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

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

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

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

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

That might work in my favour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One hour."

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

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

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

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

Evidently not now, though.

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