Clean, nondescript and uniform were often attributed to the City Centres. For the politicians of ADVENT, it marketed it as a place that everyone wanted to live in. Safe, secure – yet ultimately, one way. Those admitted into the Centres only exited it out in a body bag, or shipped off elsewhere. A neon expanse stretched across the horizon was an attractive deception from the horrors that lurked within the day-to-day life of an average citizen.

Reapers were no strangers to these Centres. They vowed they would never live in one and entered into it's perimeter if it meant they could cause havoc and destruction. Neither of such things were Sveta and Peytor's goal tonight, though if the former had anything to say about it, then a little mayhem was always on the docket.

Getting into the city was significantly more difficult than infiltrating a facility off the beaten path. XCOM's undercover operative, Cato, was known somewhat of a political pundit; holding quite a high office for one of the last few genuine human officials that pulled the strings. Either or not his power in ADVENT meant anything; he was decidedly inoffensive to their regime, voting what the upper echelon demanded and flip-flopping between stances on a dime, if it suited ADVENT's narrative.

The city was guarded; more so than usual. It's citizens and officials were generously gifted a contingent security detail of three-to-one ratio. Identification posts were stationed at every street corner, manned by sleek, black-armoured troopers and their magnetic rifles openly carried. Sectoids slunk about the alleyways and over-looked corners of the centre, and Vipers patrolled the streets in public view of everyone.

There was no special plan, no master crafted scheme to get in. Just a high hope that the tech they fleeced from the Black Market worked.

Peytor smoothed down his grey ADVENT-issued suit jacket for the umpteenth time, staring at the mirror. His grizzled, decidedly 'threatening' appearance glared back. He'd cleaned up the scruff of his beard, which had shaved off a few years and also gave way to indicating his strong jaw and stern looking face. Aside from the faded scars which could be explained away with a mismanaged clinic appointment; there was little he could do to mask the war-worn look.

His partner, Sveta, had an even worse time. There would be zero chance of explaining away the Chryssalid injury of his eye. After lamenting the loss of his facial hair, he fretted over a way to cover up the most egregious sign that they were not who they said they were.

" – Maybe sunglasses?" Peytor suggested after watching a full minute of Sveta worry. The blond paused, then rummaged through their salvage of a clothes store to find the aforementioned eyewear. He made a soft noise of affirmation when he found a pair that he liked – and would obscure his injury.

"How do I look?" Sveta asked, placing the sunglasses on and hitting Peytor with his most winning smile. " – Do I pull off the 'eccentric small business owner' look well?"

Peytor chuffed slightly. "You look handsome as always. Red's your colour."

Either he was speaking of the red suit or the flush that captured his face, Sveta didn't know. A nervous, but light-hearted laugh rumbled from him, thumping his partner cheerfully on the chest before stepping out of the public restroom. Peytor followed, falling into step beside him.

Thanks to the assistance of old contacts still lurking in the city and greasing their palms a little, the pair discovered where Cato would be for the approaching hour. Engaging him in the middle of the street was too risky – there was far too many eyes and listening ears; both citizens and ADVENT alike – but his choice of venue for an evening meal might provide them with some privacy.

Though as Peytor observed, seeing each shopfront manned by two troopers at a minimum, not including the ones lurking inside; he didn't hold out much hope to catch Cato on his lonesome.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, they wandered the street, in no real rush towards the restaurant. They couldn't increase their pace even if they wished to; as rousing suspicion or acting 'disorderly' would be detrimental to their mission. Even if, just in case, Sveta had managed to smuggle his handgun into the city, albeit disassembled and concealed.

They blended well with the crowd once they managed to slip within it and become just one of the many faces. Peytor had especially planned their route to include the least amount of identification posts to compromise them. That didn't stop the fact he could feel sets of eyes observe their every move like surveillance hawk. His arm snaked protectively around Sveta's waist – the other's hand meeting his own to pat reassuringly.

Neither of them liked being there. The city centres were the antithesis to everything a Reaper stood for.

The garish neon sign of the high-class restaurant blared out at the end of the street, with a plush carpet trailing inwards and what looked to be a singular Officer stationed outside, checking the papers of the patrons passing in. Peytor cursed under his breath, his gaze already scaling up the building tot look for an alternative route – and mollified at the sight of vents, a door on the roof and a service alleyway.

Peytor felt Sveta tense up against his side when a lounging trooper barked something sharp; relief coming like a roller-coaster as the trooper was more interested in accosting a civilian to the scanning post than them. He subtly picked up the pace to avoid being next, squeezing his partner slightly and withdrawing his arm when they were approaching the building.

Sveta undoubtedly saw the Officer as well; a frown present on his lips. He made an inconspicuous cant of his head towards the alley, to which Peytor affirmed with a nudge on his hand. The pair waited until the Officer's attention was directed to a couple about to enter before making a dive towards the alley.

After checking for security cameras and assuring that they were safe for now, Peytor's shoulders slumped, muttering in their native tongue; " – This place is going to be crawling with ADVENT goons. We should wait until he's finished and catch him leaving."

"It's not going to be that bad." Sveta dismissed, peeking through the service entrance window. His vision of the restaurant's main floor was obscured, but through the peep hole he could determine that the kitchen staff were a mixture of automated and human. He grimaced seeing a MEC serve as waitstaff with the more unsightly, combat parts repainted.

"I'm telling you, Sveta. Bad vibes."

"Look. All we need to do is get in, drop the message, and get out. What's the worst that could -"

"Don't." Peytor interrupted. "Don't even finish that."

Tutting to himself, Sveta peeled away from the door and gestured upwards. It'd be impossible to slip in through the kitchen given how busy it was, but the top floor should be relatively unguarded. They scoured the alleyway to find a fixture they could latch onto, with some success found in the outer piping bolted to the wall. Sveta tested it's capability of holding his weight, having ascended the first rung. Satisfied it wasn't about to break off and cause noise, he continued upwards with Peytor closely behind him.

As expected, the door to the roof was locked. Sveta made a vague gesture for Peytor to sort it as he kept watch and brought out the disassembled handgun. By the time he'd put all the pieces in working order and cocked back the hammer, testing an empty shot, he heard the door groan open. Sveta glanced over – and made a noise of alarm.

"I didn't mean for you to break the door's hinges," he hissed. Peytor nonchalantly shrugged his shoulder.

"By the time they investigate it, we'll be in and out, yeah?"

Sveta muttered something about it not being the point, but either way, he shoved his gun back into the hidden holster in the inside of his suit jacket and took the lead. The roof entry and the management floor of the restaurant was typically vacant when there was a large amount of patrons in the dinner rush. The owner worked closely with the front of house and the peacekeepers better stationed where the masses were.

Sveta stopped at the stairwell, blocking Peytor's path and vision. He could see his partner's face whiten like a ghost at the sight of something or another. Placing his hand on Sveta's shoulder, he leaned closer, softly questioning.

"There's thousands." he intoned. With a bit of physical encouragement, Sveta stepped to the side and allowed Peytor to descend to the last step where he too, took in the sight of the main floor.

Hundreds of Stun Lancers and Officers swathed in red or denim-blue as far as the eye could see. Black suited men and women dining and chatting aimlessly, normalized to the sight of armed, open-carrying soldiers hovering over their affairs and eavesdropping every possible conversation. Faces that none of them recognized – pure white MECs expertly weaving through the masses to deliver the food.

Sveta only had six bullets and a spare clip that he made himself should things go south. Peytor had less than that.

"Well." Peytor mulled, letting his hand slip from Sveta's shoulder. In any other situation, he might've rubbed it in his face about his gut instinct, were it not for the very real possibility of getting caught, or worse – killed and used post-humorously to fuel the ADVENT propaganda machine.

"This is going to be interesting."


" – It's still a crying shame what happened to Lionel. We all thought he was a good man. Nobody could have expected he was a sympathizer!"

"Crying shame." Lennert repeated just audible enough as his dinner companions spoke openly amongst themselves. The consequences of Jax-Mon's actions that night were finally coming to light. His gaze remained solidly on his food as he recalled back to it. He thought to himself that listening to the fallout wouldn't be so difficult, but ten minutes into the conversation and he wished nothing more than for the gossiper to shut up.

The woman in question, however, had no intentions to do such a thing, knife and fork stilling in place as she leaned surreptitiously to the centre; gaze flitting between patron to patron. "It was reported that Captain Sibelius found three crates of contraband stuffed into the cellar, behind their winery rack. Three crates! I would have thought perhaps the odd message passed along, but.. dealing with the Black Market..?"

Sibelius was an interesting ADVENT General, as far as Lennert was concerned, so he remained tenaciously interested into the drivel. He was once assigned as personal guard to Doctor Lovett when she was spearheading ADVENT's scientific projects many years ago. After she'd absconded the moment their true colours started to show, he was reassigned time and again until landing a somewhat permanent position as Chief of Police.

In any case, he was making a name for himself, steadily crawling to beat Mox's old record of busts and dissidents rounded up. Something the Skirmisher in question would not be proud of.

"Of course," the woman paused to take a sip of her white wine, covertly sending a fleeting glance to the nearby Officer that was indubitably listening to every word. " – You couldn't imagine my shock when I was consoling his grieving wife when the good Captain bursts in and arrests her."

"I still don't understand that part, Gina." one of the other dinner companions mentions, shaking his head.

Lennert's appetite was lost, knowing that Lionel and his wife were truly innocent. He tried to focus on his training to save face and keep character, but it didn't warm his blood running cold.

" – Shouldn't she have been monitored by one of the in-home assistants? I know for a fact that Lionel had several. He doted on her. If she was collaborating with her husband, they would've know a lot sooner about his dealings. So maybe she's right to say that whatever he did, she really wasn't involved."

Out of the corner of Lennert's eye, he saw the stationed Officer readjust his grip on his rifle. To save his unwitting friend a beating later, he cleared his throat rather loudly and finally participated into the conversation.

"Have you forgotten about the time she mentioned one of them had passed during the twentieth anniversary? We all were quick to believe it was the dissidents." Lennert told strongly, leaving just enough pause for his words to sink in before adding; " – But she was clearly covering her husband's tracks. Evidently, that assistant saw and knew too much and had to be silenced."

"Oh, yes." the man thoughtfully murmured, not entirely believing but catching the drift. It was not in his interest to poke holes into the story. "Awfully convenient, but it makes a lot of sense. Three crates.. couldn't do that on his own. Must have had some help."

"Exactly." Gina huffed. "What a world we live in, gentlemen, that there are people that would forsake all the gifts ADVENT has bestowed upon us – and for what? I wish we had saw the signs sooner. Lionel had us fooled."

"What a world." Lennert droned flatly, settling his cutlery down in favour for his own wine. The fruity taste of alcohol did not bring the same pleasant buzz he was used to; instead feeling as if it clumped in his throat and solidified into a lump. His free hand briefly wiped at his face, doing his best to ignore the rest of the conversation, gaze halfheartedly scanning upwards.

Not all of the patrons were like Gina; fully enthralled by the promises and lure of ADVENT. He spotted a few familiar low faces of those, like Lennert, merely showing to make an effort to appreciate their taskmasters. Just as many as he saw those to avoid; that were firm watchdogs for even the slight action that could be interpreted as criminal.

He supposed when entertainment was so heavily restricted and media doctored and monitored, it fell on the humans themselves to stave off the boredom. He only wished it didn't amalgamate into a chimera of patriotism and snitching.

A pair stood out from the usual crowd as they manoeuvred through the tables and guards alike. At first, Lennert thought nothing of them until he caught sight of the blond's sunglasses falling down the bridge of his nose just enough to – Blindness in one eye. Direct result of a Chryssalid attack, with the languid, slash-like scar to corroborate that. Syvatoslav. That would, without a doubt, make his partner Peytor.

What were they doing here, so deep in ADVENT territory?

" – Lennert!"

"Hm?" Snapping out of it, he pulled his gaze back, blinking as several pair of expecting eyes stared at him. Gina, faking exasperated exhaustion well, tutted disapprovingly.

"If you've finished your customary bout of navel-gazing, then perhaps you'd like to answer my question," she snipped and Lennert got the distinct impression she was gazing down her nose at him. " – Have you received my reports yet?"

"I have." When she kept her gaze on him to urge him to expand on that, Lennert uncomfortably shifted his seat, trying not to let his own eyes trail away to watch the Reapers get up to God knows what. "But I haven't had time to read them."

He was quick to add as she tsked and scowled; " – Speak to Walter if you don't believe me, but I've had my hands tied as of late. My office is practically swamped with the Administration day in and day out. I'll get to it soon, I promise."

Placated; though with too dire a need to convey some measure of indigence, Gina grumbled; "See to it that you do."

Expertly, Lennert managed to conceal his grimace well when he noticed the pair of Reapers spot him among the guests, exchange some gestures between one another and beginning to approach them. He silently begged them not to. A sense of urgency even flickered in his eyes as he pointedly looked towards them. Stop. Don't come any closer.

Unfortunately, for all Sveta's and Peytor's skills, reading minds were not one of them.

Conscious of his accent, Peytor was the first who spoke stiltedly, trying not to over-enunciate his words as he carefully navigated the sentence whilst all pairs of eyes seemed trained on them like vultures to carrion. " – Is there a 'Mister Eerkens' present among you?"

"Who exactly is asking?" It was Gina who retorted on his behalf, her eyes narrowed sharply at the two. Her overly-paranoid look was enough to motivate the lounging ADVENT Officer to pushed away from his post at the wall, stalking closer towards them in case of an incident. Sveta's gaze flung practically everywhere – analyzing escape routes, cover, the works.

"Delivery guys. Mister Eerkens was expecting a delivery; and it's late arriving."

Lennert could feel his soul sink into the pit of his stomach. Not because he knew what on God's green Earth they were speaking of, but because the longer they spoke – the longer they simply existed, the more incriminated he became. He simply couldn't allow them to continue acting like buffoons on a covert job woven in intricate delicacy.

"Officer," he gruffly barked. "Please escort these.. gentlemen off the premise. If there is any notifications I have to address, my PA will inform me promptly. I won't stand for this harassment. I told you once not to bother me out of hours."

"What?" Sveta exclaimed, lips peeling back in a sneer as the red-caped Officer roughly grabbed at the lapel of his suit jacket and twisted Peytor's arm behind his back. Both men in tow, he marched them towards the kitchen and service exit to the alley where they may be dealt with outside of the public eye.

Throwing them harshly against the wall, the Officer spat something aggressive in ADVENT's language, reaching for his magnetic rifle. A second of surprise seized his frame when the muzzle of Sveta's gun was shoved unceremoniously into his mouth, silencing his speech and soon, himself entirely.

"Sorry. Can't afford to make a sound." He offered a brief, wild grin before pulling the trigger. It hadn't provided the silencing effect he desired, with the heavy armour thumping against the foundation of the building and orange-red blood splattering upwards in a gory spray. Peytor watched the door and the entrance to the alley as he absentmindedly fixed his jacket.

"Well, now we've probably alerted every scout post, every trooper pod and every fuckin' thing in a fifty mile radius." He casually stated as Sveta gingerly pulled his revolver loose, shaking it free of the viscera and flicking off what might've been the remnants of a tongue before holstering it. " – And the target didn't have a clue what we were talking about. No point staying to get flayed alive. Let's head back to the wilderness."

"We can still salvage it." argued Sveta. Peytor was about to contest, when both men jumped into action the moment the service door slammed open. The blond's quick-draw would be something the Hunter would be proud of, and Peytor fell into a combative stance, ready to pin whomever to the wall. Luckily for them, it was a familiar face.

"What the fuck are you two doing here?" Lennert snapped, slapping Sveta's pointed gun down away from his chest; lips pulled into a fierce snarl. He knew he was risking it all by confronting the two, but they did provide enough distraction for him to excuse himself from the guests to sort out matters.

"– I have spent twenty years and counting crafting this cover and conducting this espionage mission and you may very well have demolished it in a matter of minutes. Unbelievable. This better be the utmost state of emergency or you'll have more than just ADVENT to worry about."

"Peace." Sveta murmured, thoroughly chastised. He slipped his gun back into it's holster once more, hands gesturing placating in a vain hope of lessening Lennert's ire. "You need to contact the Commander. Urgently. Thought the whole delivery shtick would have made it obvious. You know. Late deliveries.. you not calling – "

"Just get out of my sight." he irritably spat, knowing full well now, in hindsight, that he should remind Kingsley not to have Bradford plan a code language to exchange between the operatives. But, more importantly, was the thinly hidden concern that set a mountain of trepidation on his face. Kingsley wouldn't risk his cover unless the entire operation was blown wide open – or concerning developments had made. He pushed past the Reapers. They would be able to find their own way out.

Lennert had work to do.


In defying the Elders; Jax-Mon realised how little purpose her life held, outside of culling those they told her to. She cut herself loose into the great, open world with nothing but her thoughts, intuition and ambition to keep her company. Perhaps that is why she found herself back at the city centre, at the mole's apartment, waiting like a snake in the grass. She did not know what else to do.

Her mind was empty, save for her own inner voice parroting the intrusive thoughts that drifted, unhindered. There was no low-humming buzz of the ever-present Network in the back of her mind, no oppressive thumb pressed against her psionic signature to remind her of the manacles around her.

Just simply.. her.

What measure made a person? Was she any more of one now that she was no longer beholden to the Elders – or less, now that she was purposeless, aimless; flitting about like a moth seeking light as she sought clarity? In a desperation to fill the gnawing void that had festered in her stomach since shattering her sarcophagus and thus, her livelihood, she set herself a goal.

She wanted to make the Elders, specifically Joy, rue the day that she created her.

Jax-Mon idly wondered as she waited for the double agent, if humans had such problems. What she had learned from them, gleamed from the garbage Dhag-Mai offloaded to her, to studying and observing XCOM; was that no. It was their birthright, their prerogative to start out with nothing and seize life. But, she realized that some latched onto vices to stave off the void. They took to drink, to smoking or any number of deliberating things in order to dull their senses to the truth.

It was no wonder why she attached herself to a quest of vengeance. It was her vice, because without it; Jax-Mon did not want to face the truth any more than she had in her short life. The lies weaved by her masters hurt – cut to the core and this.. rebellion of hers, was merely her way of placing a band-aid over it.

Her senses picked up the locking mechanism of the door start to unwind long before someone started to unlock the door. Snapped out of her musings, she set them aside for another time, perhaps never, to focus on the present. With a mere thought, Jax-Mon vanished from sight; psionic signature hidden low around her as Lennert opened the door and stepped in.

From what she could see, he seemed exhausted. His face, which usually held a finely crafted mask of restrained emotions, had cracked allowing her to see the pinched tension around his temple. Jax-Mon glanced towards the clock on the wall, noting that he was considerably earlier than she would have expected him to be home.

The Assassin rose from her seat, following Lennert descending the stairs to the basement. Good, if he was about to contact the Commander, that is exactly what she needed. Her hand shot out before he could progress getting the communication equipment out, feeling him freeze up when she grabbed his shoulder and stilled him.

"I've come to collect, Cato." she told. Her shroud drops, revealing herself. Lennert did not even risk looking behind him, merely remaining frozen in spot. Her hand was better than her katana, at least, but considering she could snap his neck without too much effort, it wasn't that comforting. " – I seek information."

"I.." He began, then rethought his sentence when her grip tightened. " – I was just about to contact the Commander. What sort of information are you after?"

"I will gain it from your conversation with her." she tells. "However, you will also introduce me and allow me to time to speak with her. Is this clear?"

Lennert's jaw squared. "I can't promise she'll entertain the conversation with you. Are you certain you want this, Saint Balladhur -"

Her katana was drawn quicker than his lips had time to finish forming the letters, the edge of it pressed against his neck, close enough that even swallowing thickly would make him cut himself against the blade. He closed his eyes briefly to ride out the wave of panic that washed over him, reopening them to firmly gaze ahead. The grip on his shoulder had intensified to the point that Jax-Mon risked dislocating it.

"Do not," she warned lowly. "Call me by that title any longer."

"… As you wish, Wraithmaiden." That seemed marginally better than her false claim of sainthood and his shoulders all but sagged in relief when her katana drew away from his neck. Roughly, she shoved him forward to continue with setting up the broadcast and dutifully silent, he did so.

As Lennert waited for the Avenger to hail his signal; he let his gaze slide off to the side and study the Assassin from the corner of his eye. Something seemed.. different, about her. The psionic weight that she once carried seemed.. perceptibly less; yet now entirely upheld by her shoulders rather than some intangible presence. Her face was morose, holding none of the concentrated effort to assume a queenly, regal mask.

He wasn't in the position to probe, nor was he one to exchange sympathies with the enemy, so he returned his attention to the monitor screen – relaxing visibly as the image flickered and spluttered into life, projecting Kingsley's likeness in glitched bursts.

"Lennert," she addressed tiredly. From one presence to the next, he didn't need to see her in person to feel the sheer weight of exhaustion that rolled from her. " – I apologize for the unorthodox contact, but there have been recent developments that warrant the emergency."

"Bring me up to speed." he requested, aware of Jax-Mon's eyes burning holes into him. "What's the situation?"

"Things are advancing faster than you anticipated. Julian – long story, he's an AI – managed to knock out two of our biggest roadblocks in one fell swoop. We know the substance of the Blacksite vial and from what he was able to gleam from the Codex; information about a psionic gate. Have you come across any files pertaining to that?"

Lennert raked his mind for the answer; ignoring for the moment the way Jax-Mon's eyes widened slightly as she listened in. Eventually, he ended up shaking his head slowly.

"No, this is entirely new. Anything psionic related, the Administration is tight-lipped about. A gate like the one you speak of would be considered myth at best; or silenced those that spoke of it at worst." He paused, wetting his lips in anticipation. He.. wasn't looking forward to introducing the Assassin, especially not like this.

"Work on acquiring more files regarding the psionic gate. I don't want to blindly storm this thing only to find out the Aliens have dropped in every hard-hitting unit they have in their arsenal. It's bad enough that we're working with borrowed time until the Hunter strikes the Avenger directly…"

State of emergency indeed. Lennert couldn't help but have a shade of true concern shine through his professional veneer. "I can break my cover and rally every double agent, sympathizer and contact I have built here to bolster your defences at base, Commander. If things are as dire as you say.."

Kingsley made a slight noise of disapproval. " You're more useful giving us eyes and ears to the inner workings of ADVENT, Lennert. Your work is invaluable. At the very least, we no longer have to worry about the Assassin or the Warlock partaking in this shadow war, so we have that going for our favour."

Lennert glanced over to Jax-Mon, then back to the Commander in one moment. "I wouldn't dismiss the Assassin so quickly, Commander."

"… Why so? What aren't you telling me, Lennert?"

He moved out of frame of the camera, worrying Kingsley as on her end, all she saw was blackness. She repeated his name, hand disappearing off the side and the visuals shaking as she fussed with her own camera and equipment, wondering if there was some technical difficulties. She ceased her actions immediately when the Assassin drifted into the centre.

Kingsley's face was a picturesque portrait of controlled focus as she stared pointedly at the Chosen emblem emblazoned on the middle of her armour. Jax-Mon lowered herself so that she may been seen properly, locking gazes with the Commander with her own commendable stoicism. Neatly, the Assassin's hands threaded together and settled in front of her.

As much as she played up act that she held all the cards – frankly, Jax-Mon did not even know where to begin. A thousand thoughts swarmed in her mind; for once not met with the constant feedback or answered questions of the Network. Did she greet her as she did when her voice and presence were nothing more than a drifting, psionic probe? Or would she offer a shred of humility for the position she had been thrust in?

"Commander." Jax-Mon quietly began, holding her gaze well and unblinking. The Assassin wasn't the only one met with an impossible amount of inner turmoil; though Kingsley's were firmly cemented in a disbelief that Lennert had betrayed her. If her meeting with the Warlock was anything to go by, then she wasn't about to be so dismissive yet.

"I take it that you have spoken to my brother, the elder, to hold the opinion that I no longer wish to participate in the ridiculous competition set out to capture you." she demurely murmured. " – and that you know my older seeks to strike you at the heart."

"That's correct.." Kingsley aloofly responded; muscles in her throat tensing. The pitiful camera did little to capture all of the minor micro-movements that she made, but to the trained eye of the Assassin, she caught every twitch, every pulse.

"Allow me to cut to the chase and dispense with pleasantries. You wish to tackle the psionic gate? Do you comprehend what it is even for? There are enemies surrounding the Resistance at every corner, and yet you chase that which you do not understand?" Jax-Mon chastised, though her probing was not out of malicious intent, but instead a sort of aggressive encouragement.

"I'm not interested in understanding the meticulous ins and outs of this gateway. I'll leave that concern to my R&D department. I, however, want nothing more than to strike at the heart of the Elders. They are out there, somewhere, and this gateway must be the key to finding them."

"The psionic gateway is not a toy to play around with. As the name implies, you would require an extraordinary amount of power to even activate it. Your Paladin is quaint – but she is mortal, still." Jax-Mon matched steel with steel, undeterred. "Even if you do manage to acquire it, how do you plan to power it?"

"Why are you interested? The Warlock made it expressly clear that we would not gain assistance from you."

" – And he is right. I am not here to help you or the Resistance. However, our goals are mutually aligned enough to the point that it would be detrimental not to at least contact you, Commander. But, if that is not sufficient for you, consider this merely repayment for opening my eyes to the truth. A favour, if you will."

Jax-Mon straightened. "If you truly wish to pursue this goal of the psionic gateway, you are going to require psionics touched by the Void in order to power it. You, Commander, wield such abilities thanks to the Elders. However. I am sure you are aware what has happened to them with their reckless use of their psionics. You are hardly surviving it's mere existence in you to begin with. To use them.."

Her implication was not lost on Kingsley. A sour frown sat on her lips as she considered the Assassin's words, as well as her plan that Bradford had tried to shoot down. After a stretch of silence, which felt like eternity, she spoke.

"… We are in possession of an Avatar body, thanks to the raid on the ADVENT Forge. A vial of Elder DNA from the Blacksite, and a stasis suit the Avatar was stationed in. All we require now is the procedure itself." she quietly informed. "Controlling that body, designed to accommodate the Elders' psionics, I should be able to power the gate."

The Assassin inclined her head. "When your mole uncovered the Avatar Files, there were three documents attached. Commentary on the Chosen, documentation of the Forge, and a third one you likely disregarded because it was unreadable. The information you seek is within that one – to save you time decoding the Elders' own language, I will send a translated copy over."

"Thank you." the gratitude came instinctively, with Kingsley watching Jax-Mon cautiously. The file transfer from the Avenger to them were quick, and hurriedly skipping over the Chosen commentary as it still set a bad taste in her mouth, the Assassin focused on the third document.

It didn't take long for Jax-Mon to translate the file into readable English, though she kept it as literal and direct as possible, with only a few minor changes in sentence structures. The core procedure was beyond her knowledge, but she thankfully did not have to change a single step that they had processed. Whilst the grammar may have been a little wonky in some areas; it was understandable enough for them.

Within the half hour, she sent over the translated file and moved to exit the frame without so much as a goodbye, pausing only when she heard Kingsley's call.

"Wait. Assassin – Jax-Mon." she corrected herself, using her name to show her newfound respect for the renegade. "I ask you to reconsider your stance. You needn't have to live on the Avenger to help the cause – "

"No." she bluntly shot down. "I am done pledging myself to causes and people who consider themselves above me, Commander. I work for none but myself from now on. But I will wish you luck. If you are able to survive my brother's impending assault, then nothing on this Earth will stop you."

Disappointed, but not surprised by Jax-Mon's refusal, Kingsley watched as she fully exited the scene and allowed Lennert to move back into frame. They exchanged a silent conversation through looks alone, before the Commander piped up again.

"We have much work to be done – and time is of the essence." she said. "Vigilo Confido."

"Vigilo Confido." Lennert repeated. The screen flickered black as the communications cut. He sat there, staring quietly at the monitor for a long moment before swiveling in his chair to face Jax-Mon.

Or, he would have, had she still been there. Blinking, he glanced around to no avail. The Assassin had vanished, with not a single trace or sound that she had ever been there.

Jax-Mon now had a more direct, immediate goal. She would clear out the Elders' minions surrounding the psionic gateway. Whilst her actions may be seen as beneficial to XCOM, she merely glanced over that fact for a different one: dealing a harsh blow to her former masters.

None will survive.