Fire erupted straight from his face, a stream of white-hot heat that scorched the wood beneath them into embers. The Brute convulsed, skin crisping and peeling away, before collapsing into a charred husk at his feet.
Smoke curled lazily from its blackened corpse.
Heatblast stood over it, chest heaving, flames guttering in rhythm with his ragged breaths.
“That was… an elegant display.”
The Shapeshifter looked up from his kneeling stance, Heatblast’s embers still crackling faintly in his skin before vanishing altogether. Outrider stood a few feet away, her rifle slung across her chest, her sharp eyes fixed not on him but on the blackened husk at his feet. Erin was beside her, shotgun resting casually against her shoulder, the last of the Lost already dispatched.
As if on cue, the Omnitrix chirped. A flash of crimson engulfed his body, the flames receding inward until nothing remained but the faint glow on his wrist. Heatblast was gone, and Jacob was once again human, unsteady on his legs. He braced a hand against the bar’s splintered surface and forced himself upright, chuckling softly despite the ache running through his limbs.
“I aim to please.” He said, drawing his magnum. His voice was ragged but light, playing off the tension in the air. “So… are you ready to meet your new buddy?”
Outrider brushed past him without so much as a glance, the corner of her shoulder striking his as if to remind him who owned the room.
“Buddy?” She scoffed. “It will be a long time before I trust a Skirmisher, much less Mox.”
Jacob held his tongue, though the thought burned in the back of his mind. Until he saves you from the Lost horde… and the Assassin, that is.
He kept the retort locked safely away, tightening the grip on his magnum instead. With a wry smile and a silent exhale, he fell in line, trailing after Outrider as Erin fell into step beside them.
Notes:
You know, this is why I said in one of those author's notes that the original Omnitrix is a perfect countermatch for every alien or enemy in the X-Com verse.
Case in point, Heatblast for the Lost.
Checkmate.
Chapter Text
“…so that’s how I ended up in X-Com’s ranks.” Jacob finished, his words trailing off as his eyes flicked down to the Omnitrix clamped snugly on his wrist. The dial still glowed an angry red, the device busy recharging from its last transformation. With any luck, it would be ready by the time they inevitably crossed paths with the Assassin.
Outrider had demanded an explanation, several, in fact, about his unnatural ability to shift into alien forms. And so, he had obliged, recounting as much of the truth as he dared while they pressed deeper into the ruins. Erin matched his stride, ever watchful, while Elena Dragunova shadowed their flank, silent as a wraith but brimming with suspicion.
Not that Jacob had been entirely honest. The Commander had chimed in from time to time over a private comm link, instructing him to skip details, omit specifics, and keep certain elements buried. By Jacob’s rough estimation, Dragunova had received a seventy-five percent truth; enough to satisfy her without opening every box in Pandora’s vault.
Still, it was clear she wasn’t about to let things rest, especially once Mox’s name entered the conversation.
“The very same Pratal Mox..." She said, her voice tight, eyes narrowed like a predator scenting blood. “...who butchered my people by the thousands in the days after the invasion?”
Jacob sighed inwardly. She was really set on discrediting the Skirmisher. Her hatred ran marrow-deep.
“He’s kept good faith." Central’s voice snapped over comms before Jacob could intervene. Erin’s gaze swept the broken elevated rail line above them, scanning the shadows as Jacob mirrored her unease. The skeletal beams and cracked supports felt like a grave waiting to collapse. This city had teeth, and they both knew it.
“If it weren’t for him...” Central continued, his tone sharpened with authority. “...one of ours wouldn’t have made it back.”
“You expect me to treat with—” Dragunova cut herself off, jaw tightening. Without her mask, the twitch in her eye was visible, a flash of raw human fury beneath the hardened Reaper façade. Jacob almost wished she’d kept the damn device on. She looked more dangerous without it.
“He’s approaching now, from the west side.” Central pressed. “I know you both have every reason to hate one another, but there are stronger reasons to cooperate.”
“The voice of reason, as always.” Jacob muttered, squinting towards the west. A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Tell you what, Erin? I’ll be glad to see Donatella and Eugène again.”
“Damn straight." The Englishwoman replied, checking the chamber of her weapon before tilting her gaze skyward. “And I don’t see any alien craft circling. We might actually be in the clear.”
“Careful with lines like that.” Jacob warned, lowering his voice. The words felt heavy, as though the very act of speaking them might summon the Assassin from the shadows. He froze, eyes narrowing. “Movement. On the rail line.”
The comm crackled to life.
“Team One, this is Team Two." Came a distinctly French voice. “We’re approaching along the western rail. Are those your lights we see?”
“If you’re passing the station, then yeah.” Jacob answered. Relief seeped into his tone. “Move on in, Corporal.”
“Roger that.”
Through the gloom, three beams of light appeared, bobbing and swaying with the uneven pace of weary soldiers. The silhouettes behind them emerged soon after: Team Two, alive and intact.
Jacob exhaled tension he hadn’t realized he was holding.
“You look like you had a scuffle." He observed, nodding at their sweat-streaked faces.
Rizzo waved him off with a lazy flick of her hand before sinking onto the rail’s edge. “No big deal.” she sighed, chest heaving. “Just about sixty billion Lost pouring down the main street.”
“Lies." Erin countered with dry humor, rubbing at her neck. “More like thirty billion. We had the rest.”
“Bloody zombies." She then muttered under her breath.
“You two get banged up?” Eugène asked, his tone cautious but his eyes sharp.
“I’m fine." Erin answered with a shrug, jerking her thumb towards Jacob. “He’s the one who went alien. Burned through a lot of Lost.”
“Burned?” Rizzo’s eyes slid back to Jacob, narrowing with a mixture of curiosity and disbelief.
Jacob grinned, seizing the moment. “Means I’ve got a fire-based form among my transformations. I call him Heatblast.” He then merely smirked at their flat expressions. “Come on, what’s the point of having these powers if I can’t name my aliens whatever I want?”
His levity evaporated at Outrider’s cutting voice.
“Pratal Mox.”
The Reaper stepped forward, her long coat whispering against the broken concrete, her rifle never leaving her hand. The mask was off, her expression laid bare; cold steel sharpened into a scowl. The rest of the squad tensed instinctively, trading glances like gamblers weighing the odds at a table gone deadly silent.
“The butcher himself comes to parlay.”
“Well, this is it.” O’Connell leaned forward on the command rail, bracing himself with one hand so he didn’t pitch face-first like some cartoon buffoon. His eyes tracked the holodisplays, but his tone was all dry amusement. “The moment when bitter enemies put aside their differences and unite against the greater threat.”
“I’m sure it is, sir.”
He glanced sidelong at Bradford, reading the faintest twitch of humor at the edge of the XO’s otherwise disciplined face. “Reminds me a little too much of a certain blockbuster from 2012. You did name this ship with that in mind, didn’t you?”
Bradford’s gaze stayed locked on the glowing tactical map, but his voice carried enough irony to soften the edges. “Couldn’t help it, Commander. Technically speaking, we are avenging what ADVENT has done to our planet.”
“‘Cause if we can’t protect the Earth, you can be damn well sure we’ll avenge it.'” O’Connell quoted, punctuating the line with a wave of his free hand. A few technicians chuckled from their stations, half at the words, half at their commander’s timing, even if most of them didn’t fully catch the reference.
Samuel smirked faintly. “Didn’t the sequel get rushed out right before everything went to hell?”
“They did, sir." Bradford replied without missing a beat, though he allowed himself the indulgence of an eyeroll. “Wasn’t nearly as good as the first. You didn’t miss much.”
“Well...” Samuel leaned back slightly, as though that settled it. “...if I can’t trust my XO to judge cinema, who can I trust?”
The moment fractured when a voice rose from the far side of the bridge.
“Uh, Commander?”
O’Connell straightened as best as he could, fixing the junior technician with the kind of look that could cut through bulkheads. The young man was seated as far from the command rail as humanly possible, and his hesitance was already souring Samuel’s mood.
“What is it?” He asked, crisp now. “More Lost?”
“I don’t think so, sir.” The man swallowed, adjusting his scanner, eyes darting nervously over readouts.
Another operator chimed in, a woman two consoles down. “I’m reading…something. Not a clear contact. Some kind of energy disturbance.”
Samuel’s brow furrowed. “Thermals?”
She hesitated; never a good sign. “We’ve got…” Her teeth worried her lower lip, and O’Connell’s stomach sank. He hated when his people second-guessed themselves. “There’s a thermal signature on the platform. Roughly four hundred meters west of Menace’s position.”
Bradford’s head snapped up, his hand already moving to his earpiece. His next words carried a hard edge, devoid of any trace of earlier humor.
“Menace 1-5, this is Central. Eyes up. We’re reading movement to your west. Unknown signature.”
“Are you sure, sir?” Donatella Rizzo peered down the western approach with a skeptical curl to her lip. She rotated the small GREMLIN drone over the rail line, watching the feed on her wrist. “All I’m getting is wind and one sad ADVENT burger wrapper. How the hell did that even get here? This sector’s been dead for years.”
“Say again: you see nothing?” Bradford’s voice carried across the comms with that practiced authority that made rookies straighten at their consoles.
“Not a damn thing.” Rizzo shot a look at her teammates. “Even Isaac’s blank. You with me, Eugène?”
“I’m with her.” Eugène’s grunt was low and clipped. He tapped his own feed. “Clear for me too. Wait... did you actually name your GREMLIN Isaac?”
“Yeah, and it’s got better manners than you do." She snapped back.
Jacob cleared his throat and kept his voice level. “Rail line’s clear, sir.”
It was easier to feign ignorance than admit he had the bad, private knowledge that someone lethal was about to step out of the shadows behind Mox.
“Must be a system glitch. Stand by and cover the meeting." Bradford ordered. “Let’s try to play nice today, people.”
Outrider’s answer was a growl. “So, ADVENT’s butcher shows up to atone. Charming.”
Mox halted twenty feet away from her, palms open in a gesture meant to look harmless. “I am no longer what I was." He said. There was an earnestness in the words; whether it convinced anyone was another matter. "I am free, now."
“Taking off that helmet didn’t change what you did.” Outrider snapped, her hand never leaving the rifle’s grip. A metallic edge slid into her voice. “Elder kracsad.”
A dangerous silence followed that crack of accusation. Then, with a movement that made everyone around him tense, Mox drew his arm back. Twin blades snapped from his gauntlet, gleaming in the fading light, and his stance tightened into something purely animal.
“Any time." Outrider said, voice flat as a trigger being cocked, and she leveled the rifle.
“We have to do something." Rizzo hissed beneath her breath, panic threaded through the whisper.
Jacob watched the exchange, weighing options that had no right answers.
He shook his head, slow and heavy.
“Do what?” He said softly. “We shoot one and the meeting ends; same as if they kill each other. Neither option looks good.”
Samuel's fingers tightened on the rail until his knuckles blanched; the cane in his other hand dug into the deck. “She’s going to shoot.” He snapped, voice raw with urgency. “She’s going to shoot, damn it!”
Bradford jabbed his comm, exhaled once to steady himself, then laid out the blunt reality. “We have two options." He said crisply, voice carrying across the bridge. “Join forces and try to kick the Elders off this world, or we let you all murder one another right here.” He let the sentence hang a heartbeat. “The choice is yours.”
Silence stretched taut as a wire. O’Connell swallowed, feeling the weight of it in his chest. If Outrider opened fire, or if Mox answered with blades, the fragile thread of diplomacy snapped. Could he still fight ADVENT without the factions’ cooperation? Their materiel, their intel, their manpower: it all mattered. Slipstream’s presence helped, sure, but one corporal with an alien wristwatch did not replace the three-way alliance they were trying to forge.
He waited with his heart pounding in his throat.
“Mox is standing down.” Erin Baley reported at last, voice clipped and steady. Samuel felt his shoulders loosen a fraction as relief flooded him.
Bradford let out a long, shaky breath and jabbed his earpiece. “Outrider?”
“Her too.” Eugène added on the comms, voice rough but relieved. He was not a man of many words, but his tone carried approval.
Then, as if from nowhere, sharp reports cracked through the comms.
“Two shots fired!” Donatella Rizzo cried, panic cracking her voice. The single sound snapped the bridge to attention; heads snapped towards every screen and sensor.
“Two shots?!?” Samuel barked, pain and fear bright in his face. “Damn interferences. Get me raw camera feeds, now! Patch every available angle to my console!”
Jacob William Lee had never been a soldier. Hell, he had never even held a firearm before waking up in this reality. And yet here he was, standing inside the very world he had once commanded from a screen; a strategy game he had poured countless hours into, dissecting moves and outcomes like pieces on a chessboard. That was what X-Com had always been beneath the explosions and the cinematic flourishes: a cold, unflinching game of chess.
Now the rules were different. The pieces bled. The fear was real. And Jacob himself had been reshaped into something new: a weapon. Trained to kill, trained to survive, and armed with the Omnitrix; the one wild card that could turn the tide of this endless war for Earth’s reclamation.
It was that same training, and that same watch, that made him notice what others might have missed.
The cloaked figure standing just behind Pratal Mox.
Even shrouded in bending light, Jacob could see the faint outline, the shimmer that brought to mind Yautja hunters from old Predator films. His heart thudded painfully in his chest. He risked a glance towards Outrider, and in that heartbeat, he saw the subtle flicker in her gaze; her eyes had widened.
But Jacob knew what came next.
His fingers twitched. His breath slowed. His magnum slid loose from its holster with deliberate quiet. He wasn’t as fast as Elena Dragunova. But he had something she didn’t: foreknowledge. The luxury of preparation.
He counted down in his head, matching memory to reality.
One.
Two.
Three.
CRACK!
BANG!
Outrider fired first, her bullet cutting the air with surgical precision. But just as Jacob knew it would, the shot was effortlessly dodged; the cloaked figure backflipped, its movements inhumanly fluid.
Jacob’s shot, however, struck true. His magnum roared, and the round punched into her thigh. A hiss escaped the shadowed figure as fresh, black-yellow ichor seeped through split armor.
ZIUM!
Mox fired next, his arm-cannon whining with energy. Jacob nearly flinched at the deafening discharge, but the Skirmisher’s grapple line streaked true, snapping down the platform towards the Assassin.
She snarled, lips peeling back to reveal teeth like sharpened daggers. Her voice was a hiss of venom and disbelief. “No one has ever done that before…”
Her sword flashed, cutting the grapple line mid-flight, sparks scattering in the gloom. “…and no one shall ever do that again!”
Her words were not aimed at Mox, nor at Outrider. Her burning, hate-filled glare locked squarely onto Jacob.
Even as she retreated, he could feel the weight of that gaze, the unspoken promise etched in every syllable.
Blood dripped down her leg. Her jaw clenched. Then, with another impossible leap, she dissolved into a flurry of purple-black leaves, vanishing as though swallowed by the night. Teleportation, or cloaking, Jacob couldn’t tell. All he knew was that the Assassin had marked him.
“What the hell is that?” The Commander’s voice cracked across the comms, taut with the strained patience of a man who had already endured more insanity than one day should allow.
“Vox Prima…” Mox growled, his hand snapping to his bullpup as he slid his helmet back into place. His voice hardened into steel. “The Elders’ Assassin. Relentless death that stalks my people. The butcher of free ADVENT.”
Elena’s jaw set like stone as she swept her rifle across the ruins, her eye fixed to the scope. “My people face another like her." She whispered, venom and dread curling together in her tone. “The undying… ADVENT’s curse upon us. I did not know there were more of them.”
“Neither did I.” Mox’s gaze flicked her way. His voice held no bravado now, only grim recognition. “We cannot defeat her in open battle.”
“Not today.” Elena’s reply was low as well. “If there are two, there are perhaps more. And if so… we must unite, or we will not survive what is coming.”
Mox inclined his head with weight. “Agreed.”
“This is all very touching..." Erin snapped, breaking the dark cadence with a sharp, impatient edge. “...but someone tell me how the bloody hell we kill that thing!”
“We don’t." Mox said flatly. His eyes narrowed towards Elena, as if seeking confirmation. “I think we have discussed what needed discussing, no?”
“We have.” She reached up, tapping her comm with finality. “We need to leave. Now.”
“Loud and clear.” Bradford’s voice cut in, urgent but steady. “Firebrand is inbound. Just hold together.”
And then, like poison poured into their ears, came the Assassin’s voice: sharp, mocking, and dripping disdain. “So, you would ally with traitors, thinking it will spare you? You believe unity will help you defeat me? You are welcome to try.”
Yes, she was mocking them. Of course she was.
“Come on!” Jacob barked, waving his arm. “Get boots on the ground! She’s got cloaking tech or psionics. Better to fight her where we can actually see her!”
The Assassin scoffed, her laughter crackling over the channel. “As if equal footing were even possible. You have no comprehension of the gifts the Elders have bestowed upon me. You will learn only despair.”
Jacob ground his teeth. He knew. He knew exactly what she meant. And something about the way she lingered, her taunts sharper and more frequent than he remembered, set a chill deep in his spine. In the game, she never talked this much. Never personalized the threats. Here, it felt different. More dangerous.
One by one, the squad slid down the railings, boots striking pavement. Erin hit the ground first, shotgun sweeping arcs through the ruined street. Mox followed, landing heavy, weapon at the ready. They spread, scattering for cover behind burned-out cars and shattered bus stops.
But the street was too quiet. Too still. Where was she?
The wind shifted, rising into a sudden gust that stirred ash and grit across the cracked concrete. Jacob’s gut clenched. He knew what that meant. His hand shot out instinctively towards the Grenadier.
“Watch ou—!”
The Assassin’s blade carved from nowhere, slicing through the air with terrifying precision. Eugène was launched from behind his cover, his body slamming hard into the pavement. He groaned, curling in pain. A rib, maybe two, broken.
“Pathetic.” The Assassin hissed.
Mox’s rifle barked in reply, but she was already moving, ducking low, weaving with inhuman speed. Bullets shredded walls and glass as she sprinted, vanishing into the yawning shadow of a derelict storefront.
Jacob’s stomach dropped. Bending Reed. He recognized the maneuver instantly.
“Come out and face us, Vox Prima!” Mox thundered, striking his chest plate with a clenched fist, his voice like a challenge hurled into the abyss. “You are nothing but a coward!”
Her laughter slithered back, amused, cutting. “Cowardice? No… I am opportunistic. None of you are worthy of a duel. And soon… you won’t live long enough to face the Warlock.”
Jacob slid to Eugène’s side. The Frenchman’s face was pale, sweat clinging to his brow. Blood streaked down his arm. Jacob slapped him sharply across the cheek. “Stay with me, man! You okay?”
“I–I’m fine!” Eugène’s breath hitched as he pressed down on a bleeding cut across his arm. “Merde. This will cost me two or three missions, oui?”
“Perhaps.” Jacob muttered, forcing calm.
Gunfire erupted again. Mox and Elena unleashed suppressing fire into the storefront, bursts of muzzle flash cutting the darkness. Erin and Rizzo flanked wide, their boots crunching glass and debris, as the store’s shattered shelves and counters exploded into splinters under the onslaught. Dust and ash billowed, the ruined street filling with choking haze.
DING!
Jacob’s gaze snapped down to the Omnitrix. At last, the device pulsed with a vibrant green glow, a blessed contrast to the deep, accusing red it had been locked in minutes ago.
“Finally!” He barked, his voice raw from smoke and adrenaline. Beside him, Eugène groaned, hauling his battered frame upright and fumbling his machine gun back into firing position. “What took you so long to recharge?”
The question hung unanswered in the chaos. Jacob wasn’t expecting the watch to respond, of course, but sometimes asking the universe stupid, rhetorical questions kept a man sane when the walls were closing in.
His thumb pressed down on the Omnitrix’s core. The dial sprang up with a hiss, rotating beneath his hand as alien silhouettes flickered across its surface: jagged shapes, hulking outlines, twisting things with claws, scales, and smoke.
He gritted his teeth, his free hand pressing against his earpiece. “Command, this is Corporal Slipstream. Requesting permission to turn into Ghostfreak.”
For a moment, all he heard was gunfire; bullets ricocheting off twisted steel, the roar of Eugène’s cannon spitting lead. Sparks flew from shattered concrete as Outrider and Mox kept the Assassin pinned in the ruins.
Then the Commander’s voice cut through, edged with unease.
“Corporal, I see… peculiar remarks in Dr. Tygan’s description of this ‘Ghostfreak.’” He paused, as if re-reading. “It says here the alien’s consciousness permeates the DNA sample. That you risk being overridden by the very creature you seek to become. Why take such a risk?”
Jacob’s answer was immediate, almost feral. “Because we don’t have time to fight her. How long before Firebrand gets here?”
“Seven minutes.”
Jacob’s heart sank. Seven minutes in this hellhole might as well have been seven hours. Gunfire raged in the background, Eugène swearing in French as his machine gun roared. The Lost were surely coming, drawn by noise and blood like sharks to the scent of the sea. And above it all, the Assassin’s voice hissed from the shadows, taunting, circling.
“We’ll be dead in three." Jacob snapped. “Either she kills us, or the Lost tear us apart. But I can ambush her, end this fast.”
For a fleeting second, his thoughts betrayed him. Diamondhead could stand toe-to-toe with her. Block her blades, tank the damage, force a duel.
But not today. Not here.
“Sir, please.”
There was a long silence. Then O’Connell’s voice, low and resigned. “Don’t make me regret this, Lee. Permission granted.”
SLAM!
The Omnitrix core crashed down under his palm, unleashing a blast of emerald light that devoured his human form. Jacob groaned as his body warped. His bones stretched, thinned, and then dissolved entirely, as though melting into smoke. His skin lost all colour, fading from human pink to the pallid gray of a corpse, black lines lacing across it like veins. His skull elongated, twisted; no longer bone, but a shifting mask of half-tangible matter.
His eyes fused into one gaping socket, glowing purple, its black dot of a pupil spinning like the aperture of a camera.
When the light finally faded, the alien spread his arms wide, claws flexing with unnatural grace, his form writhing faintly like mist barely holding shape.
“GHOSTFREAK!"
The Ectonurite lowered his gaze to his claws, long and curved, translucent at their tips like shards of glass. To his faint relief, he retained full command of both body and mind; no intrusive whispers clawed at the edges of his consciousness, no alien will attempted to bend his own. Either Zs'Skayr, the nightmare behind the species, remained dormant, or his essence had never been embedded in this DNA sample at all.
Ghostfreak doubted it was the latter. He knew well the Omnitrix he wore was no perfected device, but the flawed, temperamental prototype. If the Phantom of Anur Phaetos lurked anywhere, it would be here.
Still, he exhaled a sound that might have been laughter, dry and hollow, reverberating strangely from within his incorporeal frame, when Eugène’s eyes found him. The Grenadier’s face froze in open astonishment, his pupils dilating until they seemed to swallow his irises whole.
“W-what…?” Eugène stammered, his voice a mixture of awe and dread.
“Ohh…” Ghostfreak’s lone purple eye drifted slowly across the black fissures that marbled his ashen body, as if tracking himself along the lines. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of old Ghostfreak?”
Gunfire rattled like steel drums from the storefront ahead, accompanied by the echo of shouted orders and the hiss of blades meeting sparks.
“Well…” The alien raised a claw, the talons catching what little light penetrated the dusty ruin. His tone coiled like smoke. “Wanna see a magic trick? Now you see me…”
He vanished, body dissolving into nothingness as his form phased out of the visible spectrum. The empty air rippled once, and then silence.
“…now you don’t.”
Invisible and untouchable, Ghostfreak drifted past Eugène like a shadow dislodged from the floor, his passage marked only by a chill that prickled the soldier’s skin. He slipped into the inner shop, where chaos reigned.
Mox and Donatella were crouched low, their bodies trembling from the disorienting blast of a stun grenade, struggling to refocus. Outrider, teeth bared, had thrown herself into the task of shielding them, her rifle sweeping for any sign of their tormentor.
And Erin was caught in a deadly dance with the Assassin herself. The Ranger’s shotgun hung useless at her side, blade flashing instead as she clashed steel against the Chosen’s katana. With a desperate upward slash, Erin sought the creature’s shoulder, but the Assassin met the blow effortlessly, parrying with one sword before bringing the other down in a brutal lock. In a blur, she forced Erin back against the cracked plaster of the wall, her twin blades framing the Ranger’s head like a guillotine.
“You have spirit…” the Assassin intoned, her voice low and cold as she pressed the advantage. Her face was inches from Erin’s. “…but you lack conviction. You strike without purpose. And worse, you are unskilled.”
Ghostfreak’s solitary eye narrowed, a vertical slit within its violet glow. With a hiss that carried like wind over a graveyard, he abandoned intangibility. His claws solidified, gleaming. In an instant, he surged forward, his body an arc of malice, and raked them across the Assassin’s back.
The sound was sharp, cloth tearing, flesh parting, and blood welled yellow against her armor. The force of the strike made her stagger, her hold on Erin broken, the Ranger tumbling free.
“I do not take kindly to assault, you—”
The Chosen stopped short. Her eyes locked onto Ghostfreak, the sight of his gaunt, floating body pulling her into silence. A flicker of recognition flared in her gaze, followed swiftly by calculation as she focused on the glowing Omnitrix embedded in his chest.
“You…” Her nostrils flared, and the sound she made was somewhere between a growl and a snort, animalistic and hostile. “You are one of the species that have meddled with our sacred operations.”
“Hate to break it to you, ma’am." Ghostfreak hissed, the words distorted and metallic, echoing unnaturally as though spoken through a dozen unseen mouths. He extended a long, spectral finger and wagged it mockingly. “But I’m the same guy in all those tapes you’ve been reviewing. Call me what you like, but I prefer Slipstream. I'm a Shapeshifter, if you will.”
From the corner of his vision, Ghostfreak caught the subtle shift of movement. Erin was crawling, dragging herself behind a shattered counter, alive but shaken. Good. That was the point.
The Ectonurite turned his full attention back to the Chosen. He had to stall and finish her. Long enough for Erin to recover. Long enough for Firebrand to arrive.
But there was no time to hesitate.
Ghostfreak surged forward, gliding across the broken tiles with a predatory grace. The Assassin bared her blade, anticipation flashing across her face, her stance coiled like a serpent about to strike. She swung the weapon in a vicious arc, only for the Ectonurite to dissolve into the floorboards at the final instant, his form melting into the ground like smoke caught in a draft.
Steel met empty air.
Her eyes narrowed, but the realization came too late. A heartbeat later, a pair of spectral arms erupted from the floor behind her, wrapping tight around her throat. The strength in those intangible limbs was shocking, wrenching her backwards with the inexorable force of a noose tightening. The Assassin snarled, thrashing, her talons clawing at his grip, but her hands found only incorporeal resistance, no solid surface to break.
Menace 1-5 stormed into the shattered storefront, Erin among them. She snatched up her discarded shotgun, snapping it into her hands with renewed focus as the others formed a rough firing line.
“Shoot!” Ghostfreak’s voice rasped, distorted and hollow, his claws biting into the Assassin’s exposed flesh. She howled, a terrible, animal sound, fangs bared as she craned her head back towards the ceiling. “End it now!”
Dragunova’s hidden eye locked through her scope, her voice low but sharp. “You are in the line of fire!
“My body is intangible to most harm!” Ghostfreak snarled back, his words a hissing command. “Do it, now!”
On the Avenger’s bridge, O’Connell’s voice cut through the channel like a whip. “Menace One-Five, you heard the Corporal. Gun the bitch down. That’s an order.”
The synchronized clicking of safeties sliding off was a sound Ghostfreak relished, even without ears to hear.
The Assassin, however, understood perfectly. Her eyes went wide, incredulous and furious all at once.
BANG! RATATATA! KIUM!
A wall of gunfire roared through the store. Lead and plasma chewed into the Chosen’s torso, tearing ragged holes through her armour and flesh. Yellow ichor spattered in great gouts as bullet after bullet sank into her, forcing her down to one knee. More rounds slammed into her legs, buckling them beneath her, pinning her like an animal cornered for slaughter.
Through it all, Ghostfreak remained untouched. Stray bullets passed harmlessly through his insubstantial body, lodging instead in the walls, splintering shelves and counters in clouds of dust. He held her until the last moment, until her shrieks of rage crescendoed into something guttural and unearthly—
And then, in a flare of violet light, she was gone.
Ghostfreak’s arms clutched only air, tightening around nothing. He lingered there for a heartbeat longer, claws curling in fury, before lowering his arms to his sides.
“We have driven her off, momentarily.” Pratal Mox announced, his voice low but edged with conviction. He stepped forward from cover, battered but unbowed, his visor reflecting the dust-choked light. His gaze fixed on the eerie, floating silhouette that hovered above the floorboards. “I presume you are the Shapeshifter?”
“Indeed.” Ghostfreak inclined his head, or at least made the closest approximation his domed frame would allow. His single violet eye gleamed faintly in the gloom, an unsettling spark against the smoke.
And then, the floor itself shuddered.
A tremor rolled through the ruined storefront, rattling glass shards in their frames and sending loose shelves toppling in cascades of splintered wood. Dust sifted down from the ceiling like pale snow.
Oh. Right. Ghostfreak realized grimly. The abducting pod. I forgot this part.
“What the hell is going on down there?” O’Connell barked, his hand tightening on the rail as he lurched towards the holodisplay. The translucent screen rippled violently with overlapping shockwaves, concentric circles spreading outward from the pulsing alien pod near the squad.
“Tygan!”
The doctor adjusted his spectacles, his voice unusually strained. “Commander… the pod is emitting a series of sonic dispersal waves, crisscrossing and overlapping in a staggered sequence. The frequency is…” He faltered, lips tightening. “…alarming.”
“Meaning what?”
“Sir!” One of the thermal technicians shouted from her station, eyes wide and face pale under the glow of her console. “We’re reading a mass of heat signatures converging on Menace’s position! Dozens... no, hundreds of them!”
O’Connell’s knuckles whitened against the rail. The pit of his stomach dropped, dread clawing through him like a vice. “…That damned thing just rang the dinner bell for every Lost in the city.”
On the comms, Bradford’s voice cracked like thunder. “Menace One-Five! You’ve got incoming. A lot of them. Brace yourselves—swarm inbound!”
“Contact!” Rizzo shouted, her GREMLIN’s lights flaring as she waved frantically for attention. “Left side, big group!”
“More on the right!” Eugène barked. His machine gun thundered an instant later, tracers ripping through the gloom like molten streaks. From his vantage, Ghostfreak drifted towards the shattered doorway just in time to glimpse the incoming tide; dozens of Lost pouring from the side streets, shredded mid-lunge by the torrent of lead.
“Eastern windows!” Outrider warned, already sliding to one knee. Her rifle cracked twice in disciplined rhythm, brass clattering against the warped floorboards. She did not miss.
Then came the harsh chatter of Mox’s bullpup, the distinctive bark of lead cutting into the swarm. Erin braced at the main entrance, breath steaming as she forced her nerves steady.
Her shotgun thundered, tearing through four Lost at once. The recoil rocked her shoulder, but she gritted her teeth, racked the weapon, and fired again. The concussive blasts shook dust from the ceiling, each shot carving open the advancing mob.
Ghostfreak loosed a rasping hiss, his intangible chest reverberating with the alien sound. “We’ve got to push for the extraction point! Cutting down an entire city isn’t an option!”
He did not wait for their reply. With a sudden burst of speed, he drifted through the doorway, claws elongating in anticipation. The first cluster of Runners met him head-on. They never had the chance to scream. Ghostfreak’s talons scythed through them like paper targets, black ichor and ragged organs spilling across cracked concrete in a grotesque parody of an old 80s slasher reel. The Lost recoiled, stunned by the specter whose body their teeth and claws could not touch, though their hesitation lasted only a heartbeat.
Eugène anchored the left flank with sheer willpower and belt-fed fury, his machine gun spewing brass in a glittering cascade at his boots. On the opposite side, Mox and Outrider held firm, their weapons trading rhythm; snapping bursts, cold precision, merciless attrition. Erin dug her heels in against the eastern breach, each shotgun blast buying precious seconds. Meanwhile, Rizzo’s rifle traced lines of light through the murk, her fire disciplined and deliberate, thinning the swarm before it could crash down upon the Ranger.
At last, discipline reasserted itself. One by one, the soldiers fell into motion, forming a staggered line. They pushed out of the ruined store with the smooth efficiency of veterans, every angle covered, barrels tracking constantly. Ghostfreak hovered before them, a spectral reaper carving swaths into the horde. Every slash slowed the flood, every howl of pain a brief reprieve, his alien form serving as a living barrier between the tide and the retreating humans.
“Firebrand?” Ghostfreak’s distorted hiss carried over the din.
“Hang tight.” The pilot’s voice crackled through comms, steady but strained under the roar of engines. “I"ll be right there."
“Tell me it’s been seven minutes already!” Erin shouted, fumbling cartridges into her shotgun with trembling hands. Her voice cracked beneath the exhaustion. “We can’t keep this up!"
Elena’s rifle snapped again, each shot clean, efficient; two skulls detonated, two bodies toppled. She sprinted alongside Mox and the Ranger, motioning sharply for Eugène and Rizzo to close ranks. Their weapons sang out in overlapping bursts, plugging every gap the Skirmisher’s bullpup and the Ranger’s shotgun couldn’t cover. Elena’s Vektor spat precise fire whenever one of her allies staggered or came too close to being dragged down.
The sudden growl of turbines cut through the chaos. Shadows bent and scattered as floodlights speared the night. The Skyranger loomed into view, descending low over the cracked blacktop, its bay doors yawning wide like the mouth of salvation. It hovered above a derelict truck in the lot, thrusters blasting grit and ash across the battlefield.
“This is as low as I can get her!” Firebrand warned.
Elena skidded into the open, boots grinding across gravel. “Go!” She barked, snapping her rifle up to cover the approach.
“Move!” Mox echoed, though his feet did not retreat. Instead he planted himself at her shoulder, both weapons roaring into the dark. The remnants of the Lost surged from the street like a living tide, screaming their fury as the pair cut them down in heaps.
A dozen fell. Then two dozen. Still they came. For every corpse that collapsed, another hurled itself forward, heedless of death. Elena cursed under her breath as her ammo counter ticked lower with every heartbeat.
“The swarm converges entirely upon us.” Mox warned grimly, his bullpup hammering in rhythm with her shots. “We will not hold long.”
“Two rounds left.” Elena’s teeth clenched as she fired. “Now... one."
“We’re aboard!" Baley's voice boomed through comms, muffled by rifle fire. “Get moving or you’re gonna get left behind!”
“Go!” Mox barked.
Elena froze for half a breath, eyes snapping towards him in disbelief. Her mask mercifully concealed her hesitation. The Skirmisher’s posture never wavered; his blades retracted, his bullpup blazing without pause. He might have been smiling beneath the helmet.
“I do not intend to die this day." He said evenly. “I will follow.”
She lingered one heartbeat more, then obeyed. Slinging her empty rifle over her shoulder, Elena sprinted, boots hammering across the lot. She seized the ladder’s cold rungs, scrambling up with desperate speed. Rough, calloused hands reached down from above: Erin, Eugène, Rizzo, each of them grasped her shoulders, dragging her into the bay with urgent strength. She tumbled across the deck, turned, and yanked her rifle back into her hands by instinct.
“Mox!” She cried, aiming back towards the flood.
The Skirmisher roared, “Vox Tala for Ten!" His bullpup tore a path through the closest Lost, their bodies folding beneath precise, brutal fire.
He sprinted, feet pounding broken asphalt, and leapt for the ladder. Metal rang as his hand clamped around the lowest rung—
—just as a Lost lunged, clawed arm hooking around his throat. Its fetid breath hissed inches from his visor.
CRACK!
The corpse jerked violently and slumped, its skull shattering under Elena’s final bullet.
For an instant, time froze. Mox stared at the fallen body, then up at her. She met his gaze through mirrored lenses. Neither spoke, but both understood.
Mox hauled himself upward, muscles straining, boots scraping against the ladder as he raced for the safety of the Skyranger. His gauntleted hand reached out—
And Elena reached back. She leaned dangerously over the edge, arm outstretched, fingers brushing against his. For a heartbeat, salvation seemed certain—
Then the world drowned in violet.
A surge of purple light crackled and warped reality itself, engulfing Mox in a sudden column of energy. Out of the glow coalesced a figure both hated and hauntingly familiar; armour gleaming, psionic cloak billowing unnaturaly, and eyes like burning amethysts cutting through the dark.
The Assassin.
She materialized astride him, hands snapping up with the speed of a striking serpent, claws wrapping around the Skirmisher’s throat. Her jagged teeth bared in a cruel snarl as she leaned in close, voice venomous.
“Time to return home, trai—”
Her words collapsed into a wet, guttural choke. She staggered, grip loosening, as yellow ichor bubbled at the corner of her mouth. Her free hand clutched at her throat, now riven by deep, searing wounds.
From the purple haze, another shape pulled itself free of shadow. Ghostfreak emerged, fading into visibility with a hiss, his claws slick with alien blood. He placed himself squarely between Mox and the faltering Chosen, his lone eye glowing with cold menace.
She gurgled, coughed, and bled, trying to form words through her own choking breath.
Ghostfreak’s claws flexed, dripping her lifeblood onto the Skyranger’s ramp. “This won’t be the last time we meet." He rasped, voice low and reverberating, each syllable sharpened with otherworldly malice. “But next time, I will grant you a duel worthy of your pride.”
The Assassin’s burning eyes dimmed. With a final rasp, she crumpled, only to vanish once again, dissolved in a crack of violet light that scattered across the night sky.
The team barely had time to exhale.
A sharp beep-beep-beep pierced the moment, shrill and insistent. Ghostfreak’s eye darted to the Omnitrix on his chest, its glow faltering, the warning unmistakable.
“Shit!” The alien hissed. Without hesitation, he whipped his arm around Mox, hoisting the dazed Skirmisher as though he were weightless. With a surge of strength, Ghostfreak hurled them both into the Skyranger’s bay just as the dropship roared higher, engines straining against the storm of the city.
And then—
The Omnitrix timed out, its glow shifting from emerald to furious crimson. The Ectonurite’s spectral body snapped back into fragile human flesh mid-air, Corporal Jacob Lee collapsing in the bay’s cold steel, gasping, sweat-soaked and trembling.
The Skyranger climbed, leaving behind only the howls of the Lost and the vanishing trace of violet light.
Notes:
Alright, so, I didn't want to write a long ass fight scene between Jacob and the Assassin on the spot.
When you're in a Lost-filled city, you wanna get out. The last thing on your mind is a honour-worthy duel with an alien.Also, this is not to diminish the Chosen's abilities, it's just that the entire X-Com team in that sequence is against her.
I made a compromise by creating a Nazi firing squad situation.
But, as I've teased, a good alien to properly challenge the Assassin while Jacob's team is busy is indeed Diamondhead.
For the rest?
I didn't want to write a one to one Novelization. Jacob's presence has to apply changes to the story, considering he played the game version of this universe.
Pages Navigation
Worldcrafter11 on Chapter 1 Wed 11 Jun 2025 09:32PM UTC
Comment Actions
Spidersleap on Chapter 1 Tue 24 Jun 2025 07:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
Spidersleap on Chapter 1 Tue 24 Jun 2025 07:43AM UTC
Comment Actions
Orville on Chapter 1 Thu 17 Jul 2025 03:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Supermath33 on Chapter 1 Tue 26 Aug 2025 07:20AM UTC
Comment Actions
Orville on Chapter 2 Thu 17 Jul 2025 04:16PM UTC
Comment Actions
HollowedGhostly on Chapter 2 Sat 19 Jul 2025 01:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
Spidersleap on Chapter 4 Tue 24 Jun 2025 02:04PM UTC
Comment Actions
Supermath33 on Chapter 4 Wed 27 Aug 2025 07:48PM UTC
Comment Actions
Spidersleap on Chapter 5 Mon 30 Jun 2025 01:38AM UTC
Comment Actions
Spidersleap on Chapter 5 Tue 01 Jul 2025 09:54PM UTC
Comment Actions
Supermath33 on Chapter 5 Thu 03 Jul 2025 07:58AM UTC
Comment Actions
Spidersleap on Chapter 6 Mon 07 Jul 2025 05:59AM UTC
Comment Actions
WalkinOnTheSun on Chapter 6 Fri 11 Jul 2025 01:29AM UTC
Comment Actions
Spidersleap on Chapter 7 Thu 17 Jul 2025 04:13PM UTC
Comment Actions
Orville on Chapter 7 Thu 17 Jul 2025 09:47PM UTC
Comment Actions
TheAbyss2005 on Chapter 7 Fri 18 Jul 2025 08:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
HollowedGhostly on Chapter 7 Sun 20 Jul 2025 06:26PM UTC
Comment Actions
TheBetterYeeticus on Chapter 7 Sat 23 Aug 2025 06:16AM UTC
Comment Actions
Supermath33 on Chapter 7 Sun 24 Aug 2025 04:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
HollowedGhostly on Chapter 8 Fri 05 Sep 2025 10:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
Supermath33 on Chapter 8 Fri 05 Sep 2025 10:38PM UTC
Comment Actions
Supermath33 on Chapter 8 Fri 05 Sep 2025 10:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
AlienXTimesX on Chapter 8 Fri 05 Sep 2025 11:09PM UTC
Comment Actions
Pages Navigation