Okay, so, hi there! I don't claim to know a massive amount about the Killzone universe… but I just wanted to give this idea a try. It's a little out there, which is why I'm counting it as AU. I don't think many people will like this idea, it might be too much.

Okay, play the over-dramatic explanation-summary-thing!

AD 2358: The Second Extrasolar War has led to discovery. A gene, one of those that is shared by Human and Helghast alike, has begun to mutate in a few individuals. These individuals have developed abnormally high levels of brain activity, giving them extraordinary post-human abilities. The ISA is still only just learning about these extraordinary individuals who have passed unnoticed for years, but on Helghan, the investigations into these 'Ethereals' as they have been dubbed, has been going on secretly for a decade. The Helghast, pushed back from their assault on Vekta, has begun to locate 'Ethereal' Helghast with increasing desperation, in an attempt to harness their abilities for use in warfare, planning to turn their dangerous and unstable powers as living weapons. Scholar Visari, who himself is 'bonded' to an Ethereal, whose brain activity is complementary to his own, allowing her powers to amplify, believes that the Ethereals are a yet another sign of his people's superiority, unaware that the first generation of Ethereal humans is finally stepping into the light. On Vekta, the council debates what should be done about their own Human Ethereals; most of whom are already serving in the military.

**** Pyrrhus, Capital of the Helghan Empire. AD 2358 ****

"What do you see?"

The Seer shifted her gaze. Her eyes seemed empty… the milky white of blindness gazed over at the silhouette of a smartly dressed man before her. She turned away from the doorway, and pulled the heavy red hood from her head, revealing an almost-bald head, with strings of grey hair hanging around her crown. She focused, the post-human energy flowing through her mind. A figure appeared in her mind. Flashes of a life not her own.

"I have found her. Do not fret. But she is the only other. The others… are dead."

"Where?" The man urged. He took a step forwards into the gloomy depths of The Seer's chamber. She had never said what her name was. She always was and always had been simply 'The Seer'. He did not ask those questions, because he did not need to know those answers. She told him only what he and the people needed to know.

"Here. This city. She is working in your 'information delivery' program. Information runners. Delivering documents too sensitive to be handled by machinery."

"I need a name Seer." He moved forwards once again. She turned to him. Her bonded individual returned her gaze. Just the fact his complementary mind was in range fuelled her, but it wasn't enough. Not for what he needed.

"Then lend me your mind, Scholar Visari." The old woman rasped, reaching out her claw-like fingers to him. Visari, without hesitation (he was used to this process by now) lowered himself to one knee. She placed her palms on the side of his bald head. He felt his mind, once again, melt into hers… the feeling of such power surging into his body was indescribable… He felt like he had, in that one moment, already achieved victory.

"Ahh…" The Seer reeled backwards, suddenly releasing his mind from hers. He gasped, the headache hitting him like a blow to the side of his skull. Another unfortunate side-effect of the Ethereal's powers.

"Her name is Zosia Novolov…" She gasped, finally. She too, took a few steps back, leaning against the map table in the centre of the room. The Seer was over a century old… and she didn't half look it. Barely reaching 5 feet in height, she was a gnarled, pallid old thing, twisted by radiation and the effects of high gravity. She wore heavy red and ash grey clothing, to hide herself… or was it to hide everyone else from her?

Scholar Visari rose to his feet, dusting himself off, trying to regain the last swimming corners of his mind, before he asked his final question.

"And her bonded one?"

The Seer broke into a horrible, almost-toothless grimace. She had been waiting for this one. She turned to him, gazing up at him with her baleful, milk-white eyes.

"You need not fear his nature, Autarch. He is, after all, your hound to command." She said, finally, in her rasping, tired voice.

Visari's own mouth creased upwards into a knowing smirk. This would work out much better than planned.

**** Elsewhere ****

"What the hell are you doing now? Springers, why the fuck do you spend all your spare time writing in this shitty little book?"

Corporal Harvey Springwell, known to most as 'Springers', reached forwards a hand and snatched the notebook back from his team mate. Springers was an old fashioned sort of guy. He liked putting pen to paper, it just didn't feel the same using a computer or data pad. He'd not really intended to join the ISA. He wasn't a fighting guy. But Vekta had little call for poets now, and he wanted to make himself useful, even if it was just because his brother, Denny, could not. The attack on Vekta two years ago had left Denny, Harvey's twin brother, at that time a Sergeant, alive, but paralysed from the waist down. So he made a promise. He'd pick up where Denny left off.

He'd known it was a bad idea from the start… he'd always had… 'Problems'. It started with the time he'd ripped a door off of its hinges, by accident of course, but the fact remained, how could a tall, lanky sort of guy like him do that? He could stand endurance training longer than most of the veterans… so he'd tried desperately to tone it down. Purposefully make mistakes, not try. But it didn't work.

He'd been told he was 'a born soldier'. Hah. Born soldier his ass. More like born freak. He felt about as normal as those damn helmet-men they were fighting.

"I want to leave something behind, Colt. What's wrong with wanting someone to know what I've done?" He replied finally. Beck 'Colt' Colton, fellow corporal and 'partner-in-crime' stared at him disapprovingly.

"You wanna do something worthwhile? Train. You won't have to worry about writing your memoirs if you stay alive. Stop being such a pansy and act like a soldier for once in your goddamn life." Colt retorted, an acid tone in his voice. Colt was, in just about every respect, a true grunt. Foul-mouthed, slums-born and bitter at anyone better off than himself, his only joy was in putting a couple of rounds through a Hig's head. Sometimes Springers wondered how the hell they'd managed to become close at all.

He said nothing, and instead, got up, heading to the viewing port on their quarters, that they shared with the other three members of their team. He'd wanted to leave his home planet… to explore. That was his dream as a young boy. He hadn't imagined it'd be on a massive-scale military operation…

But he'd make it. He always did, much to his own ire. He was strong, and durable… unnaturally so. But underneath… he was a writer. A poet. A 'pansy wordsmith' as he remembered Colt calling him once. And write was something he'd damn well plan to do. There might not be any poetry in war… but there was plenty written about it.