Video feed remains 100% functional. No other group members currently attached. Audio receptors functional and currently engaged. Scythe 2's pulse rifle fit snugly against his shoulder and in his arms. No current directives. The one they escorted, C17/314 local administrator, remained fixed in the room, arguing with an undesignated civilian. The white lab coat the civilian wore sent a flicker of recognition in Scythe 2's head, but the flicker died upon reaching the twisted metal inside. They were not programmed to remember. The Elite remained stock still.

"Perhaps I am not making myself clear," said the Administrator, hands briefly running down the lines of his forehead and down his cheeks. He looked up slowly at the civilian, a dark-skinned man with glasses, taller than the Administrator but less broad about the shoulders. "The situation is precarious, and what you are suggesting is unethical on both a macro and micro level."

"Since when have you been concerned about questionable ethics?" asked the civilian, his voice deep. He gestured to Scythe 2, who still only stared straight ahead. "These soldiers have already endured the maximum possible extent of human modification … at least, the maximum extent possible given the tools available on this planet. And even within that relatively small boundary, they have lost-"

"I know what they have lost!" snapped the Administrator, stabbing the air with a pointed index finger. "Do you think I look down on the city and pretend that all is well? Do you think I leave any sacrifice made by humanity untallied? I know exactly what has been taken from these soldiers and, perhaps more pertinently, what has been given to them!"

The Administrator stepped forward, nostrils flaring. "And you … you would make them remember what they were? What it took to bring them to this … evolutionary apex? What next? Would you augment our stalkers in a similar fashion?"

"The brain remains the only organ still worth tinkering with," replied the civilian, back straight, but not looking the Administrator in the eye directly. "Muscle augmentation is presently impossible. I cannot squeeze any further organ, muscle, or bone replacement into our Elites, no matter how desperately they might need it. They are thirty-five percent flesh and blood as it is. But I think I can still improve their cognitive and creative functions for an increase in combat effectiveness."

"And then we run into the macro ethical breach." The Administrator breathed in heavily, eyes closing. He turned around and began to pace before the doctor, head bowed, speaking more to himself than the other man. "If our benefactors got word that we were programming what could be construed as a … greater degree of free will, into their soldiers, they might easily misinterpret that as the beginnings of a rebellion staged by their administrator. And they have their doubts as it is."

"It's the best I can offer, Wallace," replied the doctor, arms folded behind his back, glasses glinting in the dull light of the Citadel. "I can reduce the level of proposed neurological enhancement and perhaps create a new template for our Elites. Very small chance of damage or conflicting programming … but also only a small increase in combat effectiveness." His lips pursed. "With a larger science team, I might be able to move faster. With a dedicated wetware engineer, I would most certainly be able to move faster."

"Chen still refuses to cooperate, even in the face of death." The Administrator stopped, sighing. "I had hoped it would not come to this, particularly given that we are abandoning the outlying sectors. Perhaps he will not realize it is an empty threat." The Administrator cleared his throat, turning back to the doctor. "I will get you your people. How soon before you can finish … this?"

"Give me three hours." The civilian's posture slackened, and he looked to Scythe 2. The Elite did not return his stare. "Four augmentees?"

"As a test run." The Administrator ran a hand through his thinning white hair. "The last known invasion site was of low strategic importance. If any of them come back, I will consider it a victory. Any intel we can gain on these things will be critical. I intend to observe their mission personally." He licked his lips. "How long until the autopsy is concluded?"

"Two days. The price of working with a totally unfamiliar physiology." The doctor regarded the Administrator coolly. "I am afraid no number of wetware engineers will change that."

"Of course." The Administrator nodded to himself, turning away from the doctor. "Of course…"

The Administrator strode on polished shoes to the waiting elevator. The Elites all turned their heads to face him as he moved, although none of them shifted. Following?

"Remain," barked the Administrator. "You are to undergo a brief tune up to your wetware. Then you will be taking a dropship to the target site." Once on the glass elevator platform, he turned on his heel and stared at all of them. For a moment, his gaze met Scythe 2's. He felt another stab of recognition, swiftly dulled. "Good luck."

The doors slid shut, and the Administrator ascended out of sight. Mission update: undergo surgical procedure.

The doctor loomed large in the Scythe 2's vision, eyes obscured by his glinting glasses. He looked the Elite up and down. Wrinkles appeared on his otherwise smooth forehead. He sucked in air through his teeth.

"Follow me to the next room, please."

The four of them fell into line, Scythe 2 standing shoulder to shoulder with Scythe 1. The four of them kept a short distance behind the doctor, boots marching in perfect unison. Several sliding plates of metal slid out of the way, and the low blue lighting of the Citadel gave way to something harsher, something even more sterile.

Bright lights shone from medical lamps, their beams falling on steel tables with such a sheen the entire room, barely distorted, could be seen in their surface. Figures lay on some, their flesh pink and stretched thin over their skeletons. Raw red surgical scars dotted their chests and skulls. Many of their arms and legs terminated in sudden stumps, bound over by a pinned flap of skin.

Behind the tables, metal slabs leaned against the wall, several holes marking where the bars would slide over the torso and seal the occupant in place. A thick metal arm dangled stiffly from the ceiling, wires running like protruding veins down its length. The arm terminated at several upturned screens, each currently blaring gray static at nothing. Other arms, thinner and terminating in far finer points, jutted from the base of the TV arm, their needles and blades gleaming dully in the harsh light. A memory stirred in Scythe 2, but found no purchase. He took up position beside an empty table.

"Take position, please." The Elite placed his rifle at the side of the slab before clambering into it. Something prickled at the back of his mind. The metal bars slid tight across his chest, sealing him in place, his arms tucked against his sides.

The doctor strode to the front of the room where a console lay bolted to the floor. He craned his neck over it, tapping out rapidly on the keyboard. Above them, something whirred into life.

Scythe 2 paid the sounds no mind. He stared directly ahead, video feed crackling slightly. The prickling came again, but still found no part of the brain to access. There was nothing to say, nothing to do, and nothing to think about. All he could do was as he was instructed: wait and be improved.

Up above, metal instruments carried on spindly arms rotated like the stars in the night sky. Two of them descended, a needle and a screw, the edge glinting. The TV screen lowered between them, as if it were the head of some spider and the instruments its arms, its head fixing on trapped prey. Underneath the helmet, the masked flesh of the Elite, long dormant, twitched.

"Initiate shutdown procedure per your maintenance codes. Stand by for firmware upgrade."

Scythe 2 stiffened as the corners of his vision grew fuzzy, his brain systematically turning off like someone hitting the lights before leaving the room. Flick flick flick. The dark brightened into a light gray. Formless images played across his vision, the product of the screen before him. A series of alien symbols, squirming underneath the bright light, raced beneath his her his helmet.

"This may hurt. But it will improve your chances of survival." The doctor paused. Scythe 2's vision began to swirl. "I will give you everything I can.

Scythe 2's prosthetic eye swiveled in the artificial socket. Information came rocketing in at blinding speeds: combat data, squad formations, weapon ballistic statistics, the state of the Universal Union on Earth. And something, prickling at the back of the neck where hair once lay. Three suits standing in sealed plinths. So far underground. An old memory, lingering as a former link on a now broken chain. Useless. It sparked and fizzled away, replaced by raw numbers and a resurgence of undying purpose.

Scythe 2 felt a sharp surge of pressure on either side of his skull, the blades driving deep where the ears no longer resided. The gray changed to a shade of light red. Part of him remembered pain and screaming. His limbs had thrashed then. They had been his limbs – flesh and blood and bone. It had all been pulled away, nerve by nerve, until his throat would no longer obey his own command to scream. Then even the urge to cry out became silenced by the directive paramount.

Now, he could feel nothing. The blades turned and snipped and cut, pulling away the gray and red, but Scythe 2 felt nothing. A single finger twitched as the tools pulled away.

"Step forward. Place yourselves on the table."

Scythe 2's vision did not return. The gray and red faded into darkest black, leaving him hovering in a void of unimaginable vastness and darkness, but still his body complied. It marched forward and folded itself on top of the table, legs swinging over the unseen metal edge. Then he lay perfectly still, barely cognizant of the smooth steel beneath his back. Soft hands felt for the edges of his temples.

"The bleeding is slowing. Good. Apply level 1 sutures and seal … seal him back in."

For a time, a pleasant low buzzing filled Scythe 2's ears. The dark gave way to a light gray, barely visible shapes flitting in and out of his vision. The video feed remained inactive. The low sounds of muttering and clanking could be heard over an only barely audible high-pitched whine. The Elite's finger twitched again. Three suits. But the memory remained broken and free of context. His hands flexed and unflexed. He felt lighter, somehow. The memory fell away, and the video feed came live with a hush of static.

Wetware upgrade complete. Approximate five point two percent increase in combat effectiveness. Enhanced reflex and tactical analysis package active.

The Elite sat up, his torso bolt upright. He otherwise remained still. The others' video feeds went active, and the Elite picked them each up on his helmet feed, arranging them with a flick of the eye to the upper portions of the screen. None of them looked to each other. They stared straight ahead, waiting.

"You were among the best. Now you are – however barely – in a class of your own."

The doctor lifted Scythe 2's helmet with a steely grip on the left side of the helmet, making the closest thing he could to eye contact. Something clouded the eyes behind the shiny glasses. Something unnecessary and inexplicable rolled down the doctor's cheek and fell to the floor.

"You have your assignment," he murmured, staring down at Scythe 2. Then he let the Elite's head fall away before looking up. "You have your assignment!" he barked to the rest of them. "Dropship coordinates uploaded! Perform well! Humanity depends upon it!"

They pushed themselves to the floor, their boots giving off heavy clunks. Scythe 2 maintained the visual link with the rest of the fire team; as he leaned down to scoop up his own pulse rifle, he could see his movements almost perfectly matched by the rest of the team. They followed Scythe 4, whose table had been stationed closest to the exit, out the door and to the elevator the Administrator had departed on earlier. This time it the elevator descended instead of ascended, and the harsh light of the surgical facility turned to the duller blues of the Citadel proper.

From the elevator, they could see an active production floor of the Citadel. Three gunships lay dormant on racks, their frames stiff and still. A razor train screeched loudly as it trundled by on one of the Citadel's innumerable railroads, its cargo nothing less than more soldiers for the cause. A strider stepped out of view around the corner, its chassis flanked by two scanners, whose lights almost seemed to lead the way for its thudding footsteps. In the center of the floor, casting an updraft they began to feel as the elevator completed its descent, floated a dropship, engines active, wings flared, a heavy cargo container clamped in its grip.

The glass door opened and the soldiers hustled forward, their gear rustling. Some forgotten part of Scythe 2's brain resisted the urge to lift his her his hands before his face against the heavy winds, but stopped himself short of such nonsense. He wore a helmet, and even if he did not, his eye would resist such stimulus. His finger twitched.

Scythe 4 clambered in first, half ass-sliding half shuffling to the furthest end of the craft while Scythe 1 followed in afterward. Scythe 2 came up third, feeling some small amount of relief from getting out of the wind. Scythe 3 stopped at the entrance, pounded twice on the side of the craft, and hopped inside. The container closed shut, leaving them all in total darkness.

Time to target: one hour. Enter standby mode.

Consciousness would not be required. With a slight hum, their breaths slowed. Their pulse became sluggish. The grips on their rifles slackened. What little light Scythe 2 could pick out in the craft faded away, and the sound of the dropship died slowly, drifting into little more than the whine of a far off mosquito. Scythe 2 again stood inside a gray void, perceiving nothing, desiring nothing, and fearing nothing.

The container bumped once. Time to target: t-30 seconds. The four of them stirred to an approximation of life. Oxygen went in, CO2 went out. Perhaps some unseen muscle twitched. But mostly they clutched their rifles and waited. It was time.

The dropship stopped in place, the container shaking this way and that as it tried to hold its cargo steady. The door snapped open, and Scythe 3 jumped out, pulse rifle at his shoulder, scanning this way and that. Scythe 2 followed suit quickly, taking the right as Scythe 3 took the left, eye scanning for movement. The boots of the others crunched in the gravel as they landed at their target destination. The dropship hooted twice and began its ascent again, scattering bits of gravel and wood in every direction as it took off. With it gone, the four of them could now focus on the scene of devastation before their eyes.

Black smoke and green embers pockmarked building and stone. The settlement, once host to three decaying but still intact buildings, now featured only rubble and a half-destroyed two story shack, its skeleton of a chimney swaying dangerously in the salty breeze. Smears of blood, some of it red, some of it green, streaked across the earth across the rough tarmac of the former outpost. Seagulls wheeled overhead, the only sign of life besides themselves. They could see no bodies, nor any ammo cartridges. Everything appeared … picked clean.

The bridge, high above on their left, also sent up plumes of smoke. Several carriages, half-buried in cooling emerald embers, piled high atop one another, having been interdicted by the same malice that torched the outpost. Scythe 2 sniffed. His helmet picked up trace amounts of ozone, and a whole lot of UNIDENTIFIED SUBSTANCE.

"Ready weapons. Stay alert."

Two and Three took the right, heading for the burnt out remains of the two story building, while one and four took the left and began heading for the cliff, closer to the bridge. As the two of them took their first steps towards the shack, familiar audio cut in, nibbled by static.

"Video feed, check, check. Signal looks good. Dr. Tygan, can you hear me?"

"I can hear you, Wallace. My feed is clean." The doctor's deep voice came in less clear than the Administrator's; the end of his sentence cut off with a sudden screech as he stopped transmitting.

"Damage looks consistent with what we have seen thus far," said the Administrator, although he did not sound entirely reassured by this. "Hmm, Airwatch reported losing a gunship in this sector. Any sign of it?"

"We have located no biological detritus." Any one of the fire team could have said it. It did not matter who.

"One and four, check the ocean below. If there is anything to recover, it should still be floating in the jetsam or washed up on shore." The Administrator's fingers drummed against his desk far away, the sound of finger hitting wood coming through the speaker. Scythe 2 himself watched the video feed as his fellows dipped their heads cautiously over the precipice, which plunged about fifty feet below. Nothing floated among the waves except driftwood.

"They are collecting us," said the doctor, sounding if anything, amused. "And we are collecting them. Who will fully get the measure of the other first, I wonder?"

"We both know the answer to that, Dr. Tygan," replied the Administrator, a note of warning in his voice. "If Our Benefactors believed even for a moment that these invaders were pulling ahead of us … well. They would rectify the problem with a sharpness. We cannot allow that. Scythe One, Scythe Four, what can you see on the underside of the bridge?"

"Zero movement." Scythe Two had to concur. The shack smoked and seemed in the final stages before collapse. Checking One and Four's feed, nothing moved on the underside of the bridge, although the four side similarly featured coiling smoke rising into a darkening sky. "No biotics detected. Requesting permission to displace to new sector."

"Very well. Fire team move up to the bridge. Let's see what the damage is."

Scythe 2 snapped to attention with his peers and left the outpost behind. The gravel of the settlement's driveway turned into a gentle slope that led to the railroad itself, where a gap in part of the bridge's waist high barrier permitted access. An overturned rail car, singed with brilliant green, almost blocked their path. They sidled through, rifles held over their heads, Scythe 1 bringing up the rear and covering their advance.

It must have been quite the pile up. The head of the train could not be seen from where they stood, and was likely buried somewhere in the tunnel behind them. The rest of the carriages, some smoking, some not, remained strewn and piled up all over the tracks. One hung precariously over the edge, its front smashed in by the waist-high wall it had careened through on its swift unwanted exodus.

Most curious however, was not what glowed green and smoke. Centered on the remnants of the tracks before the pile up, stood a curious artefact made of some anomalous metal. Orange energy curled from inside it, wafting out in what might have been some kind of smoke. The top part of the artefact rotated above the orange like something out of Xen. Whatever was inside the artefact chimed softly.

"Anomalous reading." Scythe 1 readied his weapon and kept it pointed squarely at the artefact. "Overwatch, requesting directive."

"Approach the object with extreme caution; it may be some kind of explosive device," ordered the Administrator, and Scythe One complied immediately. "Dr. Tygan, any thoughts?"

"Orange is new," said the doctor, and the Administrator snorted in derision.

"Most astute. I am beginning to recall why I rejected your application to Black Mesa."

Scythe 2 maintained her sights on the strange object. Scythe One approached it, gun at the ready, and then finally reached out with his free hand to touch the object. As his gloved fingers slid over the object's rotating top, it hissed, causing him to jump backwards. The object then … opened, its prize spilling now golden light in all directions.

A single crystal, so orange as to be almost gold, glowed from the inside of the container, which now lay still. The four of them stared at it. Something stirred inside Scythe 2. Don't we need it in the test chamber? Despite himself, he shook his head. The memory found a slight crack in the armor and lingered. Three suits, one of them orange, but that was not for-

Scythe 2 shook his head again, sharply.

"Scythe 2, is something wrong? Your feed keeps jerking."

"Status is nominal. Request mission update." The response came automatically. A kernel of anxiety nestled somewhere in Scythe 2's consciousness. Tygan remembers. Three HEV suits.

"The ah, canister of whatever this is appears ready for extraction," said Dr. Tygan, his own voice shaking a little. "Prep it for transport. Wallace, should we extract them? The area appears clear, and we have already diverted all other trains from the bridge. Is there anything else we can do here?"

"Overwatch, we've got movement. Target my radial, ninety-seven degrees."

Scythe 2's artificial heart initiated a speedier blood flow. His rifle followed Scythe 1's radial call, which fell over the top of the blocked train tunnel entrance. A citizen crouched over the entrance, staring at them intently, his blue clothing inexplicably immaculate. He threw up his hands as they raised their rifles.

"Don't shoot! Don't shoot!" The citizen's movements appeared out of the norm, somehow more elastic than normal. Even as he stood to full height, the way his back curved fell outside the standard deviation of human spines, at least to this Elite's calculations. Nevertheless, the order had to be given.

"A witness. Probably Resistance." The Administrator sighed. The citizen still stared down at them without any semblance of fear. "We can use this. Prep him for pick up as well. Our Benefactors may want to examine him personally. He is unarmed?"

"No weapons." Scythe 3 stepped forward, rifle trained on the citizen's face. "Citizen, remain still. Prepping for extraction and wrap up."

"Oh?" The citizen's head tilted. The neck bent a little father than Scythe 2 would have suspected possible. "Four of you? There are four of you?"

"Fire team," said the Administrator coldly, "I advise you to check your vectors. I believe he is trying to distract you."

Scythe One turned checked their rear and called something out. But no sooner had he exposed is back then the citizen lurched back, something bulging from his chest. His head snapped backward and then surged forward, something thick and green belching forth from his thin lips. Some green substance, thicker than smoke, erupted from Scythe 2, filling the air with noxious fumes. His suit acknowledged a chemical alert, but the filters remained intact, and he could still see the target through his sights.

"Unlawful chemical discharge." Scythe 2 and 4 lit up the target, which shrieked inhumanly and fell backwards out of sight. However, Scythe 1's cries soon drowned out the sound of their gunfire.

"Multiple biotics confirmed – fix radials, one-hundred eighty two degrees."

"Bouncer, bouncer!"

Scythe 2 backpedaled hard out of instinct and protocol. Something luminescent green rolled about a foot from where he had previously stood. It burst in a shower of emerald light, sending a tremendous shock of heat in all directions.

"Body pack holding!" Scythe One's left side remained singed and smoking from the blast, but he still knelt in place, firing on the top of the overturned rail carriage behind the orange artifact. Another citizen, this one not even pretending to be human, leapt into the air, flipping out of sight and away from the gunfire, hissing furiously. From behind the carriage, something roared.

"Overwatch, multiple biotics confirmed, stabilization team holding." Scythe One pointed to the edge of the rail car on his right, where the hostiles still waited. "Two, Four, secure that hardpoint. Three, reinforce this position."

"Confirmed. Displacing."

"So they're disguising themselves as citizens now," said the Administrator, sighing. "That's quite the trick. Dr. Tygan, I imagine you're looking forward to seeing how these invaders have managed such a feat?"

"I am at best morbidly curious, Wallace," replied the doctor. "Dr. Breen, we should call in the dropship and bring a reserve. If nothing else, we need to recover the bodies."

"Yes, yes," replied the Administrator, but Scythe 2 could not focus on the rest. He trotted to the corner, weapon automatically reloading, Scythe 4 at his back. He expected the creatures to peek at him from around the corner, or else jump atop the carriage again. That was not what happened.

Something red and enormous lunged from around the corner, roaring. It stood well above human height, and impossibly huge muscles corded its arms. It slammed a meaty fist into its chest twice, roaring, and the entire squad opened fire. The beast charged heedless, green blood spraying as the pulse rounds punched through its armor.

Scythe 2 backpedaled, finger feathering the trigger, but it was not quite enough. The beast wheeled a heavy arm and caught him with a vicious backhand, knocking Scythe 2 sideways. The Elite spun through the air before landing against the orange canister, back cracking at the impact. His grip remained firm around the rifle however, although the blow left his visual feed crackling with static. He grunted with pain, vision spinning.

Scythe 4 fired into the creature, only for it to lunge forward with its other arm. Its knuckle, tipped with spikes, drove deep into Scythe 4's chest plate. Blood rushed out in a stream, and the Elite doubled over with an electronic scream of pain. The beast pulled its bloody knuckles free and drove them skyward in an uppercut. Scythe 4's head parted from his shoulders with a ripping sound, his death rattle echoing even once his head flew clear.

"Scythe 4 down, request reserve activation!"

The beast, chest pocked with holes yet still alive with rage, roared and charged again, this time at the second line. Scythe 2, rifle still following the creature's movements, hit the secondary fire. His pulse rifle hummed and the orb flew free, calculated to compensate for the target's movement.

The orb slammed into the creature and burst, distorting the air. The beast cried out as its form became bathed in brilliant light, and it gently floated into the air, its body disintegrating before their eyes. Scythe 2 heaved a sigh of what might have been relief. For a moment, all felt still and sanguine. Then two more massive creatures burst from around the corner, carrying guns as big as he was.

"Two contacts! Overwatch, sector is not controlled."

The Administrator shouted something over the radio, but all became deafened by smoke and alien screams. The creatures loosed brilliant bolts of viridian light at Scythe 1 and 3 returned fire, crouched behind a smoldering chunk of former train. Scythe 2 could not rise to his feet, so instead desperately scooted around the strange canister, trying to reposition himself behind it.

"Outbreak-" called out Scythe 1, only to be cut off with a strangled cry. Scythe 2 flipped on to his belly and pointed his rifle at the two hulking creatures. Armor is thick. However, something round, green, and spherical hung on the belt of the closer soldier. The green flew thick and fast from their rifles, the air shimmering with heat at their passage. Despite there being no combat directive for such an action, Scythe 2 took aim, some memory finding purchase in his her his rattled mind.

"Overwatch, request reserve a-" Scythe 3 heaved a cry as he too fell. The creatures bellowed in triumph, pounding their chests hard enough to echo off the side of the train tunnel. Scythe 2 sucked in a breath. The further alien soldier turned and saw her, yellow eyes narrowing with hate. He pointed at where Scythe 2 lay.

Too late. Scythe 2 let off a single sharp burst. The alien grenade exploded in a dazzling display of emerald, the blast casting everything momentarily in shadow. The alien who bore the grenade vanished entirely, consumed by the flame he sought to wield. The other flew backwards, weapon flying out of his hands and over the bridge's edge and likely into the ocean. With a cough and a spray of yellow gas from his mask, he fell still as well.

Scythe 2 lay there, alone on the bridge, with only the sea's wind blowing across the bridge for company. without the use of his legs. He breathed heavily.

"An impressive display of your new combat protocols, Dr. Tygan," said the Administrator, now audible thanks to the chaos's cease. "A pity it did not appear to take with the other three. This one's vitals appear strong."

"Yes," replied the doctor, and Scythe 2's memory stirred at his hard and thoughtful tone. Only one of us dodged the Aperture. A phone call. But it faded quickly. "I must confess some surprise of my own at this outcome. We are fortunate to have any survivors. It appears the enemy has brought some impressive physical specimens of their own."

"We will have to see about uploading these wetware upgrades to the rest of the Transhuman Overwatch," said the Administrator. "Scythe 2, two dropships are inbound to your location. You will be restored to full physical functionality, and all alien materiel will be recovered. Be at peace, soldier, you have done your duty to humanity."

Some buried part of Scythe 2 swelled at this, but whether it was in pride or … something else, remained beyond his capability to comprehend. He merely waited there, silent and still amidst the ruin of foe and friend alike, watching the sun set on the ocean's horizon.

Beneath the mask, he smiled, but did not know why. Something inexplicable and unnecessary collected beneath the eye socket he no longer needed.