The worst part about entrusting her project into the hands of her brothers was the simple fact that it left Jax-Mon with little to oversee.
Crowding Dhag-Mai's workspace was simply out of the question. He was tolerant now, but the last thing she needed was to pull the trigger on his inevitable backstabbing earlier than intended. She might as well be back to the drawing board or entrust the project into ADVENT's own engineers – though competent, they could never match the pace that the Hunter set in strides – if she was going to spring that trap.
No, handling the Hunter was something that required more finesse than even the most daring of assassination attempts. A dance of subterfuge, a game of deceit.. of all which became very easy to lose the rules to and left one reeling and awestruck. She had little choice but to be ahead of that game, lest he catch on and take advantage of the situation, as the Hunter was want to do.
As she had just returned from Dhag-Il's stronghold, the Assassin had little to no desire of returning back to be scolded by his self-righteous nature or by his simpering, insidious imps he was masquerading as Priests. Had the Elders not ingrained into all of them – Chosen included – of the Priests' ecclesiastical role, she might've silenced them where they stood before her elder could even react.
Her own base was.. eerily silent, much like her. Whereas before she would have basked in the shroud of silence that blanketed the blessed halls of the stronghold, now – it drew a sense of uneasy quiet from the Assassin.
Had she truly grown used to Fiducia's psionic signature subconsciously managing Network directives that it's absence struck her? Even before, her mind was far too occupied with the current events for Hecate's apparent defection effect her. Yet now left alone, she found herself.. remiss. Internally she chastised, the inner voice taking much the same lilting, melodic tone of her Mother as she did.
'You are a blade of Their will, and yet you long for what? Company? You needn't any but the shroud on your back, your siblings by your side and the void before you.'
Darkness and shadows were two that have been her oldest friends for as long as she remembered. In their embrace, they offered her comfort and security, like the infinite stretch of void, nestled within the Elders' bosom. However restlessness set when it wrapped around her, discomfort rose. Was this not the state of empty apathy that she had longed for; reflected in the quiet of her stronghold?
Jax-Mon sighed under her breath, letting her hands drop limp to her knees, meditation halted. It was better that she simply came to terms with the fact that she did, indeed, miss Hecate and Fiducia. Growing attached like she had.. no, it was not merely like a child with her toys. She.. respected them.
At the very least, she knew that Fiducia's absence would be rectified once the Hunter had completed the heavy artillery. That was simply a matter of time and her sibling was not the only one with God-given patience. Hecate, on the other hand…
She stands by the thought that there may have been an error within the Network – Codices be damned. Jax-Mon would not put it past her brothers to have been so petty as to tamper with something like that to ensure the few 'nice things' that she had, or held dear to her, were ripped away. But, as it stands, she had no proof of accusation and something of that magnitude would.. draw unnecessary attention from Ishmael and his ilk.
Elders rarely meddled with the matters of their children – why would they, the Godly beings that they were? Such would be considered divine intervention. But the Network they constructed was their pride and joy, once holding their esteemed Commander that they were so taken with. It may have been a shadow of what it once was without her subconscious presence driving the tactical archives; but they were sensitive about their favoured creations.
Claiming that her brothers directly used their precious Network to tamper with her own affairs so pettily would not go down well. Jax-Mon contested, regardless, that she was not a child that cried for her Mother anytime her siblings did anything to upset her. She was perfection personified - their own faults, misgiving and shades of humanity will slide off her.
A tranquil focus set as she contemplates her options, slipping into the sea of directives that dart subconsciously by from the aforementioned Network. Hecate was in her brother's possession last she had been tracked. The New Mexican facility, to be exact. Information extracted from logs buried under thousands of data presented itself in her mind's eye. There was an incident involving one of the prisoners once housed there. A Templar.
Jax-Mon searched further. Give me the archival footage of this prisoner's time here.
A frown marred her face when she was hit by the stark 'ACCESS DENIED.' It seared into her mind like the lick of fire, not quite unlike psionic backlash. It made her own concentration shirk, hissing back, before slowly relaxing into a quiet calm once again. Typical, that Dhag-Il would keep whatever happened within his territory firmly under lock and key.
Nevertheless, she addressed the facts that she knew. That facility was the last known location. It would be the perfect place to begin her search. As for concerns of territorial disputes.. she firmly believed that including her elder into this project of hers was the correct decision, despite Dhag-Mai's apprehension. It should not draw his anger if she were to move through his land, now.
Assuming he would even notice she was there. Her psionics brimmed to the surface; palpable, like she could touch the energy that burned in her soul. It pooled into the palms of her hand and she cast it out like a net around her, cloaking her in a shroud, stealing herself from sight. Bathed in the energies, she utilized it to teleport out of her empty stronghold, into the live, vivacious world.
Unlike her posturing elder that would appear in a bolt of heavenly light, basking in their masters' divine power, she arrived at the prison facility in a hushed whisper of the wind. The foliage rustled at her entrance, the chattering leaves spoke of her presence before silencing when she gathered the psi-energy in the air to empower her shroud. It fluttered, like a true, tangible blanket, before settling heavy on her arms, soft as silk.
Jax-Mon exhaled softly – silent. Her eyes closed slowly and she trusted her senses to give herself a clearer picture of her surroundings than merely vision. She heard the beat of a passing pigeon's wings overhead, the swish of each blade of grass framing the edges of her boots. Distantly, faintly, she swore she could hear the muted chatter of grouped humans deep underground. She strained – but the sound was difficult to pinpoint, especially when her ears honed to the hum of the looming facility near to her.
She disregarded the sound, for now. It was too far, too distant. If anything, it most likely belonged to a confident haven. Why her brother had yet to wipe it out, she did not know. Bad publicity, she thinks bemusedly, when recalling her chastising dealt by the Speaker.
Casting her gaze towards the facility, a brief sweep with her psionics informed her that the building was staffed with a skeleton crew of a security detail and a single Priest caretaker. The bright light that indicated a human was not present, so it would appear that Dhag-Il hadn't taken any prisoners as of late. She did, interestingly, catch flashes of dull, flickering lights – spilt, dried blood, if she had to guess.
Well, she needn't have to guess, as she slipped inside to inspect the building.
It was.. sterile, like a gene clinic. Pristine floors, blinding, all too bright light fixtures on the walls and ceilings. Had she not grown so adept at her psionic shroud, she may have caused a shimmer of reflected light with every movement. Jax-Mon was assured of her abilities. Her pride, not unlike her brethren's hubris, was built into her. She passed the silent guards posted at the corners, easily avoiding detection of the Priest to find that source of psionic refuse.
It was within one of the containment cells. Unoccupied now, but she had little doubt that it once housed someone that managed to draw her brother's ire, such as the Templar paladin. Jax-Mon entered – and halted, eyes falling to the chains cluttering the ground, clamps wrenched free. Hm, perhaps she may have overestimated her sibling's housekeeping if the cell had been left used.
She knelt by the chains, hand ghosting over the surface; feeling the static that once clung to them. They weren't merely cast-iron shackles. They were cruel implements of the Hunter, made to restrain even the most hardy of psionic creatures. Inert now, the once-prisoner's blood still coated the clamps where it had been on their wrists. Dhag-Mai wasn't generally in the mood for sharing his equipment. It made the Assassin question why. How long ago was this? Before Hecate had become lost to her, certainly.
Jax-Mon tried not to ponder on it too long, but her mind traitorously wandered. There was only one reason she could believe, one that she determined for herself before she sent Hecate on her pilgrimage. Had her brothers been against her – since she took her first step? Had she made a mistake, believing that she could use them as they use her – and they were working together to spite her once again?
She kneaded her temple, teeth peeking through the slight snarl that curled her lip. It was a complex spiral that boggled the mind trying to keep tabs on their fickle loyalties and their plots. She knew this. She had thought this once before. Yet once again, she found something tightening her chest and closing her throat. A shadow of hurt biting through the apathy that had set.
'There's a part of you that wants to be a family.'
Truly? She spits scathing back to the voice in her head. The two siblings that she had promised she would end if they did so much as get in the way of her righteous, cleansing path. The brothers she accepted time and time again that would betray and seek to kill her. The vision of the family was Father's ideal.
A pause in stark realization. Then, a quiet, timid thought: Father?
Silence met her thoughts and for the first time in existence, Jax-Mon felt a stab of cold fear caress through her muscles, locking her into place. It was as if something seized her mind before slipping away, just as quiet. She questioned the void again, fervently, desperately, but nothing was returned except her objective: Hecate.
Perhaps I should.. focus on my purpose here. The.. shackles. Right, she was examining the shackles. At the very least, she filed the associated information regarding her siblings away, focusing on the fact that, very faintly and only thanks to her God-given senses, could she even detect the presence of the wayward Priest that lingered in the room. Ever so faint, now. If she came any later; it very well could have faded.
She traced the faint presence, out of the cell, feet carrying her as she trusted herself implicitly, taking the most likely route that Hecate once had. The Templar's presence split from the pathway, seemingly exiting through the window which, upon closer inspection, held faint traces of that dried blood. She ignored that, instead continuing to follow the other fading signature to the back entrance of the facility, to one lead into the deep woods of the New Mexican wilderness.
Jax-Mon silently paged the Network as she traversed, bringing up any relevant information. The most striking, that gave her pause, was a known Skirmisher band operating somewhere within the woods. Her lips pursed into a thin line. She did not know that Skirmishers had spread so far as to encroach in the Western USA. And thanks to the territories.. she hadn't been made aware of it.
Then again, she reasoned – it had been a while since she had enacted her original purpose once the Commander had been stolen under their noses. Her recapture superseded all doctrines. Perhaps it was far past due that she cull the weeds of dissidents. Left to linger, they become nigh impossible to uproot.
The Assassin found herself statuesque, overlooking the encampment from her spot on the hill. The Network's report gave her a sense of the scope; which was to say that being so far from the main outposts, it clearly was meant to be used as a stop, or even simply a sanctuary to tend the wounded. It was far too small to function as any sort of valuable base.
She did not feel annoyance that her talents would be wasted on such a minor skirmish. Remiss that her skills yet to be matched evenly, true – but where the Elders' will was concerned, Jax-Mon considered no task too small. Butchering this camp would be no different than severing a finger from the faction as a whole. The Skirmishers would continue to thrive, but not without losses. Not without pain.
She darted forward, leaping off from the hill in a flourish of acrobatic feat, landing soundlessly upon the aluminum rooftop of a shack. Stepping to the edge, her gaze patronizingly swept the floor, noting the two medics – one human – talking among themselves whilst a sleeping Skirmisher rested unawares in the medical cot. She had been correct to assume it was a stop for the wounded.
Jax-Mon slid from the roof, driving the pommel of her katana into the forehead of the human medic, sending him reeling to the floor in a startled daze – vision blurred. Momentary surprise lapsed over the hybrid doctor's face before her instincts snapped her to attention rushing to reach for her weapon. But, alas, it was too late. Shock stitched onto her face like a death mask as the Assassin's blade pierced through her throat.
Kicking the body off and letting it thump to the floor at the foot of the cot, she meticulously took the time to approach the laboured Skirmisher and to end the misery he was no doubt suffering. The injury didn't look salvageable. A mercy, for his life to be stolen away by her the swiftness of her true-cutting blade.
How selfless she could be. As much as these degenerates deserve to suffer for they forsake the Elders', she was not as cruel as humanity. By her hand, she would speed them to a gentle death. These were the repetitive thoughts that sung through her mind like a Vedic hymn, branded into every thought. She liked to imagine it was their masters that crooned such praise.
Not a single twist was made of her sword. Not a single taunt. Clean incision and removal, wiping the flat clean across the faded grey of the blankets.
A groan jolted her out of her thoughts as the medic began to regain his senses, hands cradling his head and nursing the injured temple. Jax-Mon strode over towards him, lifting him up by the throat in a crushing grip. He gave out a weak, gargled cry, fear pooling black eyes as they settled on her. The shroud had dropped at some point during the attack – the skirmish too weak to serenade her into a state of battle-focus where she could maintain such a thing and strike still.
"Where is the leader of this hovel?" she asks, succinct. She had no tolerance for spinning long, grand tales, nor letting her words dig and cut when her katana was the only blade she needed. Her psionics as well, rose threateningly; manipulating the supple mind, casting shadows of fear across it. The medic whimpered, eyes tightly screwing shut and weakly wrestled with her wrist.
"Y-You're c-choking ..." he bumbled out. A much needed gasp of air was taken once Jax-Mon lessened the pressure on his windpipe. His eyes flared open, wildly looking to her with a look cross between a begging plea and fearful imploring.
"T-This is just a – camp to treat the – the wounded, please, I – I don't want to die – " He broke out into a heaving sob shortly afterwards.
Perhaps she might've overdone it with her psionics. Getting sloppy? She humbled herself. Jax-Mon forced herself to withdraw the overbearing energy back inwards and slowly settle the man back onto his feet, though she smacked the flat of her blade to his side purposefully, indicating that he shouldn't get the wise idea to run. Another pitiful sob trembled from his chest.
"I will ask you one more time and you will give me the answer I seek. I do not suffer fools gladly, so do not make me repeat myself a third time." the Assassin warned. "Where is the leader?"
"S-She is – in the surgeon's tent." he blurts out. Realizing the fate he'd sealed to his colleague, he collapsed to his knees, clutching at her boots, spluttering out his words in rapid succession. " – Please, we have no affiliation to this, w-we just want to do – "
Jax-Mon had enough of the man's whimpering and gave him the reward of his co-operation by stabbing her katana through the back of his head, stepping aside. Sadly, not fast enough – her lips twisted into a petty frown as blood splattered the deep maroon of her armour. She supposed the crimson of the human suited better than the meld-infused altered orange of her kin's lifeblood.
Casting her gaze outward, the mentioned tent wasn't difficult to pick out among the rabble of broken down shacks and makeshift infirmaries. The occupants of which sported a range of trauma, though all seemed to lack lucidity of their surroundings, making it easy for Jax-Mon to march towards the tent without so much as an alarm raised. She would be back to bring her mercy, like a true Saint. But for now..
The flutter of the tent flaps alerted the head surgeon – the so called 'leader' of the battlefield hospital. She was a Skirmisher, with distinct Sectoid genetics turning the usual yellow, enlarged iris and pupils into a deep, bug-like black, speckled with faint purple. Despite the unusual combination of genetics not seen outside of the Priest's template, the surgeon lacked any sort of affinity for the Gift. Her energy, her signature was nothing but a muted candle, indicative of a living soul, but not of a psionic user.
A tense second. Begrudging choice flashed across the surgeon's face, before her shout rang loud; " – Protect the wounded!"
None of the surrounding doctors or scarce guards wanted to open fire on the intruder with the wounded present in the tent. Jax-Mon took advantage of their split-second hesitation, clarifying their deaths with a single mortal strike from the slice of her blade. The guard decapitated, the attending nurse's throat slit. She carried the momentum forward to the surgeon –
The ripjack snagged her katana before it could come close to pinning the doctor's coat to the table of medical implements behind her, wrestling the fine, honed edge away from her – sweat breaking across her brow. Jax-Mon sneered, displaying two rows of sharp teeth as her free hand curled into a fist and surged on. The soldier coded into every hybrid forced her to rely on instinct alone; her hand shooting up to catch the Assassin's wrist. A brief struggle of strength ensued, with the surgeon sorely at a disadvantage.
" – What do you want from us!" she cried, a tremor crawling through her arm as the stress of keeping her blade at bay took it's toll on her. The Assassin knew that to overpower her, it would be as simple as weakening her strength and then riposting on the surgeon's imbalance. But she capitalized on the steady hum of nervousness that no doubt gnawed the pit of her stomach, sneer curving into a wicked smile.
"An asset of mine found herself lost and into the clutches of your sacrilegious tribe of hybrids." Jax-mon hissed, leaning her face closer, making sure the surgeon couldn't look anywhere but at the Assassin and her deathly intent. " – Her last known location was within this hovel you are passing off as a sanctuary. Where is the Priest?"
"Priest?" Then, it dawned on the surgeon. That flicker of recognition was all Jax-Mon needed to pool her strength into knocking the ripjack clean out of the way, eliciting a gasping yell from her. She attempt to dive to the side, but a straggled scream erupted once the katana pierced through her shoulder and pinned her to the metal table behind. Blood stained the mostly immaculate lab coat orange when it seeped through the fabric.
The Assassin let go of her wrist, no longer needing to keep her restrained with her blade doing it for her. She pressed her palm into the pommel, steadily increasing pressure – and increasing the volume of pain baying out of the surgeon.
"Where is the Priest?" Jax-Mon demanded again.
"C-Certainly in a better place than from whence she came!" She spat daringly throughout her heaving breaths. Always a doctor at heart, she judged the Assassin's intent as malicious and would do anything to prevent harm falling onto anyone, if she could help it. But her strong will crumpled under the agonizing torture of the Assassin slowly twisting her katana to draw fresh blood.
"Spare me your misguided kindness to one who thinks you worth less than the ground she walks on. She is no more your 'battle sister' as I am, why needlessly suffer?" coaxed the Chosen, but her tone curdled and her psionics impatiently probed forth, picking at the edges of the surgeon's mind. Tears leaked from the wounded doctor's eyes, splattering on her ruined coat.
Desperately, she tried to keep out Jax-Mon's mental attempts, but under such duress, she was susceptible to her psionic probing. The memories of Hecate flooded to the forefront of her mind, allowing the Assassin to purview them and garner the intelligence she needed.
The Priest, dazed like a lost lamb, stumbled upon the encampment, it seemed. The head surgeon.. allowed her to remain, as a healer, once she showed her worth. Jax-Mon dismissed the thoughts with a mental wavering, forcing her to think more presently. The Skirmisher whimpered, canting her head away, but it made no difference to the power of her psionics.
Betos had arrived via one of their reclaimed Skyrangers – to offload supplies, crates marked with the grinning skull of Reapers' deathly visage. Speech was.. incomprehensible, but Jax-Mon focused on the Battlelord taking a keen interest in Hecate. They seemed to converse lightly. She looked to the very edges of the memory, as best she could, seeking any more contextual clues. There! A peak of XCOM's symbol emblazoned onto the jacket of a human assisting in carrying the crates..
Jax-Mon's consciousness slipped away from the surgeon and with not a single word more, ended her life with the sweep of her katana. She let the body crumple to the floor, uncaring, mind focused on a singular thought:
Had Hecate been taken in by XCOM?
The Assassin shook her head slowly, but pondered this for a moment longer. Perhaps allowing Hecate to unwittingly gather intel from the inside on the troublesome organization may provide a boon yet. All she had to devise was a way of contacting her without alerting XCOM's suspicions. Alas, that would be for the new day.
For today, the battlefield hospital will be razed and the Skirmishers will be reminded that she would never stop hunting them. Her blade hungers for justice.