Angel of Ruin

Vitiary Outskirts – Vitakar

8/1/2017 – 7:40 P.M.

The trio stood in the moonlight, and Miridian was the one who made the first move.

"Perhaps at one point I would have some pity for what I am about to do," Miridian said slowly. "However, there are more demanding situations and individuals who require my sympathy or pity – and an alien is not one of them."

Volk crossed his arms. "Charming. Are you going to make your request, or make more veiled insults?"

"Very well," Miridian's lips narrowed and the corners slightly upturned. "Do you know what Mosrimor is?"

Volk frowned. "No. Is it French?"

Gabriel laughed. "No, I am afraid it is not."

"He is correct," Miridian nodded. "I presume this is a Human word, and one I have no interest in learning. Mosrimor is a Sovereign One – specifically, the one assisting the Ethereal Collective."

More uncertainty. "What is a Sovereign One?"

Miridian turned a questioning eye to Gabriel. "You certainly picked a unique vessel."

Gabriel seemed unperturbed, as he simply inclined his head. "I have faith in him, I would not worry. All will be revealed in time, Miridian."

"I don't suppose you will explain what that is?" Volk asked.

"No, I don't think I will," Miridian said dryly. "All I need to do is give you your task. If you possess the knowledge to carry it out or not is not my concern, nor am I especially interested in ensuring you succeed."

Volk figured that Gabriel could fill in the gaps in his knowledge – though he wasn't especially thrilled by the concept of whatever a "Sovereign One" was. More powerful aliens, it seemed – as if there wasn't enough of those already. "Noted. Then tell me what I am supposed to do for this…Mosrimor."

"Simple," Miridian said. "Ensure that neither he, nor any of his proxies, slave races, puppets, allies, representatives, organizations, or entities which he has any direct or indirect control of, nor any technology, tools, or schematics, whether directly or derived in part or as a whole from any of the aforementioned, interferes with, occupies, influences, sabotages, or otherwise tampers with the world of Vitakar, all current and future Vitakara colonies, all current and future Vitakara governments and organizations, and the Vitakara species, as a whole or in part. This will be in effect forever. You will deliver proof to me from Mosrimor himself of his agreement, which has not been tampered with, forged, or is otherwise untruthful in the context of my demands."

Gabriel chuckled. "You have learned well, Miridian."

"I do not forget a lesson learned, Entity," Miridian said coldly. "Your lesson left an impact – and I have been expecting you to appear again. Only logical that I am prepared for your subversions."

"I do so appreciate a challenge," Gabriel's eyes gleamed. "I suppose that covers it, then?"

"Correct," Miridian nodded, and extended a hand to Gabriel.

"Then the agreement is reached," Gabriel said. "That is all you are needed for. Now run along, before Quisilia removes another one of your cells."

Miridian's eyes narrowed, though he focused on Volk. "In the event that you are successful, your second task will be given. I wish you luck, Volikov, though it will do little for you in the presence of a Sovereign One."

With that, he turned and vanished into the forest, leaving Volk, Elena, and Gabriel alone with the moonlight shining down on them. Volk turned to the man who seemed all-too at ease. "I don't suppose you can explain just how impossible this task is going to be?"

"He certainly does not lack ambition," Gabriel said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, when it comes to ensuring you are successful, the range to what I can do to you is more…" he waved a hand. "Limited. You will have little trouble moving from place to place, but there will be a certain point where I cannot interfere – and you'll have to rely on your own skills."

Volk closed his eyes. "Is there a particular reason why?"

"Volikov, please," Gabriel sniffed. "If I could simply make this problem disappear, I would. However, I hold myself to deals made, and there are certain rules that come with said deals. After all, I am an honest actor, and to undermine an agreement would tarnish my integrity beyond repair. Something I cannot allow."

Volk would have been more inclined to believe him if the man's tone wasn't so mocking, nor his eyes so bright. "And now you're going to explain what the exception is…"

"Oh, I assure you, there are no exceptions," Gabriel laced his fingers together as he sat on a nearby stone. "Perfectly within the rules. There is nothing that says I cannot give you the information needed to successfully complete your task – only that my…material influence has certain limits. For instance – that a Sovereign One is one of the most powerful aliens in the known galaxy. Master psions and manipulators, engaged in cycles of warfare for millions of years, if not longer."

Volk stiffened. "This Mosrimor is the true power behind the Collective?"

"Surprisingly, no," Gabriel corrected. "The Imperator is very much in charge, and the relationship he has with his respective Sovereign is uneasy, due to mistrust, and the Imperator learning exactly what these Sovereigns are. Quite clever, and that is why you have a chance of success here, where otherwise there would be none."

"From your tone, I'm guessing this 'chance' is also ludicrously small."

"Oh, it is quite small, but there are several possible paths you can take," Gabriel crossed his legs. "The first is to deepen the rift between the Imperator and Mosrimor – feasible, especially if you can prove the Imperator has kept certain information from him, a likely scenario. Second, there is another Sovereign on Earth – T'Leth, a Sovereign who Mosrimor fears. I suspect this could be leveraged if you are smart enough. Finally, you could simply approach the Sovereign and simply ask him." Gabriel smiled. "I admit, that path certainly has its appeal."

Volk cocked his head. "It would almost certainly mean telling the truth about…well, you."

"What, do you believe that concerns me?" Gabriel tsked. "I have about as much to fear from a Sovereign as I do you." He waved a dismissive hand. "Volikov, I am merely here to help guide your path. What you do? That is up to you. The beauty of choice, is it not?" He spread his hands. "And of course, these options I have provided are hardly your only ones. If you come up with a better one, by all means pursue it. I am certainly not going to limit you – though understand there are no more second chances. You succeed – or you fail."

"And what happens if I fail?"

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. "For you or me?"

"You."

"Well, I will simply have to find another," Gabriel shrugged nonchalantly. "This isn't a mortal concern of mine; it is not as if I will personally be affected by your success or failure, it will merely be a slight inconvenience – but I have a good feeling about you, not least of which is that the promise of life is quite a strong incentive."

Volk grunted. "That it is."

"Indeed," Gabriel brought his hands together. "Now, is there anything else?"

"As a matter of fact, there is," Volk found another rock and sat down on it, focusing on the smiling man opposite him. "I'm not going to fly into this blind. Tell me what you know about Mosrimor, T'Leth, and these Sovereign Ones. All of it."

"If you insist," Gabriel rested his hands on his legs. "The night is young, and this is a tale thatwill captivate you, I suspect."

Command Center – The Hall of Steel

8/1/2017 – 1:22 P.M.

Something seemed to be different the more Abigail watched Fectorian. It likely had to do with the situation, but it was also possible it was something…else. The more days had passed, the stranger she felt and she didn't know why. Her sessions with Fectorian hadn't helped clear it up, though he'd instructed to keep him updated.

It was…a strange kind of dilation.

She wondered if she'd been inside for too long, and her perception of time was warping. Sometimes it seemed like time passed extremely slowly, especially when she was concentrating on something. She'd become more interested in math of all things during her time here, and she'd picked a hard problem to solve and had intended to spend a few hours doing it.

She'd gathered all of the calculators, rulers, and other mathematical tools, and settled in. It had certainly seemed like hours had passed with how she agonized over the problem, but when she'd looked at the time, barely a half hour had passed. Then, alternatively, when she'd decided to take a break until the evening and just wander around the Blacksite, hours passed without her seeming to notice them.

Fectorian had put forward the theory that it was something to do with her procedure, which had altered how she perceived time…somehow. Fectorian wasn't clear on how it could work, though admitted that it had perhaps been an alteration or accident of his, and had offered to take a look. He had, and it had stopped – for a while.

Then it had come back, though the more it happened, the more she wondered if it was really a bad thing. The boring parts of her day were sped up, and when she really focused, she found she could get things done much faster. It was not normal, though, and she found the implications…empty.

Liam had noticed too.

Not that she hadn't told him; she had done that shortly after she'd started noticing it. He'd been the one to suggest she ask Fectorian his opinion, and thus far this hadn't happened when she was talking to him. However, he'd told her there'd been a few times where he'd entered her room, or even just seen her sitting or standing still staring into space for seemingly no reason at all for a long period of time.

She was more concerned she didn't seem to realize when she did that. She could kind of predict it would happen when she concentrated, but if she was lapsing into periods of nothing repeatedly, that was going to be a problem – especially if she didn't notice right away. However, she didn't know how to stop that short of always doing something at all times.

Not exactly feasible.

"Do you think it is a shift?" She asked as Fectorian appraised the hologram depicting the map of Earth, as the rest of his analysts quietly worked around him.

"A distraction, a pause, it is…something," Fectorian's voice was frustrated as he beheld the detailed map, with the fronts all documented and lit up. "This is unlike the Battlemaster."

She cocked her head up. "Why? When the Second Guardian was at risk, this follows his actions, does it not?"

"It is more than that," Fectorian disputed. "The Battlemaster does not put his mission behind the well-being of soldiers – even Ethereals. His objective is to conquer Earth – yet action after action implies that his focus is elsewhere, or he is otherwise undermining this objective. It makes little sense."

It was a repeating theme. Fectorian had been confused by the progress of the war, and had in fact gone so far as to call it a 'manufactured' war. "There are soldiers, fronts, and battles," he's said. "But nothing is changing. Nothing is moving. Both sides are stalling for something. ADVENT almost certainly has a project they need, but the Collective has no such reason to delay."

"Someone would notice, would they not?" she'd noted. "Especially Patricia."

"Patricia has an inflated opinion of her own intelligence and analytical capability," he'd dismissed. "More to the point, she is too infatuated with the big picture. Her and the Imperator's future war of the Sovereigns. The details, the minutia, they do not interest her, and thus she has relegated them to the Battlemaster. This is not escaping his attention."

"And the Zar'Chon?" she'd asked.

"Unknown," Fectorian said. "Perhaps he is aware, or perhaps he knows something we do not – as does the Battlemaster. I have seen the Battlemaster fight a war, Abigail Gertrude. I have seen him trying to win." He'd pointed at the map. "That is not what he's doing now."

Now though, a thought came to her. "Do you think he is planning to defect? Sabotage the war?"

A snort came from Fectorian's mask. "No."

"No?"

"No. The Battlemaster does not defect," Fectorian waved a prosthetic arm. "Defect to whom? ADVENT? T'Leth? The Battlemaster would never, ever, betray the Ethereal Collective. There are certain lines he will not cross, and this is one of them. However, the fact is that he is doing something and I cannot determine what this is."

"Well, he's continued to have issues with the Imperator," Abigail walked up beside him. "Could there be some leverage he is attempting to employ?"

"I have considered that," Fectorian said. "But it does not explain all his actions. His moratorium on the Bringarian units is overt, political. Unlike him. It is disturbing."

Abigail's eyebrows furrowed. "His dislike of Paradise Station is not really a secret. Not really political."

"I know him better than you," Fectorian answered. "He is no fool. While all are focused on that decision, they will fail to notice the lines have been shifted in such a way as to give ADVENT an advantage – ground has been ceded which will not be easy to reclaim. He knows these details. He knows what he is doing. I do not know why I am the only one to recognize this."

"This isn't unexpected," Abigail felt the need to point out. "ADVENT was going to demand concessions of some kind. The Second Guardian wasn't just a soldier – she was an Ethereal. His mission, beyond Earth, is to protect his species. Your species. Are you sure you are not reading into this too much?"

Fectorian paused for a moment. "I am willing to consider that I am wrong. I want you to tell me this, however."

She frowned. "Sorry?"

"I will have my analysts compile the data I have gathered that has led me to these theories," he said swiftly. "I have a picture and knowledge that has not been shared with you. Thus, you will look at it. If you conclude that I am reading into it too much, as you say, then I will accept your conclusion. If you determine there is something off, then we will need to examine this closer."

Abigail blinked. "I'm surprised you would trust me like this. You're not concerned that I may give you wrong information? Or that I could be wrong to begin with?"

He turned his helmet to her, appraising her for a few long seconds. "No, Abigail, I am not concerned. I have good reasons to be confident in your judgement, even if you do not believe so. Now, will you do this or not?"

She nodded. "I will. May Liam help?"

He flicked a wrist. "I take no issue with it. Use whatever process you deem reliable. If he assists you, so be it."

Abigail immediately suspected this was something more substantial and important than what Fectorian let on – however, she couldn't determine it right now, though she would devote some thought to it later. For now, this was a task she was actually interested in tackling, and with a nod, she turned and left, already thinking of how she was going to explain this to Liam.

Joseph Ray Shannon, Bridge, Niger Delta

8/2/2017 - 9:00 AM

The time had come.

The three days he'd given them to evacuate all coastal settlements had ended a few days ago, and now it was time to play the role of the destroyer once again. He had been active in the days since his deadline passed, to be sure, but nothing large scale. He simply had his fleet move along the coast, taking out infrastructure and leveling minor settlements.

Busy work. Safe. A tad boring, maybe, but it had to be done.

The last time he took part in anything like this was during the War on Terror, and he'd been well away from the action then. This time, he would have to get close. Malabo had been small in scale, and even the worst case scenario would have posed little issue. This, on the other hand, was different. They were dug in, they were reinforced, and they had air support. They were as ready as he cared to allow.

By now anyone - or anything with half a brain, at least - could tell what his target was. Even Keeper could hardly miss the immense fleet right off the coast.

Despite some difficulties, Grady had managed to keep his casualties low. He'd lost none of his cruisers, and the damage his carriers had sustained was largely fixed. The flight decks were clear, and the elevators and catapults were functioning. Even the air compliment had been refreshed. There were more Ravens among them now, slowly they were replacing the older F/A-18s.

A part of him felt somber at the prospect. Like with every passing moment, more and more of the old world - the world he had known - was slipping away. This was the end of an era, and the beginning of a new one. Much like the ships and himself, the planes were becoming obsolete.

He wondered if he would live to see the dawn of the new age. Would it even be recognizable? It wasn't that he wished to go back, for ADVENT to not have risen to power, no. It was something simpler. He was a product of the old world. Of the 20th century, and through his position, of over two thousand years of human naval tradition.

He wasn't sure when it would happen, but he knew ADVENT would eventually need to leave the planet, either to prosecute the war in Collective territory, or to expand and colonize new planets. He supposed that was exciting. He'd actually get to see mankind set foot on another world, although they'd already been doing that throughout the course of this war, willingly or otherwise.

What should have been a momentous achievement was lost in throes of this conflict. Just another part of a larger war. Just another front, albeit a small one for now. He remembered watching the moon landings when he was a kid, the feeling of wonder, pride. The chance for this generation to experience that was now gone forever.

The stars were hostile now, and mankind's first steps among them would be in war, not peace.

Such was their fate, thanks to the invasion of the Collective, thanks to the Ethereals. He couldn't change that; no one could, not anymore. But he could do everything in his power to bring this war to a close or, barring that, put up such a fight that the Collective would never forget it.

Shaking off the grim mood he had settled into, he sat up straight in his seat and surveyed the bridge. The usual people were there - Francetti was at her station, and Anye was waiting in the back, though it was unlikely he would be able to do anything, given the steps the Collective had taken to prevent future surrenders.

One person was new, though; Wing Major Norman Rowsdower stood near a display of the local air space and was busy reading figures, number of enemy aircraft, number of friendly aircraft, munitions stores, fuel, flight timers, distances, everything.

True to his word, he had his forces ready and waiting back at Malabo. It wouldn't take them long to get there once they took off, but Grady wasn't going to give the word until at least the first two flak towers were down, unless he absolutely had to. His own planes were similarly still awaiting takeoff on the flight decks or in the hangars. He wouldn't send them into a meat grinder, or "downtown" as they called it, not until he'd stripped away more of the city's defenses.

Grady nodded to his XO. "Officer Francetti, open a channel to the commander of Port Harcourt."

"Do you really think they'll bite?" she asked him.

"No, but it doesn't hurt to ask. And besides, I would like to get the measure of the enemy commander...assuming they don't put me on hold again," he chuckled, as did several nearby crew members.

Truthfully, Grady didn't expect them to surrender, not right away, but an attempt would be made nonetheless, and this time he'd talk to the Collective commander in question. He'd have more luck with them than with Keeper or Betos, who were far from the action and didn't need to worry about fighting and dying. He figured that even if he got an alien, it would probably be a Vitakara of some sort, and they had shown themselves to be the Collective's soft underbelly on several occasions.

They were decent soldiers, but only so long as things were under control. In difficult situations, he'd heard stories of shellshocked Vitakarians walking into artillery fire just to end the nightmare. Most of them just weren't as inherently inclined to violence, not to the same extent as humans. It was an odd thing to be grateful for.

"Channel open, sir; we're live," Officer Francetti notified him. For a moment, it looked like she was about to give him a thumbs up, but then remembered their differences in rank and thought better of it.

He cleared his throat. "This is Admiral James Grady of the ADVENT Navy, Commander of the African fleet and of this theater. I would like to speak to the Collective commander of Port Harcourt."

Things were silent for a moment, then there was a brief radio acknowledgement and a face appeared on his screen. It was not human, but not quite what he had expected either.

"This is Commander Zar'carthin'borelia of Port Harcourt. I know who you are, Human."

The voice that responded was low and seemed caught between a growl and a rumble. Unsurprising, given the race of the speaker. It seemed he would be dealing with a Borelian. Not quite as easily intimidated as Vitakarians, and notably more disciplined - not to mention one of the few Vitakara races that were actively adapted to warfare.

"Right, I'm just going to call you Carth for now, if that's alright," Grady said. "Now, I take it you know why I am here?"

"Based on your previous efforts, I can presume you are about to ask for my surrender," the Borelian bared his teeth. "The answer is no."

"Come now, can't we settle this peacefully? There's no need for violence."

The Borelian nodded. "We can, if you leave."

"I'm afraid I already gave you all three days to evacuate," Grady explained. "And another three days on top of that, I have other things to do. This is happening now."

"As do I, Human. If you wish to continue negotiations, I will put you in contact with someone authorized to handle you." The Borelian made ready to transfer him, but Grady did not intend to be put on hold again.

"Actually, I wouldn't do that if I were you," he interjected, lifting a hand.

"And why is that?" the Borelian replied, curious but mostly bored.

"The last time a base commander transferred me, I ended up nuking her."

Unfortunately, the Borelian was not especially impressed. "And this gives you authority over me?"

Time for a different tactic. "Normally, having the bigger gun means you're in charge, and right now that's me. Still, if you want to pass it along, be my guest, though they aren't the ones in danger right now; you are. If you put the decision in their hands, you can bet they won't be too hesitant to condemn you. At least this way, you stay in the loop and have a say in your fate."

The Borelian didn't seem to know how to take that. "You have an odd way of negotiation, Admiral. If you wish to speak, I will listen, but I promise nothing. Do understand, though, that I have established a line to Abuja. My superiors are appraised of the situation."

"Better honesty than lies. Your masters do enough of that as it is."

"You know nothing of what you speak," the Borelian growled.

"I've seen the footage out of Beijing. I think I'll take my chances with my own kind."

"The incident in Beijing was disavowed by the Ethereal Collective, and carried out by rogue actors, all of which were condemned and are now dead," the Borelian answered with a practiced air. "And considering the streams of refugees, the piles of the dead civilians, and your systemic ecological destruction, I have determined that there is no species who treats their own kind with more barbarity than Humans."

Grady couldn't really dispute that, not fully. Even putting aside Humanity's history, this campaign alone was fairly brutal. Though compared to some of those which had taken place in the past, it wasn't that unusual. This was, in many ways, a return to the old ways of war, where little distinction was made between civilian and soldier. He understood the necessity of it, and even putting aside his own efforts, ADVENT had taken some steps to try and reduce civilian deaths, though not for altruistic reasons.

Still, he was not about to let himself be lectured by anyone in the Collective on barbarity.

"Listen, Carth. Everytime something horrific happens to us in this war, one of your Elders always seems to be there." He lifted a hand. "Now, you can claim they were all acting on their own if you want, but if that's the case, then there are an awful lot of rogue actors. It seems like your masters can't fully agree on what they want or how they want to do it. So how can you be sure what is and is not sanctioned and which Ethereals have authority? While we're on the subject, we have two Ethereals aiding us. I feel confident in stating it is their wish for you to stand down rather than die fighting a pointless battle in an unjust war for tyrannical masters."

"Elders Aegis and Caelior do not have authority over us, a concept I presume you can understand."

"Do you really think so little of your Elders as to belittle two of them? At least they haven't held any cannibal orgies and livestreamed it across the entire planet." He paused. "Oh wait, that one also didn't count. But I'm sure the revered healer Sana'Ligna, who helped put down that lunatic in Beijing, must surely speak with their authority. Oh wait, she's declared herself neutral and refuses to take part in the war. I guess her opinion doesn't matter either. That's rather ungrateful of you, considering she saved your race."

Grady wasn't entirely sure as he didn't have much experience speaking with Borelians, but he had a feeling that Carth was getting irritated. It was hard to tell, but he thought he could see one of his eyelids twitching, and he seemed to be clenching his teeth.

"There are those who change sides in war for their reasons, some more justified than others," the Borelian said. "If we are to give reverence to those who turned their backs on the Imperator and Battlemaster, then you must similarly follow the advice of Harbinger Trask and Shuren. Or do your standards only go one direction, Human?"

Grady frowned, confused by the Borelian's rebuttal. "Those are...not even remotely relatable to each other. Neither Yang nor Patricia wielded any great authority within ADVENT. In fact, there are no high profile political defectors from ADVENT to the Collective. You would be better served bringing up Betos, but even then it's still not really the same. Betos defied orders and deserted the military. She didn't defect to start with, she just left. Even then, she was just a military officer, a relatively important one, locally speaking, but certainly not part of the top brass." Grady replied.

"Aegis, meanwhile, was one of the most powerful individuals in the entire Collective, in terms of both authority and psionic ability. He was only below the Imperator and perhaps the Overmind in terms of position, as I understand it. He was part of the Imperator's inner circle pretty much from the start. So why would I put any stock in what Betos says, let alone Patricia or any other traitor?" At this point, he was just trying to understand the twisted logic behind the point this Borelian was trying to make.

"Admiral Grady," the Borelian said with a tone of exasperation. "You are under the mistaken assumption that I care for your long-winded justifications and arguments. I do not, and if you wish to continue your ramblings on this line, you are welcome to. However, I think both of us would be better served with focusing on our actual jobs. I am not interested in engaging you further. Is this clear, Admiral?"

"Fair enough. We've both made up our minds on this, and are unlikely to change them at this point. Now, back to the matter at hand: I know you technically already answered my question, but I'll give you a chance to reconsider. Will you surrender? There's still time to avert this needless bloodshed, and you have my word that you and your soldiers, alien and Human, will not be harmed."

"And what good is your word?"

"Better than that of your master's, though that is hardly saying much."

At that point Carth seemed to say something unintelligible, probably in his language. Grady got the feeling he didn't need a translator to figure out what he meant.

"I will enjoy defeating you. But do not be afraid, you and your men will not be harmed." he replied.

At this point, Francetti interjected. "Sir, we're detecting increased troop activity near the gateways, and additional contacts coming in by air."

It didn't take long for Grady to put together what had occurred. Carth had used this time to call for reinforcements and prepare. It wasn't much, but the longer he waited to attack, the stronger the enemy's position became. Probably something to be expected, but hardly a hurdle to overcome. "Ah, I see what you did, clever. So I take it that's a no, then?"

"I am open to continued negotiation, if you wish to keep this line open? Or are you now in a hurry?" Carth appeared quite satisfied with himself, smug even. Grady couldn't fault him for it, either. He'd done the best he could to buy as much time as possible for reinforcements to be sent. Smart.

"Not at all, but I do have other places to be. Besides, there will be plenty of time for us to speak later. Please try not to die. I am looking forward to accepting your surrender," Grady said, one side of his mouth curled upward in amusement.

With a growl, Carth hung up on him.

Grady took a brief moment to reflect. "Well, that was interesting. Let us begin the operation, though."

"Won't you say a few words, sir? For the crew?" Francetti asked. "This is our first real battle since Ecnomus."

Grady considered this for a moment. Why not? He nodded for her to put him through to the fleet. He'd need to keep this brief, however. He needed to make up for lost time.

"Everyone, this is Rear Admiral James Grady. It's taken us a while, but we've finally got a chance to properly engage the Collective again. I would have used a nuke, but ADVENT wanted to give them a handicap." That elicited a few laughs on deck and likely elsewhere.

"I could give you another big historic speech like before, but I don't need to. You've already proven yourselves ten times over, as you did back during Ecnomus, when we brought down the largest Collective submarine fleet ever encountered and blasted over a hundred of their aircraft out of the sky. As far as I am concerned, we've already won this battle. All that's left is to make the enemy realize that. Play your part, and stay strong. We're nowhere near finished with these traitors yet."

With that, he ended the speech and moved onto commencing operations.

Francetti nodded. "Excellent speech, sir."

"Thank you, officer. Now, order Escort Groups Six, Seven and Eight to begin making their way up the Delta. Put the tougher ships with the biggest guns up front. And launch UAVs. I'm not gonna send our planes in quite yet."

"Yes sir!"

"While I'm on the subject, Major Rowsdower, what's the situation in the air?" Grady asked, opting to defer to him on the subject.

"They've definitely got fighters up, even some bombers, but they're just patrolling the skies over the city," was the report. "They seem to be taking a defensive posture."

"Understandable, but unwise. Their timidity will cost them here."

Grady watched the blips of each formation move through their assigned routes. These were the lighter, more nimble ships of his fleet; some frigates, corvettes, littoral combat vessels and, in the rear, patrol boats. At the head of the lead group were three destroyers, all armed with high powered gauss cannons at the bow to replace the older 152mm's. He was counting on those guns to batter down the barriers on those flak towers. If he could just get the barriers to come down, even partially, he'd hammer them with every land attack missile he had.

He didn't care how good their point defenses were, or how tough. If it took him 300 to bring down each flak tower, it was a bargain. He had thousands at his disposal, not counting those on his aircraft. He would crack the city open, one piece at a time, until the air defenses were weak enough to allow bombing and attack missions. His ships would soften up those defenses and enemies by the water, and clear the way for his amphibious forces.

Everything hinged on the Okrika flak tower. His forces could go around it, but it still needed to go down to clear a path for them to land on the eastern flank. The first progress on the ground would, of course, come from the west. By now, his combat diver teams should have blown the bridges, and those to the west would be setting up positions on Churchill Street to block more enemies coming in.

Still, he needed to confirm his teams had completed their missions. If the bridges had been destroyed, then he could reasonably assume they had made it through, and were holding in their assigned positions. If they were still intact, then something had gone wrong. The UAV he'd had loitering over the city since the start began searching.

Ok, that's 1… 2… 4, west side is handled. Now let's see how the east is doing.

There, Grady saw something that might be amiss. The minor bridges leading to the small islets had both been destroyed, but the primary target, the one leading into Okrika from the east, was still up.

"Get me a close up on that bridge, ensign." He ordered.

"Yes sir!"

The camera panned along the bridge. As far as he could see, there were no obvious signs of damage.

"Do you think they were captured, sir?" Francetti asked, glancing at him.

"Doubtful, not unless it happened in the last few minutes." Grady disputed. "The enemy commander would have mentioned something like that. Besides, their other targets were destroyed. It's just that larger bridge that is still standing…" His train of thought was interrupted as something on the bridge caught his attention. He turned to the ensign. "Stop the camera!"

The ensign complied, holding the drone's focus on a specific section of the bridge.

"Can you zoom in just a bit more?"

As per instructions, his view of one of the bridge supports enlarged, and his suspicion turned to certainty.

"There! Look, it's damaged." Grady confirmed with a frown. "They did detonate them, they just didn't finish the job. Something must have gone wrong. Check their assigned position."

The UAV panned northward to the other major bridge. It took a while, but they eventually picked up signs of active combat. They were still alive, and in position. He'd told them to maintain radio silence until later, but he needed an update, and the enemy already knew there was someone in the city. He'd keep it brief.

"Kilo Team, this is Command. What is your status, over?"

After a moment or so, a channel opened. He could hear weapons fire over the comms.

"Command, the last set of charges didn't go off, not all of them. Bridge is still usable. Orders?"

"Understood. Hold position and maintain radio silence unless necessary or until relieved. We'll figure something out."

"Copy, Kilo Team out."

This complicated things, though all things considered, it could have been far worse. This was a larger bridge, but it led away from the denser parts of the city. In fact, the other end opened up at…

"Order Destroyer Group Three to begin bombardment of specified targets, artillery only." He commanded.

Shots went out as high explosive shells streaked through the air before impacting the target. Thankfully, shells were harder for point defences to intercept, and this was not the most well covered area, aside from the nearby flak tower.

The first shells hit the bridge. One of them narrowly missed and impacted the water, but the rest hit their mark, and there was now a gap on the bridge. That would probably be enough to dissuade crossing, but for good measure, he'd ordered his ships to fire on the nearby oil refineries.

They'd already been hit during Operation Whirlwind, but this was an oil producing area, and he wagered they had restarted production after eventually getting the fires under control. Now they would have to contend with new fires.

Sure enough, thick black smoke began billowing out from the target area.

"That ought to keep them busy," he muttered. "Now, what's the status of the escort groups?"

Francetti shook her head as she replied. "Less than ideal. They haven't taken too much damage yet, but they are having trouble getting through the barrier. They don't have enough firepower."

"The water is getting a bit crowded. I don't know that I could get them more help than maybe another destroyer and some corvettes or frigates. Still, send in Escort Group Five"

"Sir, I'm getting a call from someone in Escort Group Eleven," she suddenly interrupted. "It's the captain of the Wele Nzas. They're asking to be sent in."

Now that was interesting. Escort Group Eleven was where the more recent fleet additions had ended up, most notably those provided by the Navy of Equatorial Guinea. In fact, the Wele Nzas was their flagship. While it wasn't much by the standard of most nations, their oil wealth had allowed them to purchase a fleet that was quite respectable for the region before the invasion. They had even participated in joint exercises with the US navy.

These ships had, of course, just been acquired, and weren't upgraded to the same extent as those he had arrived with. There hadn't been time to add anything complex, so they'd opted to provide more powerful missiles and refit the main guns with ETC firing mechanisms that improved effectiveness at range.

At times like this, Grady wished the world's navies had kept the large caliber guns like those used in WW2. Missiles were more accurate, yes, but expensive to replace. They also showed up prominently on Collective sensors, save a few special exceptions, and were swiftly targeted by point defences. A cannon round had no engine giving off exhaust or heat to give it away, was less complicated than most missiles, more durable and quite devastating. But they'd been seen as obsolete, and it was rare for modern naval vessels to have anything bigger than a 152mm cannon.

Sadly, he would need to make do with what he had. "Tell them they're up, but to hang back behind the more durable ships left up there."

"Yes sir." she said as she began relaying his orders.

That was an improvement, but likely still not enough. The barrier wasn't something that could simply be brought down permanently. It was constantly generated. At best, most weapon strikes would just create localized weak points or even gaps. In order to directly damage the tower itself, they would need to hit either a weak point or get lucky and exploit one of the short lived gaps.

Missiles were of very limited effectiveness as they detonated on impact and were easily intercepted. Kinetic force was preferable; laser weaponry was better, but he didn't have any that could target it. Except…

"Francetti, call up the captain of one of our armed supply ships and ask him if his vessel could navigate those waterways." He directed.

"Sir, the way isn't clear yet, we should wait-"

"Trust me. I have a plan."

With a sigh, she did as instructed and quickly got a response. "He says yes, but he'll be a sitting duck."

"Ask for volunteers, I'm looking for a supply ship willing to go up the Delta and take up position with the warships. Tell them to have their laser batteries at the ready."

His executive officer realized what he was up to now, and was already relaying his orders to whichever supply vessel had volunteered for the task. This would be a dangerous mission for them, but he had few alternatives at this point. If he didn't start making progress soon, this operation would be a stalemate, and in such a circumstance, the SAS and Collective would swiftly come to their aid and drive him out.

He needed to end this quickly, or at least inflict severe enough damage that anyone arriving to reinforce the city would be in a very disadvantaged position, and to do that, he needed to take out the flak towers by the waterfront.

As the minutes trickled by, Grady kept a close eye on the flak tower, looking for any signs of damage. He saw the occasional opening, and sometimes a shot would even impact the tower itself with enough force to dent the plated exterior, but these were lower caliber weapons, and even the gauss cannons wouldn't be able to punch through without multiple shots at the same area.

Still, at least there was some progress. A few lucky shots had gotten through the barrier and knocked out some of the weapons batteries on the side facing his ships. These were mostly weapons intended for surface targets, so destroying them reduced the volume of fire faced by his ships.

At last, the supply ship, managed to navigate the maze of waterways, meeting up with the escort groups he had sent before.

"Sir, they have a clear shot at the side of the tower."

"Fire."

Suddenly, an azure beam of pulsating light struck the side of the tower at near point blank range. Those lasers had been intended to take out low orbiting spacecraft, but the Collective had never sent any after him, so until now they had merely served in their original capacity, doubling as arsenal ships on the side. The effect of such a laser on a terrestrial target, even a shielded and heavily armored one, was promising. The barrier held for a few seconds before sputtering out at the target site; however, the laser needed time to cool down and recharge, so it shut off for the moment. It would fire again soon enough.

It had worked. Not only did it pierce the barrier, it had left a molten scar on the side of the tower. This was just what he needed. Unfortunately, this did not go unnoticed by the enemy, and they promptly targeted the supply ship.

"Order all assigned escorts to protect that ship and focus fire on the point it hit. We'll have them yet."

"Admiral, enemy air forces moving to engage the attacking force. Without the rest of the fleet around them, the defenses aren't sufficient to intercept plasma bombs with any degree of certainty. Those ships won't last long if something isn't done about them." Rowsdower warned from his station.

By this point, a few patrol boats had gotten unlucky and been obliterated by plasma cannons meant to take out tanks. Two of his corvettes were heavily damaged and had visible fires burning, yet still they kept the guns firing. The destroyers he had sent were faring better, and had mostly taken superficial damage, though if the guns had not had their armor reinforced he was certain they would have been taken out quite early on.

His ships were losing combat effectiveness, and there were only so many he could send in at once. If the Collective air forces were allowed to engage them freely, they would not last long.

"Acknowledged. Contact all escort groups at the front and tell them they are weapons free with regard to their AA missiles. And if it looks like they're about to go down, tell them to make sure their tubes are empty. Also, order Cruiser Groups Three to Six to begin targeting aircraft. Prioritize the bombers."

"Sir, the supply ship is prepared to fire again."

"Good. Tell them to hold for just a moment and patch me through to the fleet."

After a brief exchange over the comms, she indicated he was live.

"Attention all vessels; target the damaged section of the flak tower as best you can with all guns. Load AP if you have it. Then hold fire until I give the order. This order is for all vessels, including those not within the Delta. If you have a cannon with sufficient range and caliber, take aim and await my signal. Supply ship... Supply… you will also target the same point you hit earlier and fire when I give the signal. You are to sustain the beam for as long as you can. All ships, notify when ready." Grady terminated the call and waited while they took aim and readier their guns. He was already receiving ready signals from dozens of ships.

"Sir, who names a supply ship Supply?" Francetti asked.

"The United States Navy, apparently, and she's the lead ship of her class. Also named Supply," Grady replied while shaking his head.

Both of them audibly sighed at this. All of a sudden, a notification went off.

"Sir, all ships report ready. Waiting for your order."

"Fire, and keep firing for as long as you are able! I want that thing pummeled into the ground!" he growled.

Not even a few seconds later he heard, and indeed felt all of the guns in his fleet going off simultaneously. This was enough firepower to flatten a town in seconds, and it was all being concentrated on a single point. Of course, the laser hit the target before anything else, and once again, it was able to quickly punch through the barrier, the protective screen seemingly melting away.

This was followed almost immediately by the first projectiles from the escort groups he had sent ahead, and then came the rest of the barrage from the main body of his fleet. Over a hundred shells struck the tower and the surrounding area in just a few seconds, and these were swiftly followed by more.

One thing he could not fault with these newer gun systems was their rate of fire and accuracy. Most of the shells hit the Flak tower more or less on target. A few overshot or hit the water, but the number was negligible. With this many guns firing, the overwhelming majority of which had autoloaders, the numbers were on his side.

As this was happening, AA missiles were already shrieking by the dozens towards the Collective aircraft. They were at the edge of the city, and as such, not quite as heavily protected by local point defenses. He still witnessed a depressingly large number getting intercepted, but they were scoring kills. If needed, he'd task additional cruiser groups with handling the aircraft.

Unfortunately, help came too late for several of the ships he had sent in. One of the destroyers had been struck by multiple plasma bombs and was little more than a floating wreck, slowly listing to the side. He wasn't even sure if there was enough left to restore back at Malabo. At least a dozen patrol boats were just...gone. The intermediate tonnage vessels were similarly ravaged. He needed to take that tower down quickly.

"Sir, Supply needs to cool down again. It's taking hits, but nothing serious yet."

"Understood. Tell the fleet to maintain artillery bombardment for another five minutes, then cease fire. I want to see what the damage is."

"Yes sir." She relayed his wishes as Grady continued to watch.

"Admiral, enemy aircraft are taking casualties. I think we should be able to push them back if we increase the pressure," Rowsdower said. "There aren't any nearby SAS or Collective airbases nearby that haven't already sent what they have. Just need to hit them real hard, and they will either pull back behind the AA defenses or risk having their air force bled dry." Rowsdower looked frustrated, most likely the result of his being unable to assist yet.

"I can accommodate that. Francetti! Order Arsenal ships One through Three to fire all anti-air missiles, staggered launch." An 'arsenal ship', in this case, referred to the repurposed container ships which now carried dozens of missile batteries disguised as shipping containers, in addition to the usual supplies. They had caught the Collective by surprise at Ecnomus, and played a pivotal role in clearing the skies. While the secret was now out, they were still extremely useful as poor man's missile cruisers. Even if less than a third of those missiles hit, it would still be enough to devastate the enemy aircraft.

"Alright sir, more missiles going out."

"Good. Send up another escort group to reinforce them. Also, get me eyes on the flak tower, they should have finished shooting by now."

The UAV feed again zoomed back onto the Okrika flak tower. While the smoke and dust hadn't quite settled, one thing was clear.

The barrier had finally gone down.

"I'll be damned, sir. how did we do that?"

"A good question, Francetti. Anye! Do you happen to know where the Barrier generators are on these flak towers?" Grady asked.

Anye grudgingly stood up from his seat and moved to his side. ADVENT did not know the exact layout of SAS flak towers yet, so it was hard to know where certain systems were.

"The barrier generator, and power supply, are beneath the base, underground. There is no simple way to target them. I can't imagine you destroyed either one."

At this point the air finally cleared enough to reveal the amount of damage done, and it was by no means minor. At the target location, the walls of the structure were just gone, and not just the outermost layer. They had actually managed to punch through another wall and seemingly penetrated into the center of the tower itself. It looked like a cinder block that had taken a shot from a rifle.

"Chei!" Anye was stunned at the damage and took a moment to remember what he was asked. "That would explain what the problem is. The generators are in the basement level but the power runs up the central shaft. You must have blasted them and severed the power from the emitters."

"Excellent. What about weapons?" Grady was ecstatic at this news. Without the barrier, the tower could be dealt with at his leisure.

"Most have a limited backup power supply, or spare ammo and power cells. The heavier weapons though? Like those at the top? Those are certainly unpowered now. It won't take long for the tower to fall silent. The lower weapon emplacements should still function, though."

To further add to the good news, the obscene missile volleys had been successful in decimating the Collective and SAS aircraft. While he didn't think he'd gotten much more than a third, these losses were clearly too steep for the local commander, and they were withdrawn back towards the central air space above the city.

Some of them could be seen limping back to the airbase, their flight erratic; likely a result of damaged anti-grav systems. They would need repairs before they could fight again, and even more would require rearmament or 'refueling'. Although, as he understood it, this was mostly just recharging the ships' power cells or replacing decayed Elerium crystals.

The battle was far from over, but the first obstacle had been overcome. He could now begin landing operations on Okrika, and send naval support down to both landing areas. Things had already been progressing steadily south of Churchill Street, and it seemed the advance teams would be relieved before too long. Okrika meanwhile was in an extremely precarious position as he could not surround the entire islet with ships and blast away at it from all sides. The advance teams holding the bridge there would probably be relieved sooner than those on Churchill Street, in fact.

"Excellent. Order the fleet to focus fire on all remaining weapons ports for that tower. Once it's gone silent, they are to stop and retask to assisting with landing operations or destroying nearby air defences. We've made a crack, now we just need to widen it."

"What about the flak tower, sir? Shouldn't we destroy it?" Francetti asked.

Grady thought for a moment. They would soon essentially be helpless. The infantry inside could certainly take shots, and the defenses were still tough in most places, but the tower itself was no longer much of a threat. It could be dealt with at his leisure. He could also just have his fleet flatten it right now and be done with the matter. He needed this over and done with so he could move on.

Suddenly, a dark thought came to him.

"Francetti, have the ships nearest the flak tower play a message on loudspeaker at the flak tower."

She was puzzled but curious. "Uh, ok sir, what should it say?"

"Tell them if they don't surrender in the next 20 minutes, I will burn them out."

She smiled. "My pleasure, sir."

"What are you going to do to them?" Anye asked.

"If they surrender? Nothing. If they don't, well I was given a few Purifier teams."

The look of horror on Anye's face said it all. It seemed word had reached the SAS of these specialist units. Hulking figures that reduce all they came across to glass, no matter what that may be. Fires that burned everything and left nothing. Smoke that filled the lungs with poison and acid. Even if someone believed they had managed to escape unharmed, they might later realize they had been exposed to hydrofluoric acid once their tissues started to die and the calcium leech from their bones. The soldiers had taken to calling it hellfire. For chemists, however, it was known as ClF3, Chlorine Trifluoride.

"Why?! They are no threat! You can leave them be for later."

"I could, but I don't want to risk something unexpected happening, and I don't like leaving an enemy to the rear of my landing parties. It is a horrifying fate, but that's why I chose Purifiers, if anything will scare them into surrender, it will be them. And if they still don't..." Grady shrugged. "Well, the next tower will consider my offer more carefully. Besides, I've already spent enough shells on that tower, and it was just the first one."

"At least let me try and convince them! I know some of the men stationed here!"

"You can record your own message to be played, but I forbid you telling them about the Purifiers until the five minute mark. I don't want to give them any more time to prepare than I need to."

"Thank you, Admiral. I will do my best to convince them." Anye made to head towards the comm station, but Grady gestured for him to stay a moment.

"For the record, I hope you succeed."

Anye simply nodded and continued on his way.

The opening phase of the battle was coming to a close. The first tower had been dealt with, and the nearby minor AA defenses were being picked off one by one. A gap was quickly forming in the City's defenses. Meanwhile, patrol boats and littoral vessels were raking the coastline with cannon and machine gun fire. Forcing the enemy back, lest they be ripped apart, and clearing the way for his own forces to land unopposed. He had not won yet, but they had lost their chance at denying him entry to the city.

Undisclosed Location

8/5/2017 – 6:10 P.M.

A meeting was overdue, especially now that there was a slight lull in the conflict. There were still battles taking place, under the direction of forces out of his direct authority – however, he would adhere to the agreement, and use the time to ensure that everything remained in place. The Andromedons had come, as requested, now meeting on another unnamed world.

The few trusted technicians they'd brought had ensured that they were alone, and there were none who were listening through technology or other means. Yang did not seem especially trusting of the Andromedons, but at this point, the Battlemaster knew that everyone was in too deep.

If he went down, every Union involved would go down with him.

There was a time and place for disputes and betrayals – fortunately, he was dealing with rational and pragmatic actors. Those who knew better than to act against him. Self-preservation was a powerful tool, even more powerful was giving them what they wanted.

"I want a timeframe," the Battlemaster said as he paced. "There will be a point where all is in position, and I do not want it to be delayed due to a lack of infrastructure or resources in place. The longer this persists, the more difficult it will be to succeed."

"Our calculations are of a similar mind, Battlemaster," Z'Vador stated. "The window of opportunity will be small, especially if the hostile Unions are to be crippled. We face a formidable opponent – one which will not be decisively defeated, no matter the success of the initial salvo."

"I do not expect that," the Battlemaster said. "I expect systems to be secured, fortresses to be employed, and our advantage sustainable. The Solar System must be secured as well, as that is where the bulk of the military focus is."

"That is your responsibility, Battlemaster," A'Halsond said.

A nod. "Correct, and it will be handled. I have bought additional time for the Humans to defend themselves. Patricia and the Imperator will continue to take an active role, one which will grow. If I do not achieve significant victories, the window will shrink. However, that is my responsibility. The wider systems and galaxy will be yours."

"Of course, Battlemaster," V'Zarrah confirmed, and a projection of known Collective territory was displayed from his suit. A gloved hand pointed. "Even within secured territory there is no comprehensive analysis or map. Union Viarior, due to our role as suppliers for the Federation, has the most comprehensive one, yet it is not enough. Each Union has their own blacksites and bases, as well as routes that they hide from others."

"As do the Ethereals," the Battlemaster added.

"That, of course, applies to us as well," V'Zarrah said. "We will immediately be able to establish control centers, and the supply lines are already established and will be sustainable after the war begins. You primarily speak of holding outside territory. We have identified the systems of importance we believe can feasibly be seized and held."

Large chunks of the territory lit up in blue. "As you can see, this maintains a territory which encompasses Earth, and most importantly, is kept together. This would effectively break up the main grouping of Unions who will be hostile to us, as well as the Sectoids and Vitakara," he continued. "We are experimenting with permitting a narrow corridor of connectivity between each of them, to dissuade them from retreating and capturing non-Collective territory - thus expanding their reach."

"A wise approach," the Battlemaster said. "However, ensure that your main nerve centers are not known or obvious. They will be targeted and destroyed by the Imperator. He will not tolerate this rebellion."

"That is a point to address, Battlemaster," V'Zarrah said. "The Imperator is a variable we are unable to account for. One that we have not brought up overmuch, yet as the time approaches closer, we need to know. On our own, we are not powerful enough to stop him. I trust you have a plan?"

"Enough of one. The Humans are allied to a Sovereign One. A Sovereign is theoretically enough to handle the Imperator," the Battlemaster said. "I remain uncertain what Mosrimor will do."

"Could he be persuaded to back you?" A'Darrah asked.

"I would consider that, were it not for the fact that he and T'Leth are enemies," the Battlemaster said. "I doubt that cooperation can be facilitated. Both of them will need to be dealt with, though I suspect Mosrimor will flee should it appear defeat is likely."

"And the other Ethereals?" Came the next question.

"There are certain ones I believe can be integrated," the Battlemaster said. "None have been approached yet, as I want to ensure I am right. In addition to Aegis and Caelior, I believe that Mortis and Sana can be persuaded to stand down, or assist in the effort. Fectorian and Revelean may also be able to be persuaded. The Second Guardian as well."

The Andromedons seemed unsure. "The Guardians are not marked as likely to defect." V'Zarrah noted.

"I would have agreed, but the Second Guardian has had her faith in the Imperator shaken," the Battlemaster answered. "Which is why I have only designated her as a possible ally."

"Cogitian? Deusian?"

"The former I will extract. I expect he will be neutral, though he must be removed from the Temple Ship first. The latter…" he considered. "I remain unsure. She has thus far remained neutral in the war, though will likely act if ordered. I have not decided, but for now she should be treated as a likely hostile entity."

"Understood."

"Six months," A'Darrah spoke. "That is the ideal time to prepare on our end – or at least without risking suspicion. If necessary, this can be sped up, though it risks discovery by Zararch, Ethereals, or hostile Unions."

Six months. That he could work with. "Consider that your course of action for now – I will inform you if plans need to be accelerated. This war remains fluid and cannot be easily anticipated. There are concerns that both Sovereigns will take larger parts in the war, and the potential to escalate remains high. It is unlikely it will be a perfect moment, but each one must be ready to act."

"On that, we are agreed," V'Zarrah inclined his helmeted head. "We will be watching and waiting, Battlemaster. There is one more thing – XCOM."

"What about them?"

"Perhaps they should be informed," he proposed. "Coordination will initially be problematic. There will be diplomatic concerns to address. If these could be resolved prior to the moment, it would ensure we can transition to the wider conflict."

"No." The answer was flat. "XCOM will not keep this from ADVENT. ADVENT will not keep it from the Collective. It will be discovered, and the Humans are a means to an end. They will be an ally, but one which will work on our terms. Is that understood?"

"Yes, Battlemaster," the Andromedon acquiesced. "Then that is what will be done."

The Dreamscape

8/6/2017 – 1:00 P.M.

The Chronicler lifted his hand toward the sword. Excalibur, once more within his reach. As commanded, it flew elegantly toward him, and he grabbed it with an X-like flourish. It fit snugly in his hands, perfectly balanced, as if it was just a part of him; like an extension of his arm. The sword seemed to sing, reaching out for him like an old friend.

A rare smile crossed his face as a memory from long ago crossed his mind. Footwork! Put the left foot forward, the right foot in back. Your hips facing your opponent. He did as his father's swordmaster instructed him and kept the Excalibur forward at shoulder level in a high guard.

"Just take it easy today," he instructed, though with only dry seriousness.

"Oh, age catching up with you, Ansaldo?" Fiona smirked, offering a sword salute with mock seriousness.

He snorted.

They circled around each other for several moments and waited for one of them to make the first move. Each was clad in their armour of stone. Suddenly, the Chronicler moved forward and struck from above. Steel met steel. He parried quickly, reflexively, and thrust Excalibur forward only to meet steel. They moved back and forth for several minutes, until he found an open spot and stuck, but met only empty air. Instinctively he pushed his elbow backward, accompanied by a telekinetic push, expecting that Fiona had teleported herself behind him and met something soft followed by a thump.

He turned around and smirked at Fiona on the ground. "You may be a good swordsman, but you fare poorly when facing one who knows your methods." The Chronicler said, amused as he reached his hand out for Fiona. "Especially if I am armed with Excalibur."

"Was it only the blue witch who has successfully disarmed you?" she grumbled as she took his hand.

"Almost. My first enemy did so too, once." He pulled her up from the ground. My first true test as Chronicler, he remembered as he placed himself in position again. "Once again, Fiona."

This time Fiona attacked first. Steel met steel as both duelists swung, deflected, and thrust. She knew she could not rely on her teleportation ability to win, so her sword became fast and efficient. Unfortunately, for her, he easily matched her despite his appearance and lapsed skills as a swordsman.

There was a certain trick he remembered quite well, one which was returning to him as he dueled the young woman. With Excalibur in his hands, he channeled the power, coalesced the strings, and the air around the blade shimmered and wavered. He flicked the sword's tip, and the sword flew from her hand.

With the same binding power, her arms became clamped to their sides as the tip of the sword was pointed at her throat. "What the hell is this?" She demanded, struggling to free herself.

"One of Excalibur's capabilities. Good at disarming opponents." He said, removing the sword from Fiona's throat and the telekinetic bind that enveloped her. "Another round?" He asked, while reaching his hand towards Fiona.

"One more round," she said with a smirk as he got up in a position once again and lifted her sword at the Chronicler in another mock salute. "This time I know your tricks."

Chronicler took his own position, with his sword on high guard. Fiona went on offensive with a greater emphasis on her teleportation skill. She flashed in and out, delivering blow after blow with her sword from multiple angles, forcing him onto the defensive and relying on telepathy to predict her next move. She was skilled, despite her age.

However, compared to him, she was still a novice. He had been trained by one of the finest Italian duelists at the time where swordsmanship mattered. He had fought in wars - not merely duels - where he was forced to rely on his sword. He had fought entities beyond his world, champions and assassins from the Inner Galaxy itself.

There were quite a few capabilities and powers Excalibur possessed. Though most would use it as a mere weapon, it was more than that - it was a psionic tool of great power. One which he would employ in a few more ways now.

He altered the way the power flowed through the weapon. Instead of scorching destruction, a banshee's screech sounded, heard only in the mind. A howl of everything and nothing sent towards his hapless opponent, who froze as the raw power of it barraged her mind. A song, a chorus that would refine itself as the duel proceeded, until it found a way to break through.

And break through it did.

Fiona was forced to her knees, and raised her hands in defeat, pain in her face and voice. With a motion, he severed the channel of energy. "My head!" she winced. "Don't tell me that also came from the sword?"

"It is a tool of many capabilities," he said, lowering the weapon. "One which I see retains its effectiveness even against the skilled." With an extended arm, he helped her up. "This is quite enough for today, I think. I will take it from here, a pleasure as always to spar."

Fiona returned a lazy two-finger salute, though her expression was still somewhat pained. "Have fun, Ansaldo." Then she disappeared from view.

The training room disappeared and was replaced with a street at a relatively generic futuristic city with high-tech skyscrapers, flying cars and 3D aids. He could make an assumption of what the Dreamscape had in store for him now. He did not have to wait long. Not far from him stood his next opponent.

A Shadow. Some of the most dangerous operatives of the Republic. Clad in sleek black armor and fully sealed. On her side she wore the signature weapon of the Shadows. A long katana-like black sword.

No insignias, no markings, no face. Yet the deadness of her mind was all the message he needed to know who this one represented. Her fingers wavered, and her form became indistinct, fluid, as if viewed through broken glass or many mirrors. Curious that she would not maintain the element of surprise.

No doubt she would prove dangerous - like the one he had once fought.

She suddenly extended both hands, wreathed in a blue glow toward him. He vanished in a flash of blue and appeared a bit further away. A floating black orb which maintained an almost white halo around it was in his former position and a blue mist around it began to be pulled toward the orb, creating a swirling effect. A singularity, he remembered - one which would have killed him instantly if he hadn't reacted.

The Chronicler knew he had to be fast. The Shadow was dangerous, but ultimately a glass cannon against a true psion. Blue-white flame flashed and covered Excalibur. He swung his sword horizontally as if it was a baseball bat and fired a crescent-shaped beam of psionic energy. The beam grew larger as it flew through the street.

Hoping that the Shadow was distanced by the sword beam, he dashed to her position with inhuman speed in bursts of blue flashes, just to step up and deliver another diagonal slash and unleash another sword beam. Truly enough the Shadow was no longer in her former position, having charged away in a blue flash.

He needed to stay in motion as well. Quickly he flashed to the side and then a singularity appeared where he once was. He looked up briefly. Naturally, the Shadow flew through the air, never stopping, and encased herself in a shimmering blue field. The sword beams were going through the barrier - but they had been effectively frozen. She dropped to the ground, and began lifting various objects from cars to trash and throwing them at him, and bouncing up into the sky when they missed, gravity no longer constraining them.

He knew what the Shadow was doing. Ensuring he would not have time to concentrate and then trapping him in a gravity field between two or three singularities. She knew that against a psion - and a telekine, if she was caught, she was dead. Against a lesser psion, she would prove more than a match, especially one compromised by overconfidence and arrogance. But he was not a lesser psion. He was the Seraphim. The Seraphim of Regicide. The Warrior Angel of the Warmaster.

Excalibur sang through the air as he manifested sword beams and destroyed each target thrown at him, while a shield manifested anytime debris came in contact with the sword. He flashed from spot to spot until he was in front of her in an instant, and brought his sword down with an underhanded cut that she was forced to defend. Steel met steel. Had his sword not been augmented with psionic energy, she would potentially have cut through Excalibur with her own augmented katana.

However, her katana was a specialized self-defensive cutting weapon. Sharp, but brittle. A quick drawn assassination weapon. Of limited use in a duel against an armored knight with a longsword, and she knew that. In a quick maneuver, she jumped out of his reach and her free hand glowed blue as she pushed him away. He was hurled away and flew towards where she wanted him to be - between the singularities with no gravity to pull him down. Before it was too late, he twisted through the air, regained his balance and rode with the wave before teleporting behind the Shadow.

He opened a portal along the length of Excalibur's blade, wreathed it in a vacuum and the cold of the void. With a heavy thrust forward he stabbed, but the Shadow had anticipated his move. She quickly spun around and parried Excalibur, which forced him to make a round swing, and brought his sword down, augmented with telekinetic might. The katana shattered from the contact with the void. He followed up by a telekinetic push to throw her off balance and with her exposed and vulnerable, pierced the Shadow through the heart.

The corpse fell to the ground, the wound steaming and cauterized from the void, and the body turned cold to the touch.

He landed on the ground, and took a moment to catch himself. Such fights, while excellent for practice, were tiring when they persisted too long. It did not take long before the futurist street melted away together with Shadow and was replaced by the familiar blue abyss, but covered in some kind of heavy mist. The presence of the Warmaster was heavy.

A figure appeared out of the mist. Walking toward him. Royal toga and cloth over grey steel armour, glided in a metallic blue. While it did not wear a helmet, its head had a vague, ghostly distortion with six glowing blue eyes, crowned with a halo of psionic energy.

"Another test, master?" the Chronicler asked exhaustedly and slowly getting himself from the ground.

Instead of answering the question, a sword with blue-white flame appeared in its hand, and the Warmaster sprang to action. It leaped into the air, covering the distance between them in one jump, and brought its sword down with a heavy force. The Chronicler parried just in time. Forced into a defensive position as his master delivered blow after blow. He felt the pressure in his mind and tried to ward off the telepathic attack.

Though against T'Leth, such was like warding off against a snowstorm. The pressure would accumulate and accumulate until he snapped or was victorious.

Few better incentives than that.

The air around him shimmered, and suddenly the ground was no longer soil, but coarse and rough sand, with towering yellow dunes as far as he could see with two hot desert suns in the sky. How amusing that this little detail was included.

The Warmaster allowed him no further time to admire the scenery, and dashed forward, with the mental assault sustained. However, he found balance and responded to every move of his master with a wall of steel, and a smile on his face. T'Leth's preferred style was offense, and he made each effort to attack from all directions possible, through sword or psionics.

A counter was in order.

Snapping his arm up, he surrounded himself in a telekinetic-induced sandstorm which visibly hid him and blinded both himself and the Warmaster. So dense was the artificial sandstorm, the only method of detection was through their mind; a game of cat and mouse as both relied on telepathy to find each other.

T'Leth appeared to approve.

The pressure increased.

He gritted his teeth, and before he knew it, he stood atop a snow covered mountain in darkness. The air was frozen, snowflakes whipped in the air, and the wind sent a chill to his core. His body uncontrollably shook briefly as the extreme shift of temperature shocked his body. His frozen fingers loosened his hold on the sword, which he just barely deflected from an onslaught from his master, unaffected by the climate.

I WILL NOT SUFFER THIS DISPLAY.

He gasped as the pressure magnified, impressed upon him like a hydraulic press as the imposing Warmaster marched forward, his weapon blazing and radiating irritation.

YOU MUST DO MORE.

One fist clenched. A fire restored. The eyes of the Warmaster's Avatar burned with sapphire fire.

FIGHT.

Psionic fire exploded in all directions, as the Chronicler emitted a blue burst of energy with a roar. The snow turned to steam and wisps and the snowflakes dissipated as an aura of crackling power surrounding him was made manifest. His body glowed and burned with flame, and his sword was sheathed in power.

One fist shot out, tearing the Psionosphere asunder around the Warmaster, who raised a hand to manifest a shield while Excalibur pointed and summoned a beam of energy that was blocked by the blue-flamed weapon in T'Leth's hand.

GOOD.

The fire and fight restored, both continued their duel, no longer did exhaustion rule, and he reveled in the battle, feeding off T'Leth's own enjoyment and stimulation from this. He knew the Warmaster was not truly challenged, but he was forced to devote his vast mind to adapting to everything the mortal could throw at him.

Another shift.

Now he was in the abyss, with the surroundings turned a deep ocean blue. This time though, it was not an illusion - He was indeed underwater. He felt the grip of the ocean around him, the pull of gravity as he sank, and the feeling of moving through molasses. Tinted light shone from above, but everywhere he looked, there was nothing but rippling teal and blue and a black deep below him. He froze his descent through telekinetic anchoring, but the yawning maw of the black abyss below him was foreboding indeed.

This was the home of the Sovereign Ones. Their natural habitat, their place of natural power. Fighting one here was not merely dangerous, it was suicidal. He was a minnow in this place dominated by the blue whales. Just as powerless and insignificant. However, he knew he wouldn't fight the true form of his master.

No, not yet. Not today.

He gripped his sword and waited for a movement from his master while covered in an aura of telekinetic stasis to keep him floating.

There.

With a telekinetic push, he turned around. Steel met steel. The Warmaster flashed away and appeared at another position. With another telekinetic push, it brought its sword down only to either meet steel or a shield. In this thickness of water, they swung, deflected and thrusted in a slow motion.

It seemed that T'Leth didn't have the limitations of his body. He moved as swiftly as if he was above water, forcing the Chronicler to rely on shields and telekinesis to prevent each swing and strike from being a deathblow. Both of them teleported throughout the water, manifesting shields in various places, waiting for one to run into one, and be stunned for only a moment to end the fight.

Yet both persisted, though his arms were now weary. Hours they seemed to have fought now, and the furor of war could only be sustained so long, even as the fire burned through him. Fire needed fuel, and his reserves were lowering against such an enemy.

The Warmaster's reserves were endless.

So great was his furor against his kin of tyranny.

Another shift, this one likely the final transition.

Ash and flames filled the sky. They stood on a primordial world where life had yet to be formed, and the very ground was of molten rock. He managed to catch himself with telekinesis before falling into the pools of lava. He quickly erected a psionic shield around him, just before he was assaulted by the Warmaster, who directed streams of lava and melted matter towards him.

It became a matter of mobility and protection, as they moved from solid group to solid ground, relying on barriers as temporary footing and suspending themselves in the air while shaping the world into their weapon.

Yet eventually, there would be a breaking point. He knew not how much time had passed as they had crossed from one extreme environment to another, but he knew his time to hold out was reaching its end. He burned, not from furor, but from the heat of the world and the lava that had splashed upon his armor. His mental defenses were on the cusp of collapse, as the pressure accumulated to a breaking point.

Then, as the duelists found themselves locked into a cross, they returned to the watery abyss, and the water encased him once more. T'Leth disengaged, and the Chronicler realized he was being suspended. A grip of power held him in place, as the Warmaster displayed no exhaustion from their long duel.

The form of T'Leth hovered above him, and his voice echoed in his head.

VERY GOOD, ANSALDO. SUCH YOU WILL FACE WHEN THE IMPERATOR IS CONFRONTED.

"I understand. His overconfidence and arrogance shall be his undoing."

AND HIS POWER SHALL BE MATCHED. HE DESIRES TO KNOW WHAT HE FACES. WHAT HE WISHES TO OVERTHROW. HE SHALL BE OBLIGED.

As his breath was caught, he allowed a smile as he understood the implication. "Then this is the time."

IT IS THE TIME FOR THE AGENTS TO AWAKEN ONCE MORE.

IT IS THE TIME FOR THE GALAXY TO SHAKE AS THE KINGS ARE TOPPLED.

IT IS THE TIME FOR RUIN TO BE BROUGHT TO THE TYRANTS.

IT IS TIME, ANSALDO.

PREPARE TO UNLEASH THE ARMADA.

IT IS TIME FOR ME TO WAKE UP.

Phobos Facility, London – United Kingdom

7/28/2017 – 10:22 A.M.

As it turned out, not everything in ADVENT proceeded with blistering speed. When Duri had departed for what he'd thought would be the Phobos Program, that had apparently only been the start of the process. Several weeks of processing, psychological evaluations, and other interviews.

ADVENT wasn't rushing this at all, which Duri could respect given the subject matter of what he was dealing with. The weeks had allowed him to recover some personal stability and normalcy. Wake up. Exercise. Target shoot. Review the fronts. Review reports. Memorize alien autopsies, weak points, and the easiest ways to kill them.

He could likely dismember a Sectoid with relative ease, knew which points in Oyariah plates were the most vulnerable, exploit that the best time to attack Vitakara was between two and four weeks of initial deployment, as their biology was least adapted to the environment. Little quirks and details that were the small, minute differences between victory and defeat, living or dying.

The building he found himself in front of was fairly small and non-descript. A regular office building almost, unremarkable outside of the ADVENT soldiers in front of it. Unmarked armor, which meant they were almost certainly not regular soldiers. Lancers? Other special forces? PRIESTs?

He supposed it didn't matter.

He approached the entrance, and the soldiers tracked his movement. "Identification," one demanded, a woman, who extended her hand.

Duri complied, showing his military ID. "For Phobos."

A nod. "Inside. You will be directed where to go next."

Duri took his ID back. "Thank you." The soldiers stood aside as he entered the building, and was immediately met with a regular reception room. A receptionist was at the desk, who smiled as he walked up.

"Hello, welcome," he said, indicating the panel. "Please place your hand on the scanner. Additional verification, it won't take long."

Duri raised an eyebrow, but complied. "Security is tight," he commented, as he placed his hand on the scanner. "Is this really that classified?"

"I'm afraid I can't give you a comprehensive answer on that, sir," the man said apologetically. "Not because you're not cleared to know, or classification, but because I don't know. I only know that Phobos is a highly experimental and specialized program for a select group of individuals. Something I'm not surprised ADVENT wants to keep under wraps."

Interesting, it seemed that even the people in the facility knew less than he did. "Thank you, Mr. Eun-Jung," the man said. "You can take your hand off now."

He did, and a nearby door opened as another uniformed official walked out. Another man, in a black and gray uniform with an unfamiliar symbol on his upper right chest. "Right this way, sir, I'll take you to the others."

Duri followed the man, and entered into a hallway. The further they went in, the trappings of a regular office disappeared. Instead a high-tech laboratory emerged. Fluorescent lights, glass walls, rooms with advanced equipment and people in lab coats. "You have a large operation," he noted. "This has been going on for a while?"

The man chuckled. "No, you're our first real wave. That said, the research has been going on for months now. We're only now just ready to start applying it."

"To us."

"Correct, and I do hope you've been briefed as to what to expect."

"I have. I know what I'm getting into."

"Mmm, that's good," the man was non-committal. "I apologize if I do not sound confident, it's just very difficult to predict how people react to the process. I know you have dealt with trauma and recovered, but it's a frustratingly delicate science when people are intentionally exposed to their worst fears."

Duri's lips tightened into a thin smile. "I expect it loses its effect the more it happens."

The man shot a glance at him. "Do you mind me asking what attracted the program's interest in you?"

"You've heard of Senorium?"

"The Warlock? Everyone has."

"That would be it," Duri said. "I was able to resist for…a while. It was…"

"You don't need to elaborate," the man's voice was calmer now. "I've heard the stories and seen the psychological impact. Resisting it for any amount of time is…yes, that would explain why you are here."

Duri looked around. "I assume the others are similar stories?"

"More or less," he answered. "The majority had encounters with Isomnum, others dealt with other Ethereals, their Avatars, or particularly nasty Sectoids. Ultimately doesn't matter, if they can resist at all it gets our attention."

"But that's not all you look for."

"No, they have to have a certain mental profile. Fit a model, if you will. Not everyone responds well to what we're doing, all of those interviews and tests we did before you came? Not for show."

"They did seem excessive."

"But necessary," he insisted. "We don't want to be responsible for driving a soldier insane through trauma. It would be irresponsible to do anything less."

"I suppose so." Both men soon arrived at a door that led to a small conference room, where a little over two dozen people were inside. Most were seated in small groups talking amongst each other, while a few at the front of the room were in discussions. "Take a seat, talk to some of the others if you want," the man said. "Dr. Shodon will begin shortly."

"Thank you." Duri did so, and went towards the gathering. A few introductions, and he got brought up to speed to some degree. The people sitting and talking were others in the Phobos Program, and were more just doing small talk until the briefing began. No one really talked about the reason they'd gotten here – that would be something that likely came later, if at all.

Soon though, it seemed everyone who was going to arrive, had arrived. When all was said and done, Duri counted just over two dozen participants. Extremely small, especially when taking into account the size of the entire ADVENT military – and that was assuming they weren't also screening for civilians who'd displayed similar resistance.

The woman at the front, in a lab coat in the colors of the other Phobos personnel directed their attention. She was younger than he would have expected, with her hair pulled back and he put her as ethnic Chinese, though he'd overheard her talking with a clear American accent, so likely an immigrant then.

"Welcome, all of you," she began. "I am Dr. Emily Shodon, Director of the Phobos Project. All of you are likely aware of the reason you have been chosen, but I will take this time to briefly outline the purpose of the project, as well as some other questions you may have."

After taking a moment to ensure she had their attention, she continued. "Psionics are arguably the most dangerous weapon that exists, and telepathy is one of the most powerful aspects of it. With few exceptions, it cannot be naturally defended against, and when considering the full implications, it is a terrifying feeling to lose control in that manner, something that each of you have acute knowledge of. I won't elaborate beyond that."

There were some nods. "Each of you has displayed an inherent resistance to telepathy – a rare feat on its own. ADVENT wanted to utilize this, and refine it to be stronger and more reliable. This, on its own, would justify the program. However, the Phobos Project is not just intended to strengthen telepathic resistance, but be toxic to the offensive telepaths."

Duri raised an eyebrow at that. "Telepathy is power, but it is susceptible to emotion," she continued. "It is something that skilled telepaths are aware of, and can handle. What we know is that telepaths, ultimately, handle trauma and emotional intensity poorly. We aim for Phobos soldiers to be able to face telepaths, and kill them. When they enter your minds, they will be repulsed, but should they pierce them, they will retreat in pain."

She lifted a hand. "Now, I realize that this may sound purely theoretical. However, we have a very real, if accidental success, which was used as the basis for this program." She turned behind her, to the giant man who'd been standing. Duri had assumed he was just a bodyguard of some kind. He didn't wear any armor, though was easily one of the biggest men he'd ever seen.

"This is Kane McTaggart," Shodon said. "XCOM soldier, and Subject Zero of the Phobos Project. I asked him to come here and briefly speak on what to expect. Mr. McTaggart?"

The man simply nodded, as he appraised the gathered group for a few moments. His eyes flicked between all of them, lingering for moments, though it was enough for Duri to see that this was someone who had indeed experienced what all of them had. "There is no advice I can give that will completely prepare you, except for you to realize why you resisted at all. It does not matter who it was against. Ethereal, alien, or other, something in you would not submit. Something compelled you to resist, to fight, to struggle. Maybe it was hate, maybe rage, but I cannot say for certain."

He paused briefly. "You will be tested in the coming days, you will be bent, you will be tempered, you will be broken, and you will be remade. If at any point one of you can no longer go on, I will not judge you. No one should have to go through what I did. But for those of you who press on, who walk through the flames and emerge burnt and hardened, your mind need not fear violation. You will no longer know fear. Pain will be little more than an inconvenience, and the alien will have no hold over you. You will be forged into an unbreakable blade. Only you can decide what this is worth to you.

Kane's eyes swept around the room. "What you are prepared to face, what you are prepared to suffer, what you are prepared to lose. Whatever, whoever you are now, should you succeed, they will be no more. There is no coming back from this. You will be forever changed. If, despite hearing all this, you still want to press forward, then I can offer but one piece of advice. When you are at your lowest, when it seems there is nothing left, when all is lost, remember what it was that let you fight when your mind was violated. Cling to it and never let go. Then, you will see clearly, as I was made to. In that moment, all else falls away and from then on you will fear nothing."

He looked back to the doctor. "That is all I wish to say."

"Thank you," she said, as Kane stepped away. "We will go into more detail in the coming days as we begin, but for the rest of the day, take some time to get acquainted with each other, settle in, and prepare as you see fit. We have recreation and exercise rooms, doctors, and no shortage of therapists on staff if all of you need to talk."

She made a note on her notepad. "I understand that each of you have experienced traumatic events, and as such do not be afraid to talk if you need to. We're all familiar with it, and don't feel the need to talk about everything at once. Trust is important, but it is earned between all of you. No matter what, I'm confident in all of you, and I personally thank you for participating in this project."

With that, she saluted them, and gave the clear dismissal. Duri stood, and grabbed his bag as he prepared to head to his quarters with the rest. It seemed this was going to be an interesting stay.

Cleveland Clinic, Ohio – United States of America

8/1/2017 – 10:09 A.M.

Angela scowled as the pen almost fell from her fingers again. She hated how such simple acts, even ones like just writing something, were now strenuous activities. She hated how her fingers looked so bony and almost misshapen. It shouldn't be this hard to grip a pen, yet here she was.

She had once had pretty good handwriting. Not perfect, but she'd been happy to say that her handwriting was legible, at least. Now the concept of writing a sentence was almost as daunting as storming an alien outpost had once been. She was having enough trouble just writing a few words like her name, birthday, and nationality.

They'd politely asked if she'd wanted to fill out the forms digitally; as it was much easier to type them out then write them. Something she'd refused. She did not survive a Hive Commander to be defeated by a pen and paper of all things. Though the longer it took her to fill everything out, she was so sorely tempted to take the easy route.

It had been four hours since the nurse had brought in the forms. A mixture of transfer forms, as she was definitely not ready to be medically discharged (or ever would be), and classified documents which would solidify her participation in the Revenant Project. It had at least forced her to actually read out the forms.

Most of them were dry and dull. Legalese that she could parse through, but found too mind-numbingly boring to even pretend to show interest in. However, there were some interesting sections in the Revenant documents that had piqued her interest. Particularly ones that explicitly stated her access to material up to the highest ranks of classification, and direct input into "Certain projects and operations that ADVENT may undertake."

That was interesting. A bit more than just a small experimental project, it seemed like.

She supposed she would find out very soon. Transfer would be in days, as wherever she was being moved had to be properly prepared to take care of her. She didn't want to know just how much she was costing ADVENT through all of this. They'd insisted that it wasn't important, but she knew enough to know that this wasn't cheap to put together.

A knock on her door. She recognized the presence outside; with her ability to speak being as fluid as it was, she'd quickly gotten used to picking people out from their minds. She didn't really like doing it, as even that seemed something of a violation, but it had just kind of happened, and she never got more from it than their current emotional state.

In this case, it was Dr. Allen. Come in.

The doctor came in, and beheld her on the bed, with a small pile of forms resting by her. "Ah, Miss Blackburn, almost all done with the paperwork?"

Almost. Just a few more to go.

"Good, good," he said. "Now, the good news on our end is that the facility you're being moved to is prepared. It's just a matter of transfer, which we can do as soon as all the paperwork is processed."

"Where is it?" she asked, her voice raspy.

"I'm afraid that is classified, at least in this environment," he said apologetically. "Suffice to say it is very well-protected, very secure, and on the cutting edge of ADVENT science. Once we're there, I or one of the others can share details."

She nodded, a motion that hurt her neck for a moment. How many more are there?

"Few, few," he answered. "No exact numbers here – unsecure environment, remember. However, there are not a lot of others. You'll meet them once you're properly set up. Which is one reason I'm here, which is to get you prepared for what to expect when you arrive."

I'm listening.

"We're in the process of assigning a dedicated doctor to you," he said. "Your condition necessitates it, but beyond that, they will help you in ensuring you're not complacent. Your body needs everything possible to help keep it alive, so physical therapy is going to take a larger part of your day. You won't be back to what your previous physique was, but our goal is for you to be able to get up and move around without immediately needing to nap later. Does that sound good?"

Angela forced a smile. It sounded like a nightmare, really, given the state her body was in – but if there was one thing she hated more, it was the prospect of her entire life being like this. "Very good, sir."

"That's what I like to hear," Allen smiled. "In addition, we'll have a dedicated therapist on-staff. Very skilled in extreme cases like yours, and given the nature of what you'll be involved in, I expect that it may be welcome at times. Voluntary for the most part, of course, but certainly encouraged."

For the most part?

"We do need to make sure all of our Revenant Pilots are mentally stable," Allen almost sounded apologetic, though she could sense he really wasn't. "There are some mandatory sessions and debriefs to confirm this, but anything beyond that is fully up to you. Acceptable?"

Not that she had a choice, but Angela nodded. Not that she was opposed to it to begin with. "Now, a few last things about amenities," Allen finished. "You'll have your own room – a bit nicer and more personalized than this. Complete with entertainment systems, bathroom, dresser – everything you need."

"Thank you. It sounds good."

"And with that, I think that covers what I came here for," Allen finished. "I am very glad that you're willing to participate in this, especially given your situation."

Can't just lay back and do nothing. The war isn't over yet.

She shrugged. And there aren't enough people like me to help you.

"No," Allen said wistfully. "There are not. And you are right – this war isn't nearly over yet."

Then we all have to do our part.

"Indeed, Miss Blackburn, indeed." He inclined his head. "Once you finish the paperwork, your transfer will begin within days. I look forward to seeing you soon. There is much we want to begin work on."

Atlantis, the Abyssal Plains – The Deep Ocean

7/20/2017 – 4:22 P.M.

The following weeks had fallen into something that thankfully has some semblance of normalcy. Loke had preferred the illusion of being able to go about his day, doing his job, as if everything was normal. It wasn't, and he didn't especially like pretending it was. If they'd hoped to get answers from Commander McKenzie about what was actually going on, they'd been very mistaken.

They'd more or less been told not to worry about it, and that it wouldn't happen again. The conversation had given Loke the distinct impression that McKenzie didn't actually know what it meant, or knew and had effectively nothing that he could share with them. Either way, it had put all of them in an awkward position.

Namely, having to go around knowing that there was a massive alien creature just a few kilometers away from them.

Well, one that was…apparently friendly, but that didn't really make him feel better. It didn't help that his dreams following the event had been filled with deep voices, endless depths, watery prisons, and the feeling of an ominous presence. At times it had seemed so very, very real.

For all he knew, it was.

The dreams he had were always ones where he only just had a vague recollection of. The details faded from his mind, but the feelings and vague impressions remained, and always left him waking up in a cold sweat. That he was dreaming at all, and was so affected by it, was already an alarming thing to him.

He didn't really dream that often, and when he did, it was never like this. Really, he never remembered anything of his dreams, and was thankfully not someone who was overly affected by them despite his job. That alone was enough to make him tense, but the fact that both Orla and Zhi were saying the same things told him that it was more than coincidence.

He couldn't be sure if it was intentional, as in the creature was deliberately messing with their minds (though he considered it certainly plausible), or if it was some kind of effect of being in the presence of the creature…then again, this hadn't been a thing after the first time – so nothing really boded well.

Culminating in a meeting with a person he'd never met before showing up and saying they needed to talk. Now he, Orla, and Zhi were in one of the secured rooms in Atlantis, with a man in nondescript clothing. He had an Australian accent, and immediately struck Loke as someone from the military – but he had a feeling that he wasn't from ADVENT.

"Glad I was able to find all of you quickly," the man said. "Lincoln Harper. Former Australian military." He extended a hand, which Loke took, and subsequently shook the hands of the others gathered, all of them looking at the man with varying degrees of suspicion and confusion.

"Former?" Orla prodded. "You don't seem like you're in retirement, sir."

"No 'sirs', please," Harper said with a thin smile. "And no, not retirement. I've just altered my career path, so to speak. Fate has an interesting sense of humor, I've found."

"Be that as it may," Loke said. "Why did you want to talk to us? Are you XCOM? Oversight?"

"Neither, and I'm here because I was informed of a certain encounter you had a short time ago," Harper said, eyes looking straight at him. "I trust I don't need to jog your memories?"

"No." Loke shook his head. "You do not."

"I thought as much," Harper said with a nod. "T'Leth does leave an impression."

T'Leth? "That's what the creature is called?" Zhi asked. "A T'Leth?"

Harper chuckled briefly. "T'Leth is his name. What he is is a Sovereign One."

Loke's eyebrows furrowed. "That sounds like you made that up."

"Which part? That the eldritch creature you encountered has a name, or his species is called something a bit generic?" Harper asked dryly. "If the latter, that is the closest translation they have for themselves. Their language is primarily glyphs infused with emotion and meaning. Some things get lost in translation, though I find the name fitting."

"So…" Loke felt he needed to focus on the biggest details of the sudden burst of information they'd gotten. "There's more of these… Sovereign Ones?"

"Yes, and fortunately, there are not many of them, and all of them are in a continual battle against each other," Harper rubbed his forehead. "The situation is complicated. You want answers. T'Leth was not idle when you stumbled upon him, accidentally or not, and for better or worse, you attracted his attention."

"Is that a good or bad thing?"

"I'm not an unbiased person here," Harper said. "But I would say good. I am one of his Agents, and I would say he should be thanked – T'Leth is almost certainly the reason why the Imperator hasn't come and ended this war himself. Just us Humans? We don't have anything to match him." He jerked a thumb behind him. "T'Leth does."

"When you say Agent, what do you mean?" Zhi asked warily. "Ambassador?"

"Ambassador, vessel, and soldier," Harper said. "He is… old. Older than our modern species. He has seen and experienced things we would struggle to understand. There is a cosmic cycle in play here that we are only experiencing the smallest effects of right now. It is one that promises our doom – regardless of our victory in this war or not."

Orla was also watching him carefully. "What are you saying? There is something worse?"

"There are many things worse than the Imperator, difficult as it is to believe now," Harper said with an iron-clad promise. "They range from other Sovereigns using species as proxies and puppets, to machine fleets that come to harvest those ravaged by these conflicts between would-be gods. The gods always flee, and come back with new puppets under their thrall."

Loke felt himself going cold. "And… is that what we are to T'Leth."

"No," Harper emphasized. "The absolute opposite. T'Leth finds that… distasteful and pointless. His reach into the lives of mortals is through his Agents. Us. We provide context to him. To Sovereigns, mortal species are like insects. Living, fighting, dying, in the span of moments. Thus, few attract his attention – but this time, it is different. This time, there is a chance for things to change, for a Sovereign and mortal species to work as allies. The Imperator and Ethereal Collective is the first step in forging this."

"That's all well and good," Orla said. "And this is… very interesting, to put it lightly – but what about us? Why are we talking? We didn't even mean to intrude on T'Leth, and didn't desire any part of this."

"No, you didn't," Harper agreed. "You were never supposed to know of this, yet you do, and T'Leth has taken notice. You have all kept the orbs that were granted, did you not?"

Loke nodded, he'd taken to carrying it around in his pocket. It had a calming effect on him for some reason, even if it was rather warm to the touch. "Many people get rid of them if they encounter them," he said. "They forget them, they store them away, or simply lose them. All of you have kept them, and that does not happen unless there is something that T'Leth thinks links you to his larger goals."

"Meaning?" Loke asked.

"T'Leth stirs in the deep," Harper said. "He has gradually awakened, and his time to arise is coming near. With it, come war and ruin – fortunately, such are directed against the Ethereal Collective. For that, he needs soldiers, he needs those who will see to it that the tyrants of this galaxy are cast down, and the cycle shattered beyond repair."

Harper looked deep into their eyes, lingering on each for several long seconds. "Each of you has a desire to topple the regent that threatens Earth now – the Imperator. T'Leth promises regicide and ruin for such abusers of power. That is what he offers for your consideration now."

Harper spread his hands. "Stay and fight for ADVENT. You all will do well, and your skills will be needed in the coming days. Or there is another path for you, one which will allow you to bring ruin to the Ethereal Collective and their ilk. Think, and consider carefully – this will not be offered again."

As Harper finished, it seemed that the small orb in his pocket had grown noticeably warmer, and Loke could not deny that what the man was saying sounded tempting and convincing. There was an authentic fire in his eyes that could not be denied. There were questions that should be asked, but he felt like, at least this time, they weren't needed.

It wasn't a question of if Harper was telling the truth.

It was a question of what they, of what he wanted.

And right now, he knew what he wanted.

Hangar, the Praesidium – Classified Location

8/6/2017 – 9:22 A.M.

Things had changed significantly in the following days on Vitakar. As it turned out, even if Nartha had wanted to continue working with the Nulorian, it was almost certain he would have been sent back. Nartha didn't know the exact specifics, but after Zhang and several senior XCOM Intelligence agents had shown up to talk to Miridian, he'd known that there were major changes coming.

In certain ways, it was a relief to be gone. Working with the Nulorian had been an experience, a complicated one that he was fine with never experiencing again. It had certainly taught him a lot about them, their mindsets, and that Miridian was arguably more extreme than even the Zar'Chon.

The Zar'Chon, at least, was not interested in, nor had entertained the idea of racial genocide. His own motives were hardly pure, but there was a rationality to the Zar'Chon that stood in stark contrast to some of what he'd seen of Miridian. However, Miridian was far from an idiot; his own survival had proven as much, and he rarely made mistakes that couldn't be recovered from.

Well, he wished XCOM luck in managing him. He'd done what he could, and when the time came to actually liberate Vitakar, it would hopefully come under circumstances that were not outright terrorism. He hated that a not-insignificant part of the Vitakara no doubt thought that XCOM was behind the bombing – and it wouldn't have been plausible, were it not for the previous actions of the Nulorian.

Miridian had never been shy about his beliefs and intentions.

"You're quiet," Shun said as they stood in the Hangar, having been returned some minutes before. Workers, engineers, and pilots all worked, milled around, or chatted with each other amid the bustling sounds of work in the background. "You alright?"

"Yes, just… thinking…" Nartha said, looking around. "Seems some things have changed."

"A bit, but most of it is just how you left it," she took his hand and prodded him forward, and both of them began walking out of the Hangar bay.

Nartha eyed the groups of people. "XCOM's gotten bigger, I think."

"Yeah, it has," Shun agreed. "More engineers, scientists, soldiers, everything is expanding. Have new bases built too."

"Really?"

"Yep; one for aliens, one for families, another for some advanced projects," she said. "Though the majority are still here, obviously. I wouldn't be surprised if XCOM kept expanding, though; it only seems to be getting larger."

Nartha nodded, and they rounded a few corners. No one seemed to pay much mind to them; in fact, a few of them waved, nodded, or smiled. "It's funny," he mused as they walked. "I don't think anyone has recognized me."

"I'd be surprised if they did, honestly," Shun shrugged. "They remember you as a Human."

That was very true. "Still, will they know who I am?"

"Maybe? I don't know for sure," Shun admitted as they passed an armored squad. "I think most of the new personnel are brought up to speed on it, but in general… they're more distracted by things like the Sovereign Ones and our intel on Ethereals to really worry about the first alien defector."

He mimed a sigh of disappointment. "To be reduced to a footnote in the history of XCOM. Sad."

Shun snorted, and looked up at him, eyes playful. "Not very humble, or befitting of a spy."

"I was able to infiltrate a completely Human organization, undetected," he said. "Objectively, I am entitled to some respect. Now I am overshadowed by large psionic fish."

She laughed at that. "I'd like you to say that to one of the Agents."

"I'll have to judge if they'll take mockery well," Nartha said dryly. "Ir Nara, for example, I would not try that with."

"Probably smart."

Both of them approached the Barracks, and Nartha saw a familiar face. "Nartha," Anius Creed greeted, shaking his hand. "Welcome back. It's been some time."

"Yes it has," he said. "How are you holding up?"

Creed grimaced. "Managing. Luckily more important things to worry about than her."

In some respects, that was true. At the same time, given Patricia's importance, it was impossible to ignore unless Creed was deliberately recusing himself from anything related to her, which might make sense. It would be very difficult for him to remain objective if Shun defected to the Collective, and also tried to kill him.

"You'll be put in barracks of your choice," Creed continued. "Most alien personnel are in Paperclip base – which I believe Shun explained to you, right?"

"She mentioned it, yes."

"That is where the majority of our alien personnel stay for the night," he said. "Most still work here, though many have families, and there are anatomical differences that make the standardized rooms here difficult. You'll be moved back to combat operations, so you'll have the option."

"I was going to ask about that," Nartha said. "Now that I'm back, what will I be doing? I would have said return to operations, though with the creation of this Chimera Squad…"

"That is to be determined," Creed said. "Sorry, it's not finalized where you'll be moved yet. Given what you've done for us, and your experience, you have some freedom the others don't. However, I do know the Commander planned to have a discussion with you about your role soon. I think he has you in mind for a new position."

"Oh?"

"There's a lot going on, however," Creed cautioned. "So for now, you're being placed on combat operations; standard missions, no Chimera Squad unless you say otherwise. Is that good?"

"It is," Nartha confirmed. "I just need to get caught up on all the improvements."

Creed smiled. "There's quite a few of those. Welcome back, Nartha. XCOM is glad to have you again."

Research Labs, the Praesidium – Classified Location

8/7/2017 – 7:45 P.M.

It was definitely something which was starkly alien in it's own way, but also oddly Human. The suit of armor that was now in XCOM's possession was standing upright, propped up by a custom rig with a number of sensors around it. Scientists and engineers were poring over magnified images of every single piece and joint, looking for some clue as to how it worked.

"Still no progress?" the Commander asked Vahlen.

"I wouldn't categorize it quite like that," Vahlen said cautiously, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "Progress has been made… though not in the directions we expected, so to speak."

Iosif had been appraising the suit for a few minutes in silence, pacing around it to get a good look. "In what way, doctor?"

"Namely, I think I know what spooked ADVENT. It wasn't because it was necessarily so advanced they couldn't reverse-engineer or open it," Vahlen paused. "Look at these symbols, etched into the breastplate and forearms." She showed him several images from her tablet.

"I don't suppose you recognize them?" Iosif glanced over to the Commander.

"Afraid not," the Commander shook his head. "It's not Ethereal Script."

"No, it's not in a language anyone knows," Vahlen said. "Or so we thought. I asked the Chronicler if he knew – surprisingly, he recognized some of them."

"Sovereign?"

"No, or at least he denied such," Vahlen quickly clarified. "No, he said to check with the Vatican."

Iosif raised an eyebrow. "The Vatican?"

"Yes," Vahlen confirmed. "He didn't elaborate, but we did, and this was what we got back." She showed another image – this one with very similar symbols, though etched into things like wood, plates, and other common items. Still, common or not, that was definitely something which could generously be characterized as odd.

"I don't think that's a coincidence," Iosif said slowly. "Which begs the question of why, exactly, symbols which are on this clearly alien suit, are also in the Vatican of all places."

"I don't suppose the Vatican has an explanation?" The Commander asked, crossing his arms.

Vahlen smiled thinly. "We're waiting on that. I believe the Chronicler said he was going to pay them a visit. I have a feeling he knows more about this than he's letting on."

"Probably." That would be something he'd have to follow up on, as that was not something he really wanted to let rest considering the implications. He could see why ADVENT would want this immediately moved to them. Beyond the headache of actually figuring out what it was… they had T'Leth, and insights that might be able to answer the more troubling questions.

Supposedly.

Vahlen appeared to not be done. "Based on that, it seems ADVENT did find some more… stories, I suppose, that relate to that symbol," she hesitated. "I'm hesitant to consider it with any degree of seriousness considering the claims, but I have to admit, it would be a coincidence if there was no connection whatsoever."

Iosif crossed his arms. "Seems to be a common theme. I'm curious, even if it's nothing."

"Right," Vahlen nodded, bringing up more notes on her tablet. "There are stories that are connected to this symbol - old documents, from the Church of England, Brittania, and several other English historical institutions - ones that chronicle older legends. The stories focus on various degrees of tyranny and horror, but there is one singular constant - the villain is always a man 'possessed by demonic armor'."

The Commander raised an eyebrow. "Really."

"Really," she nodded. "They describe superhuman feats that clearly would not have been possible, from destroying a port city and fleet, before establishing a rule of tyranny. Another describes an invading Roman legion that was killed to a man, and a grave made of their swords. The last one describes a local lord who found a set of armor, wore it against the advice of others, and went on to terrorize the population." She shook her head. "I imagine most or all of the stories are exaggerated or outright fake. Legends, as so many believed, but I find it difficult to ignore the coincidence."

"That raises some problems," the Commander said. "Namely, that it seems the alien was not idle for his time on Earth. Died of old age?"

"Probably," Iosif said. "Unless they're Ethereals or Sovereigns, nothing lives forever."

Vahlen's eyebrows furrowed. "If I may hazard a theory… I'm not certain that there was ever an alien alive on Earth. At least not for very long." She noted her tablet. "A repeated theme of the stories is 'possession', and the wearers were Human. If it was an alien performing these, I believe they would have just been referred to as a demon or some other kind of superstition for the time."

"The implication being that the suit is alive?" the Commander asked.

"I think we may need to consider that possibility," Vahlen said slowly. "That theory comes with its own issues, namely why an alien suit could successfully merge with Human biology, or what the nature of this 'possession' is."

Iosif looked at it thoughtfully. "Could it be some kind of biological augmentor? Not really 'possession' so much as flooding the body with stimulants? Boosting natural aggression and heightened senses? If this suit was designed to be worn into battle, both would be good, but again, this was designed for an alien - these stories describe these people being 'changed' to some degree. If this battlesuit was augmenting them somehow, it could explain their personality changes."

"And give men power, and many will abuse it," the Commander finished, pleased with Iosif's idea. "Good hypothesis."

"Indeed," Vahlen made another note. "Certainly plausible. The other is that there is a limited AI in the suit, though I don't know how it would be able to successfully interface with Human psychology and biology."

"The point being that the suit is likely more than just a suit," the Commander said.

"Almost certainly, Commander," Vahlen agreed. "Regardless of the validity of the stories, there is enough to imply that this suit is dangerous in more ways than one. What we've learned about the composition has not dispelled that."

She returned her focus to the suit. "We're making some progress identifying what it is made out of," Vahlen continued. "No luck getting into it – it's unbelievably durable. However the metal the armor is made out of seems to be a variant of the metal the swords recovered from the Bastion were."

"Another odd connection," Iosif noted.

"Indeed," the Commander said thoughtfully, appraising the suit. "How old did you say this suit was?"

"ADVENT estimated several centuries," Vahlen said. "From our estimates… it's much older than that. I would say between one thousand and fifteen hundred years, give or take a few decades. This suit has been on Earth for a long, long time."

"It's in remarkable condition if it's that old," Iosif said. "Shouldn't this have degraded a long time ago?"

"Yes. It should have," Vahlen said definitively. "A suit of armor, in the ocean, exposed to salt, chemicals, and wildlife should have broken apart or rusted away centuries ago. But frankly, the most significant damage is superficial. There are only a few components that appear to be actively damaged, as well as a few clear places of damage on the armor. Something curious?"

"What?"

She pointed at the section of the armor, a piece of the leg which had a slightly bumpy texture. "What do you think caused that?"

"Acid?" Iosif asked. "Wait – no, psionics?"

"That is the working hypothesis," Vahlen confirmed. "The suit appears immune to acids, as well as other irritants – we've tried multiple tests, and this suit dulls saw blades in seconds. There doesn't seem to be anything less than psionics that can conventionally damage it – and even then the damage seems minimal."

"What about these?" Iosif knelt down, looking at the back of a leg. "Doesn't look like an original part."

"No, it isn't," Vahlen confirmed. "There are patches like that around the whole suit - this was clearly patched several times, but the really odd thing? Every single one of those patches has been repaired multiple times. This is not anywhere else on the suit."

Iosif frowned. "Meaning…"

"Meaning that those were likely there when the suit ended up on Earth," Vahlen said. "Perhaps initial damage. The patches were done to cover the obvious weaknesses, but they aren't made of the exact same metal. Similar, but weaker, and required replacement now and then."

"Is there a theory as to why this is presumably Human-sized?" the Commander asked. "It's certainly a coincidence that an alien would just so happen to have the same anatomy we do, down to the nominal height and proportions."

"And fingers." Iosif added.

Vahlen put a finger to her lips. "The engineers who looked this over made several interesting notes. Take a look at how the plates are designed and positioned along the suit - they said that there was clear room for modification - this armor was made by masters." the Commander took a closer look as she continued. "It seems almost certain that the suit can be extensively modified - but it requires access to the internals of the suit."

"More evidence that there is some kind of additional process here," Iosif muttered quietly. "Some kind of machine interface might be able to adapt to unique anatomy, especially if there is no easy way to modify just from the exterior."

"Or there is a lock on the inside," Vahlen countered. "The issue I take with that is that it would necessitate a fairly powerful AI, and even the Andromedons say that is either extremely advanced, or impossible due to the lack of appropriate power."

"Maybe a network?" the Commander wondered. "The suit could connect, and it was managed by an exterior entity?"

"Plausible," Vahlen nodded. "We'll be able to determine that when we finally open it."

The Commander nodded. "You said there were damaged components you're fixing?"

"Yes, here, here, and here," she said, pointing to a few places around the head and neck. "The suit has remarkably few external vulnerabilities. Still, no suit is impenetrable, and we estimate that we'll be able to repair the components very soon. It's a delicate process."

Iosif leaned closer to the suit. "These parts don't look very advanced."

"Because they aren't," Vahlen said. "I suspect that whatever incident led to the suit landing on Earth damaged the components, just like the suit. The result is a significant amount of the parts were jury-rigged or otherwise held together with duct tape and hope. Given the period the suit existed in, it would have been impossible to acquire needed parts."

Iosif glanced over at her. "I wonder if that is why the suit disappeared. It just ran out of power or couldn't run anymore."

"Possible," Vahlen agreed. "It doesn't explain how it ended underwater, but suit failure is likely why it vanished after a short period. It is difficult to employ an advanced alien suit on a primitive world for long without sustainable power. Now, though, we can begin proper repairs."

The Commander nodded. "And then what?"

"We're not sure," she said. "If our theory is correct, it might restore power to the suit, which should allow us to hack and open it. Otherwise, it could also do nothing. This is effectively a black box. We don't know what it is, what it can do, and what is inside it."

"If there is an AI or even a simple intelligence inside," Iosif wondered. "Is there a risk it could also… wake up, so to speak?"

"Possible, but that is unlikely to be a problem," Vahlen dismissed. "It is very unlikely that any AI would have access to the motor functions of the suit, even if it could regulate internal systems. Still, I suppose we shouldn't rely on that, though proper restraints would be...difficult."

"Why?" the Commander asked.

"Because the engineers ran some simulations," Vahlen tapped one of the joints. "The mechanics of the suit are likely off the charts. This suit could break the bones of one of our soldiers. It could theoretically run through most concrete walls, and be hit by a car and the wearer would be fine."

"The more we talk about this," the Commander said slowly. "The more it seems like it came from a Sovereign."

"That is not implausible," Vahlen said, briefly brushing another strand out of her face. "We have that on our list of possibilities, though every Agent of T'Leth I've talked to does not believe it is Sovereign. Extremely advanced, but not to that degree. Both Aegis and Caelior say that a suit of theoretical capabilities could definitely be created by the Ethereal Empire. The suit of the Grandmaster was described similarly, though with Ethereal biology and psionic augmentations, I'm not certain it's comparable."

"Out of curiosity," Iosif asked. "If it was a Sovereign One behind this, which one would it be?"

Vahlen considered that for a moment. "That is a better question to ask the Chronicler. Based on what we know of the other Sovereigns, I would say Classemque or Exspirant. Perhaps the Leviathan. The sheer military capability implies T'Leth, but that is clearly not the case."

"Good work so far," the Commander said. "Quite a mystery this suit is."

"One that will be solved," Vahlen promised. "It is only a matter of time."

Iosif rubbed his chin. "I don't suppose the last person to use it might still be in there?"

"Their remains probably are," Vahlen wrinkled her nose. "And I'm mentally preparing for the smell when we open it. Normally, I would say the inhabitant rotted away long ago, but given how sealed the suit is, I imagine there are at least bones inside."

Well, they would find out one way or another – hopefully sooner than later. "Beyond the suit, you said you had another update?"

"Yes," Vahlen motioned for them to follow. "We are preparing for Spartacus to be fully awakened."

"I keep forgetting that is one of our projects," Iosif muttered to himself. "You'd think that us growing a hyper-intelligent Muton would stick in my mind more."

"We've had a lot going on," the Commander noted. "Truthfully, I'd also forgotten the deadline was coming up. Vahlen?"

"The procedure appears to have proceeded without incident," she said, as they came up to a massive tank within which a Muton resided. It was massive, more comparable to a Praetorian than a regular soldier. Even regular Sargons weren't this large. "The modifications have been accepted, and we're awaiting the brain to enter a mature state where we can begin the memory flashes."

"Are those reliable?" The Commander asked.

"We've used them for faster Muton disposables," Vahlen said. "Memory retention appears to be working, and we'll be taking our time here, using psions where appropriate to ensure there are no issues."

"Don't mess with his mind too much," the Commander said. "I want him to be his own person… Muton… you understand."

"Of course, but here we're going to be safe rather than sorry," Vahlen promised.

"It sounds good," Iosif said, carefully appraising the Muton. "Though I do wonder if it was necessary to make him so… big."

The Commander chuckled. "I think we can handle one big, non-psionic Muton."

"Maybe not if he's supposed to be hyper-intelligent," Iosif said, half-joking. "I believe this was how Frankenstein happened, no?"

Vahlen made an indignant noise. "Frankenstein made a number of errors that I am making sure are not replicated here."

"Doctor, I'm pretty sure Frankenstein was not meant to be a guide," Iosif pinched the bridge of his nose, while the Commander restrained his amusement. "But… well, carry on."

"There are some things I need to take care of as well," the Commander said, briefly giving her a kiss. "See you tonight."

"Mhmm, tonight," she nodded, as he and Iosif left the room.

"What else do you have, Commander?" Iosif wondered as they walked. "I believe all the war briefings are done for today, and the meetings finished."

"Something else," the Commander said, a grimace forming on his face. "I decided to do a review of Operation Scipio, since I haven't taken the time to fully review that operation in the past months. The broad strokes I knew, but…" he trailed off briefly.

Iosif shot him a look. "It's usually a lot to make you hesitate, Commander."

"What ADVENT is doing qualifies, Iosif," the Commander said grimly. "I'm aware I'm not really one to talk necessarily about this, but my experience gave me insight into what is needed to manage those kinds of operations and…" he shook his head. "ADVENT has absolutely no idea what they are doing."

"What do you mean?" Iosif wondered. "I know it's harsh, but…"

"Because ADVENT is telling their soldiers this is not something that is wrong," the Commander said. "I had a small team. Each of us knew what we were going to do, and knew what we were doing was horrific, wrong, and we would be condemned rightly by history. Justified, but we were under no illusions of what we were doing."

Iosif nodded slowly. "And that is… not something ADVENT took into account."

"Even if they did, they can't," the Commander shook his head. "ADVENT is composed of millions of soldiers, and effectively relying on them to police themselves. That doesn't work, and clearly hasn't worked. ADVENT let soldiers off the leash, without realizing what that means on a personal level. When put into situations where you must commit atrocity, people will either break or embrace it most of the time. Very few are capable of performing such actions, while retaining enough self-reflection to realize what they are doing isn't right and isn't supposed to be normal."

He pursed his lips as they approached his office. "This is what special forces are for. I don't know how many soldiers are going to be scarred by what they did here, and I'm much more concerned with the sociopaths that ADVENT has accidentally created because they wanted revenge against Betos."

Iosif was silent for a moment. "That really is bad, then. Isn't that… something ADVENT should have seen coming, and prevented? This kind of oversight is unlike them."

"That is another concerning thing about this," the Commander said. "That to my knowledge, no one stepped in to push back on the idea. Most military commanders would see the inherent problems and risks with this. I could never see Van Doorn approving this, and he was one of the more pragmatic ones. If no one raised these concerns? That is a concerning development for their military leadership."

"Or," Iosif thought. "They were ignored or overruled."

"Also possible," the Commander nodded. "And I doubt this was their intention, but it wasn't thought through. Not fully. It was to send a message and punish Betos, while ignoring the clear downsides of torching large swathes of the continent. ADVENT likely thought they could curb abuses through discipline and fear, though they failed to account for Scipio itself being an abuse."

"Maybe some issue with the system itself," Iosif ventured. "It shouldn't inherently lean towards this. Arguably, Deus Vult was also emulating this mindset."

The Commander grimaced. It wasn't exactly the same, but he also knew where Iosif was going with this. "The goals were different, as well as the execution. Though the justification of the ends perhaps paved the way. I just didn't expect this to be the ends that would be justified."

Iosif raised an eyebrow. "I'm surprised to hear you make a moral argument against this."

The Commander snorted. "This isn't a moral argument, Iosif. It's a pragmatic one. Morality, all different shades of it, are embedded in people, like it or not. It shapes them, and we ignore that at our own peril for the psychological impact, if nothing else. You can send a father with a wife and children and order him to fire white phosphorus into a city. Put him behind a helmet and give orders, and he will go along with it, even if he's a good person. But that action will affect him forever, especially if he is not prepared to make those decisions. I shouldn't have to explain why that is bad in the long term for ADVENT and their military."

"You don't need to convince me, Commander," Iosif raised a hand in defense. "I agree, which is to say nothing of the political ramifications. It plays into Betos' hands."

"That is true, but not especially relevant," the Commander said. "We don't make decisions based on how our enemies will perceive us, but if they are both justified and intelligent. Scipio has shaky justification, and is absolutely not intelligent."

"The question, I suppose, is what to do," Iosif mused.

"I know where to start," the Commander rubbed his forehead as he took a seat. "And that is something I'm going to correct. I have a message to write to the Oversight Division. I imagine they're aware of the situation at this point. My concerns may do something to emphasize that."

Iosif nodded slowly. "Saudia won't be happy."

"I doubt that Saudia even knows the worst of this," the Commander nodded at the reports. "Most of this was from XCOM Intelligence. I have no idea what ADVENT is sharing with her – from the military or intelligence side. It's entirely possible that it isn't a focus at all, and she's ignorant."

"But…"

"But, she's smart enough to know better," the Commander's eyes narrowed. "Putting soldiers into positions like that without making sure they can handle what you are asking of them is the height of irresponsibility. There is a reason I am keeping Conley away from our bloodier operations. I know better than to traumatize a kid, and that is what ADVENT is doing, unwittingly or not. It doesn't matter how many they rotate out, you don't participate in something like that and not somehow change."

"I do wonder, though," Iosif pursed his lips. "Someone on Oversight approved Scipio. I wonder…"

"I'm not surprised," the Commander said. "Oversight simply looks at the justification and the argument for it. On paper, there is a very strong argument for Operation Scipio, especially if there are safeguards put in place. Where Oversight failed was ignoring the long-term psychological and political effects, and focusing within a strict set of parameters. I suspect that if action is taken, there will be some changes to how Oversight manages these situations."

"Let us hope," Iosif glanced at the files. "You mind if I take these?"

"Go ahead. Feel free to send your own report to Oversight."

"I'm more interested in if they'll do anything," Iosif admitted, walking over and picking up the files. "What even can they do?"

"Good question," the Commander said. "In theory? They can do a lot. I do trust Watkins. If he thinks something should be done – and I think he will – then something will be done."

"I guess we'll see," Iosif said. "Have a good night, Commander."

"You too, Iosif."

Zinder – Niger

8/2/2017 – 7:17 P.M.

The retreat from Kano had happened, and there had been relatively few casualties from it, though it had resulted in ADVENT losing another front deeper into the SAS. As a result, efforts had been moved to the attack on Zinder, a smaller, but still important city some ways north, which had been under siege by ADVENT.

And unlike Kano, the defenses weren't nearly as advanced.

The emplacements had long-since been destroyed, and snipers shot any engineers who tried to fix them. They'd tried to get around ADVENT firing on them by dressing up as civilians, or even using civilian engineers. ADVENT shot them too. Almost all routes into the city had been cut, and per Scipio protocol, the only exit was south.

An exit that few were taking, though there were a number of trucks that left everyday. Drones patrolled the skies above, and cameras and observers covertly watched the roads to make sure that there weren't military evacuations taking place. The roads had massive holes and shrapnel in them from the drone strikes after a convoy of soldiers had tried escaping the city.

Kaya remembered driving past some of the wrecks, in silence with the rest of her unit. There were quite a few SAS soldiers, but she didn't fail to notice that those hadn't been the only occupants in the vehicles. She'd asked one of the other soldiers what had happened. He'd shrugged and made a comment along the lines of civilians shouldn't have been riding with them.

Zinder kept holding out, and ADVENT continued to intensify their pushes.

Every day, dozens of canisters were launched into the city, fired by artillery, or launched by drones. There'd been some days where it seemed like the city was engulfed in fog, but in reality it was simply doused in a toxic mixture of chemicals. They'd run out of white phosphorus some time ago, and until they received new supplies, they were making do with tear gas.

Ironically, that might have been why the city was still holding out.

The civilians just kept staying in their homes, sealed for the most part away from the gas. Reports indicated that food was being distributed indoors, and always covered to prevent it from being poisoned. The military employed gas masks courtesy of the Collective, and the few Gateways they had ensured they wouldn't run out of food or supplies.

It struck Kaya as an extremely pointless stalemate.

There wasn't any question of who had the advantage. From her count, they had at least a third more manpower than the SAS, and their logistics were keeping up with the demands of the siege just fine. Yet ADVENT seemed to insist on staying put until some undetermined right moment. She'd asked Freya about it.

The answer had disconcerted her. "If we move in, people are going to die," she'd said. "Not theirs – ours. The longer we wait, the more we saturate them with poison, and the more our snipers pick off, the more hospitals and fuel depots we drone, the fewer of us will die. It's a numbers game, Kaya. ADVENT knows what they're doing."

She could see what they were doing, but…that number was never going to be brought down to zero, especially as long as those Gateways remained intact. At some point, they needed to move in, and in the meantime, they were content to turn the city into a poisonous hellhole. Kaya didn't especially feel bad for the soldiers or aliens, but she'd seen some of the pictures from within.

People were starving. They distrusted the aliens. They distrusted Betos. They didn't want to leave. They couldn't go outside. They couldn't move. They were afraid leaving through the Gateway would lead to their capture. They were afraid leaving on the roads would mean they died by drone. Most of them appeared to be preparing to die.

Then again, Kaya supposed that may have been the point. Scipio was about turning not just one city, but swathes of the continent into a toxic hellhole incapable of supporting life for years unless there was intervention. The time she'd had to just stand and watch ADVENT wage this war had made her think.

She was proud to serve ADVENT. She'd been proud to serve in the Order of Terra, to fight in Beijing and free the country. Scipio had not made her feel proud, but dirty, especially knowing what ADVENT was going to do to the civilians when the city was captured. Some would be shot for resisting, others crippled when they fought back, the rest placed on a march deeper into the already overburdened SAS.

Which was, again the point.

It wasn't something she wanted to do any longer, though had few outlets. Hence why she was sitting in her small tent, typing on her computer. Genevieve stood nearby, her arms crossed. "You sure this is something you want to do?"

"Not really," Kaya admitted, briefly closing her eyes. "Best case, nothing happens. At worst, I get an unceremonious discharge."

"Exactly," Genevieve said with a nod. "You do know Oversight had to be signing off on all of this before it happened, right? No way did the Commander authorize this without someone looking it over."

"The operation, sure," Kaya said. "On paper, you can make it look simple enough. Or clean. I'm not sure they know how it actually played out, or how it is playing out. Did you sign up to put civilians on death marches and gas everyone else who resisted? Do you really think we're doing the right thing here?"

"Fuck no," Genevieve scowled. "We're soldiers, though. We follow orders, and sometimes those orders are…this," she motioned aimlessly. "ADVENT's not exactly a moral entity. No more Geneva, remember."

"Yeah, and not everyone is okay with that," Kaya briefly closed her eyes. "Doesn't help that anyone who brings this up seems to get rotated out faster. I was nearby when a Colonel and an officer got into an argument. Think he was gone the next day. Doubt he was the only one."

Genevieve winced. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"Moral entity or not, there is a line, though," Kaya insisted. "And one that I crossed myself long ago. That's not an excuse. In ten years, assuming we win the war, do you think anyone is going to look at this as justified?"

"Depends on if we collapse the SAS from it," she answered flatly. "ADVENT will spin it regardless. Even if there's a big public movement to address what we did here, do you really think ADVENT is going to care? They have the power, and don't exactly care if people are mad at them."

"But that's it," Kaya scowled. "We're not here to win! That's what makes this worse – we're only here to kill and damage – and then leave. The SAS isn't going to collapse from this. They have the Collective – who hasn't stopped supporting them. Answer me, Genevieve – what are we actually accomplishing here?"

Genevieve bit her lip, looking down briefly. "Forcing the Collective to invest a lot more than they otherwise would have, I guess. And killing a good number of SAS soldiers."

"Right," Kaya stated with a nod. "And what part of 'winning' does that sound like to you? So the Collective sends more terraformers, resources, and drones to fix everything – big deal. It's not like they have an interstellar alliance of alien governments they can get that from – and who knows how many planets."

She shook her head. "And we lose a lot more. We just made Betos look justified. The rest of the continent either hates us or fears us. Soldiers died here for a mission that isn't even going to matter." The more she spoke out loud everything bubbling to the surface, the angrier she felt at this entire pointless situation. "Even putting all that aside, I'd like to sleep at night not wondering if I'm just going along with ADVENT's Nanking."

Kaya took a breath. "I have a responsibility beyond just ADVENT. I may be Empress in title only, but it means something. And I shouldn't be doing this without…doing something. No one here wants to listen to me, or says it's out of their control. So, this is the only route left. If Oversight doesn't do anything, then I guess there's nothing left. At least I can say I did everything I could."

"Mmm," Genevieve was quiet for a moment. "Do you think they'll do anything?"

"Maybe?" Kaya sighed. "I'd like to have faith, but even then, I don't know what they can do. Stopping the entire operation isn't going to happen, and this is being run by the Commander herself. I could see a few people getting punished, and maybe a change in tactics, but realistically…that's probably the best to hope for. Maybe I'll be surprised. Or disappointed."

She looked back at her screen. "Supposedly this is what Oversight exists for. I suppose I'll find out if they're as unbiased and effective as ADVENT likes to claim. Checks and balances, so it goes."

"Hope you're right," Genevieve said, walking over. "Once you're done, I'll write up something too."

Kaya looked up in surprise. "Changed your mind that fast?"

"I'm not a heartless monster like what ADVENT wants here," she scowled. "You don't get to fire rockets into hospitals and call yourself the good guy. I don't like it either, regardless of ADVENT's justifications. If you're going to do it, might as well back you up. I can at least give Oversight another piece of data to corroborate what you said, if they're really ignorant of everything."

Kaya smiled. "Alright, in that case, maybe you want to look over what I have?"

Genevieve pulled over a chair, and peered incredulously at the screen. "How the fuck do you have ten pages? This is an essay, not a letter."

"I've got a lot to say."

"Guess I shouldn't be surprised," she muttered, crossing one leg over the other. "Guess we're going to be here a while."

Presidential Palace, Paris – France

8/13/2017 – 11:29 A.M.

While Ankara was being prepared for the final decision as to the fate of the country, there were discussions to be had, and decisions to be made. There were a small group of people who were going to be involved in this process, and today was the day when everything would be properly started.

Saudia had been appraised that there were several different approaches being considered in regards to Turkey, as well as the remaining government personnel who were in a limbo state of not being under arrest, but definitely under observation and stripped of any authority while ADVENT provided administrative support to the region.

The two most prominent figures involved? Unsurprisingly, one was Hakeem al-Saud, which she'd expected given his influence in the region, and that any Turkish state would come under his influence. His own knowledge and connections to the region were similarly what made him relevant.

The second was one who hadn't originally been anticipated. Doué Le Suivre, the President of France, had also more recently become involved in high-level decisions of ADVENT. Normally, Saudia would have been suspicious of such an individual suddenly involving themselves when they didn't need to.

Le Suivre, however, was far more qualified than she'd originally thought. Every ADVENT official she'd interacted with familiar with him had praised his work, and considered him knowledgeable, intelligent, and persuasive. He also, according to ADVENT Intelligence's assessment, was an unofficial rival of Hakeem, and it had been ADVENT's agreement to rebuild Mecca that had made him move into the active policy development in ADVENT.

She'd only met him briefly, and at the time nothing had seemed especially unique about him, which was truthfully a relief. She largely just wanted him to be able to manage his country competently, and he was doing that very well. She was very interested to see what he would be proposing today.

He had also graciously invited the talks to be hosted in France. Hardly a neutral location, but he likely knew better than to think that would be an influential factor in her decision making. The room they were in was quite lavish, with ornate carpets, blue and gold drapes, crystal chandeliers, and a long oak table.

Chief Diplomat Hassan and Kyong accompanied her, as her primary policy experts in this matter. There were no military personnel invited, though they would be consulted as needed. Hakeem had already arrived, and greeted her as she entered. "Chancellor," he shook her hand. "I trust your trip was pleasant?"

"Pleasant enough. Yours?"

"Made less enjoyable by the piling work at home," he said. "But fine, nonetheless."

"An unfortunate reality in our line of work," Saudia looked around. "I suppose Suivre has yet to show?"

"It appears so," Hakeem said, the corners of his lips twitching. "Though perhaps he got lost. It is a large palace."

"He has a few minutes before it starts," Saudia said, taking a seat. "I'm looking forward to your input."

"This will be a long day, Chancellor," he said, also taking a seat. "A long and contentious day, a habit of the French, it seems."

She gave the barest of smiles. It wasn't entirely incorrect. "I am very aware of that, al-Saud."

Only moments later did the door open, and Doué Le Suivre entered. Dressed in a simple suit and tie, emulating the ADVENT colors of black, grey, and red, he still was able to be somewhat striking. Silver groomed hair framed his face, falling just above his shoulders and curling at the ends. A neat moustache covered his upper lip, on a face which had many wrinkles.

His eyes of blue were nonetheless bright, with a look of calculation and fire she had seen within many individuals who were particularly driven. On the outside, his appearance was almost grandfatherly, but in reality she suspected he was less innocent that his outward appearance suggested.

His right arm was also a prosthetic. From what she understood, he had lost the arm many years ago, and had only received a prosthetic as the technology advanced. It was silver, and like her, he had eschewed artificial skin or other efforts to hide it. A decision she respected, and she wondered what it was like to regain such mobility after it was previously lost for years.

"[Chancellor,]" he said, in very accented, but still very clear Hausa. "[Welcome to the Palace proper. I apologize that we have never had the opportunity to properly meet before now, though I understand that you are a busy woman.]"

He shook her hand, with his left arm, as his right one hung by his side. She raised an eyebrow. "[I was unaware you spoke Hausa, Mr. President.]"

He smiled. "[I lived in Algeria for much of my youth, Chancellor. It was useful to learn the regional languages.]"

"[An immigrant, then?]"

He laughed. "[No, the son of a foreign minister. My time in Northern Africa was an interesting one, and taught me many valuable lessons.]"

Hassan coughed. "Apologies to your guests," Suivre said, as they moved to take their seats. "I realized I was running somewhat behind schedule. Now though, I'm ready to begin."

"Then I suppose there is the matter of presentation order," Kyong said. "I do not suppose that was determined?"

"Not officially, Minister," Suivre lifted a hand. "However, I will save everyone the trouble. I will defer to my colleague, he can present his ideas first."

Saudia knew a calculation when she saw it, and there was quite a lot about Suivre that was calculated, though not in the traditional way. Normally, such manipulation was to shore up weaknesses or hide deficiencies others may notice. Flattery was done to dull and impress the target to make up for a lackluster demonstration.

However, Suivre appeared to be signaling something else. Namely, I know what I'm doing, and you are going to see just how much. It was a bold move, it remained to be seen if it would pay off.

"Thank you for your confidence, President Suivre," Hakeem stood, and on cue a projection began, displaying a map of the country. "Chancellor, before us lay two choices. To divide and conquer, or to find concordance. After consultation with regional stakeholders and inhabitants, I see a path where concordance is possible, and attainable with relative ease."

He indicated a purple-marked region. "Of course, I am aware of the agreement with the Kurds, and the Kurdistan region should be allocated to them as agreed. Beyond that, it risks fracturing a people who are already skeptical of ADVENT. Many of them fought against the illegitimate regime, but they did not do so for us. What I propose is that we work to harness this perception."

"The perception of what, President?" Saudia frowned.

"Of another age of Western imperialism," Hakeem explained. "History has repeated itself like a broken record, and ADVENT, it seems, has been irreverent of that. You see an opportunity, you invade, and you install. While Turkey is far from the situation of Deus Vult, you wasted very little time striking Turkey when the government was couped."

"The alternative being an unrestricted path into Europe and the Middle East," Saudia said, one arm resting on the table.

"Perception is reality, our reasons matter little before that," Hakeem clarified. "That is the difficulty to deal with. It is not helped by the previous sanctioning of their country, of which they resent ADVENT for. Logical or not, they are suspicious of ADVENT, and while there are minorities who rightfully celebrate, the dominant Turkish ethnicity finds themselves injured and indignant, a state of being that is problematic."

"I believe we can agree on that," Kyong said.

"The best approach is to return to them their sense of dignity, to harness their vulnerability," Hakeem said. "Right now, many of the Turkish population feels like their power is leashed and limited. They will feel the urge to lash out. They have an expectation built in their minds as to what we are, and what we will do."

He lifted a finger. "To divide and conquer is the easiest path we have, as of now. Our typical procedures of assimilation- with ADVENT's distinctive flair, of course. We rebuild, we hold elections, we do the song and dance expected of us integrating a new nation into the hegemony. It is expected, it is simple, and our ability to impose force guarantees success."

"A strong promise, but there is reason to think so."

"I do not think, I do not believe, I know, Chancellor," Hakeem smiled. "In a word, we subvert their beliefs. We are not ignorant of how they perceive us, or we should not pretend that we are. What is it we want to do? Play to their expectations, or do we want to do the opposite?"

"Defined as what?" Saudia asked.

"Let them win," was the answer. "Or make them think they have."

Saudia leaned back. "Elaborate."

"I've consulted with men and women who are both familiar with the region, as well as the many distinguished psychologists in ADVENT," Hakeem explained. "In this particular situation, the best way to placate a group is to give them what they want - but in a way where they are guided every step of the way. Emotions are running high, and groups are laser-focused on their priorities. Let them achieve these priorities - but let them be the driving force. If we just give it to them, they will suspect a trick, and feel like they haven't won anything."

A chuckle. "The mind works in mysterious ways, but in this case, to our benefit. The point being that the many groups who are angry will not change unless they perceive that they have won. That they, despite the odds, were able to carve out their place in ADVENT without sacrificing who they are."

He laced his fingers together. "There are those who are sympathetic to our views, and in the past months I have been handed a disparate region and have successfully managed to piece it back together. I realize that this may seem counter-intuitive - or even unnecessary - but I have more than logic to employ here. I have multiple individuals who confirm that this particular path would not only ensure there is no lingering resentment, but engender loyalty to ADVENT, as now they will feel they belong."

"Home is more than land and borders, it is a feeling," Hakeem's lips twitched. "That will be our weapon. We will cut out the root of resistance, we will forge a new identity, and in one move, we will erase all animosity. We will render resistance irrelevant. We will have the leaders aligned with us, together with entities like the House of Wisdom, demonstrate the error of their ways, paving the way for true representatives of the people."

He paused for effect. "And in the end? The people have cast aside their weak leaders, and earned their place in ADVENT. They will believe they made ADVENT bend to their concessions, and at the same time show that ADVENT is willing to listen and be reasoned with. The fact that they have been unknowingly guided each step of the way does not matter, as our interests are secured."

Hakeem bowed his head. "I understand ADVENT holds absolute power here, Chancellor, but to every action is an equal and opposite reaction. Subtlety and grace are worth more than arrogance and pride. This, Chancellor, will be a concordance, a proof of concept, if you will. I have said my part, the rest is to your consideration."

That was not bad at all. It was a bit overly complicated for her tastes, for arguably little benefit - she did not especially care if certain Turkish elements disliked their decisions, or would feel suspicious from ADVENT generosity, though she could see Hakeem's point. She wasn't convinced that it was a good idea to give the perception that ADVENT could be 'negotiated down', even if it was largely for show, yet he did present a compelling case. She would definitely be considering it. "Good, thank you Mr. President."

"Indeed, a fine presentation," Suivre said, with just a hint of begrudgement, standing and walking to the front of the table, hands clasped behind his back. "However, before I begin, I would like to first propose a different question than my colleague. Not on the exact method we wish to pursue, per se – but what do we want to achieve?" He let the question hang for a moment. "Chancellor, based on impressions I've gotten from you, and other ADVENT officials, I believe the question you are asking is how best we can integrate a semi-hostile nation into ADVENT with minimal pain. Is that a reasonable understanding?"

"Effectively, yes."

"If I may, I would like to refine this question," Suivre continued. "The ultimate problem here is rooted in Turkish nationalism, exceptionalism, and ethnic identity. Breaking this down further we run into the fundamental building blocks of nationalism and ethnicity, both of which are centered around how they warp the identity." He nodded to Hakeem. "My colleague would state that we attempt to control these aspects to serve our needs. I would contest that. Nationalism that serves us is still nationalism, and one day it will be turned against us. It is a barrier to true unity that will remain no matter how many revisions it undergoes."

A slide displayed, showing the former borders of Turkey. He indicated it. "Turkey, Chancellor, presents an opportunity. We are not solving a unique problem here, we are determining how to destroy the concept of nationalism, ethnic supremacy, exceptionalism and expansion, and harnessing the result into a collectivist Human mindset."

He inclined his head. "You will obviously see some hypocrisy here. After all, the United States is rather infamous for its exceptionalist and nationalist tendencies, as is Russia, China, and yes, France. All of them are byproducts of the old world, who have now been shoved into a new one. We have a common enemy now, but this will be a factor that must be addressed in the future, as when we win, nationalism and racial exceptionalism will rise to the forefront. Will ADVENT be able to combat this? I am sure of it, the question is how painful it will be."

He fixated on Saudia. "Chancellor, this is what Turkey can be. A testing ground that we can apply later to the nations in question. I have also consulted multiple psychologists, sociologists, and other social experts throughout ADVENT, and they have helped shape this method. One I hope that ADVENT will see fit to deploy."

Saudia laced her fingers together, interested. "Go on."

"A moment," with a finger, Suivre tapped on the screen and the next slide appeared. "This is how I propose that Turkey be handled."

The map could only be described as…something that even she would find would go too far. The Kurdistan region was there, but that was about the only familiar thing she could see. The nation that was Turkey was broken into no fewer than ten different pieces, with portions of the country returned to Greece, Cyprus, and Armenia.

On this map, there was nothing called Turkey.

"You are going to need to elaborate on this," Saudia said dryly. "I see a number of issues."

"And I will be more than happy to explain," Suivre smiled. "There are a significant number of sub-ethnicities in Turkey, even within the Turkish ethnicity. This map is based on the demographics these slightly different groups are spread out. As you can see, there is roughly one for each minor ethnicity - which also takes into account the Sunni, Shia, and Avant Islamic factions. Consider, Chancellor, that the purpose of this is to destroy the Turkish identity completely. We start by destroying the concept of Turkey itself."

"I am both surprised and somehow, not, Le Suivre," Hakeem raised an eyebrow. "Cultural erasure, identity destruction, wholesale devouring of a people and their nation."

"Indeed, I suspected you would see it, though do not worry al-Saud - The people are very much still alive," Suivre answered. "One cannot destroy Turkish nationalism without removing the binding source. You also overestimate the outrage. People want autonomy and freedom – they do not want to cooperate, they do not want to share power, they want control. That is what we give them – and of course, they are free to move to other nations, but their own will be based upon the customs and traditions of their people."

He returned his gaze to Saudia. "Appeasing the Turkish is a valid strategy, letting them think they can win, as my colleague has proposed. However, I find such tactics dishonest, manipulative, and patronizing. If we respect these people, we should be honest with them - and the truth is we should not acquiesce to the ungrateful and the problematic. We do not accept such mindsets. With respect to my colleague, this coddles and infantilizes the Turkish. Are we treating them like children, lying and deceiving them? Or are we treating them as equals, and displaying the direct and honest truth that all must understand - ADVENT does not conform to the foreigner – they conform to us."

Suivre motioned to the map again. "Now, assimilating a large country? Quite problematic, and it will not work well, as evidenced by certain failures in Deus Vult and the aftermath. Smaller nations? Ones which can be carefully guided and tailored to specific groups? Far more feasible."

A new slide appeared, showing a graph with a multitude of numbers. "I've consulted with several more experts," Suivre said. "And they ran several models to determine the likelihood of success. Provided ADVENT properly implemented the proposed model, it is estimated that the Turkish identity could be substantially reduced within five years, and eradicated in under three decades – this is with continual monitoring and adaptation by ADVENT Intelligence and PATRIOT. Thus, any destabilizing threat posed will be destroyed, forever. Should this prove to be successful, it could be applied to other nations."

He paused briefly. "Nationalism is a barrier to a truly united Humanity. The citizen must not identify with their nation, but with their species. ADVENT is Humanity, and Humanity is ADVENT. That they must see first and foremost. European nations are better able to adapt to this mindset due to our history of cooperation in the modern era, but it is more difficult for those of the traditional nation state. Measures must be taken. Even if you decide against adopting this model today, Chancellor, I would encourage you to prioritize solving this problem, because it will be one that will greatly affect ADVENT and its future stability."

"Understandable," Saudia nodded. "Thank you, Mr. President. That was a thorough presentation."

"Appreciated, Chancellor," he returned to his seat, satisfaction clear in his motions. "I do not suppose you have reached a decision?"

"Not today, today was only to see the proposals," she said, looking at both of them. "Both ideas are feasible and well-presented, but I want more specific details."

"Man does not live on bread alone, Le Suivre," Hakeem said, fixing Saudia with a stare. "That is not a solution, what you propose is annihilation with pens, instead of swords."

"Reformation, al-Saud, reformation. Some cultures should be destroyed and scattered to the winds," Suivre said, his voice unapologetic. "I do not apologize for that. If you wish to defend ethno-nationalism, by all means. It would be far from the first extremist ideology you have supported, President al-Saud."

"President Suivre has a point," Saudia said, frowning. "There is no reason to entertain the idea that all cultures and ideologies are equal. Let it be remembered in history, it has no place in the modern era."

"Reformation to the image of the conqueror, utter contempt for the right of a people to determinate," Hakeem said. "It is pointlessly malicious, needlessly imperialist, and self-righteously self convinced of its correctness. It is, in two words, ill intended. "

"We are in a new world now, al-Saud. One where the old, primitive, and illogical are dismantled and cast aside. I care little for your cries to listen to the ethno-nationalists. The numbers disagree with you regardless," Suivre said knowingly. "It is a matter of implementation, not of theory. And even if there are dissenters, they will be few and easily countered. You overestimate how many care – and if the Kurds get their autonomy, who exactly do you think you are to deny the others that freedom?"

"You underestimate how much this matters, you will strip people of their past, and their future. And substitute both with your own machinations."

"Not just me. There will be others, this will be an operation, one carefully constructed and managed. And I will do all of what you say willingly and with no hesitation." Suivre answering, raising an eyebrow. "They will not care, and it is necessary. The experts I've consulted are doubtful that most would care. They care about food, family, and work. Give them that, and they will be satisfied. Build a mosque or two to keep them placated if necessary."

"People are not pawns, dancing to our whims," Hakeem stated, leaning forward. "But that was never the point, was it? This is not about Turkey, is it?"

Le Suivre leaned forward too.

"No, this could be the start of something far larger. And please, 'the people are not pawns?' Did you not just suggest manipulating the Turks into accepting our rule?" Suivre smiled. "No, you're smarter than that, you know what I say, even if you pretend you do not. Everything is a piece on this chessboard of reality," Suivre's mechanical arm rested on the table. "You, me, the Turkish, the soldiers, and civilians. We each have a role. We each have a purpose. We are ADVENT. ADVENT is a machine. The people are the oil. We are the mechanics. We find the problems that impede the machine – and we solve them. I do not necessarily care if you understand this or not, al-Saud – I am content knowing that the Chancellor understands this."

Hakeem and Le Suivre locked eyes. The air of the room was palpable, thick and heavy. Everyone was quiet. Everyone could feel it.

The two men leaned back.

The two men smiled at each other.

"Le Suivre," Hakeem said.

"Al-Saud," Le Suivre said back.

"Enough," Saudia lifted a hand. "Your points have been made." She looked pointedly at the two of them. "We will discuss more of this later. A decision will not be made today. Thank you both – dismissed."

War Room, Abuja – Nigeria

8/15/2017 – 12:24 P.M.

Betos was not fully sure what to think of several of the recent developments. Within the span of a couple of weeks, the SAS was hosting the former head of state of a nation overrun by ADVENT, facing direct attacks from their coast, and now had mercenaries roaming around the capital.

Though to call them mercenaries seems to be a… disservice.

The Skedelbroers, as they called themselves - "Skull Brothers" being a rough translation - were a group she had admittedly never heard of before. Solely based on a name like that, she had the impression in mind of a group of chest-thumping man-children who thought guns and protecting corporations that wouldn't be attacked was the height of masculinity and bravery.

Men she'd dealt with before, and subsequently ignored.

Overdramatic name or not though, she'd realized very, very quickly that these weren't average mercenaries. This was a professional killing team that had been doing work for years in the African continent. She'd spoken with several local SAS military commanders, and each one had slightly frozen up and paled upon hearing the Skedelbroers were in the SAS.

More than one had experienced them at work before.

And there was no better representative for who they were than the man in the room before her. Knaag die Erfgenaam van Skedelbroers, a big man with a big title. He was probably the biggest man she'd ever seen before. He towered over everyone except Tyres and Keeper, and even through his gear she could see his clear muscles and physical strength.

Tanned skin darkened and weathered by the African environment bore many scars, and Knaag had a squarish face and eyes that glinted with bloodlust and malice. He made her extremely uncomfortable; she generally had a good sense of who people were, and fully believed there were signs that indicated if someone was dangerous or not.

Knaag was much more than dangerous. He was a clear killer, and right now, she didn't trust him not to kill her if he felt like it. He had his massive bowie knife out, and seemed to enjoy toying with it idly. When he'd noticed her watching, he'd smiled and performed a quick flourish, demonstrating that he didn't carry it for show – he knew how to use it.

Then there was the much less imposing figure, Hosmunt Kaan, the former President of Turkey, whose legitimacy may or may not have been in question. Then again, she supposed she wasn't one to judge, since she also owed her own position to the Collective. Unlike Knaag, he was someone she could talk to without feeling the need to have a hand resting on her pistol.

He struck her as a fairly reasonable person, if angry over the loss of his country, which she couldn't blame him for, especially given what ADVENT was likely planning to do with it. Right now they were just occupying, and figuring out how to break up the country. Or probably were, given how they'd publicly stated that the Kurds were being given their own state, which personally was not the worst decision they'd made.

He had quite a lot of political experience though – that was for sure.

She'd been slightly been surprised and taken off guard by how he'd more or less immediately thrown in with helping to manage the day-to-day affairs of the SAS - the first day he'd gotten into a yelling match with Keeper over 'the absolutely state of this mess you call an economy', and demanding to know if the Collective employed monkeys as economists.

Keeper had been uncertain if he should be amused or taken aback by the vitriol from Kaan.

It was a fair point, she had to admit, and she couldn't help but feel a little relief at having someone who was familiar with running a country assisting, since she certainly didn't - and much of the political establishment prior was corrupt, incompetent, and usually both. Kaan, for better or worse, knew how to manage a state.

At this point, she'd take what she could get, and Kaan seemed a good acquisition.

It was an odd group gathered around. Herself, Keeper, Tyres, Kaan, and Knaag. Five who were going to begin plotting how to turn the tide of ADVENT's offensive. They were holding them, and slowly pushing them back, but there was the clear question of what was going to come next.

The SAS, despite its name, comprised only a few African states. It needed to grow, and even she couldn't dispute that. She wasn't sure if the new guests should be involved, but both Keeper and Tyres had said they would be useful, and for now she was accepting their judgement. She needed everything she could at this point.

"ADVENT's offensive appears to have reached the limits of its reach," Betos said, as the holotable in the war room lit up and displayed the fronts. "They continue attacking from the coast, but they can't do much more than cause damage to the ports and limited land incursions. They are continuing covert operations deeper into the SAS to sabotage the infrastructure, environment, and resources."

"Which efforts are being taken to counter," Keeper said.

"Yes, we're aware of that," Tyres flicked a wrist. "The situation is bad – however, do please share exactly what it is. Hard to solve a problem if you refuse to address it."

"I am getting to that part," she said pointedly. "ADVENT's efforts have not been unsuccessful. They have caused severe ecological damage to the entire region, and even should we retake it, most of it will either be unusable or need to be rebuilt. The Collective has assisted in turning our major cities into fortresses, but they are simply not big enough to house all of the refugees. Hundreds of thousands are being housed, and there is an unknown number who have died from ADVENT's punitive campaign."

The holomap focused on their core territory. "We are holding the line right now on the major fronts – particularly thanks to the efforts of Macula and Tyres. However, our internal issues will prevent us from immediately expanding even when ADVENT is pushed back. We have acute food shortages even with Collective shipments, lack of housing even if it is being built, millions of traumatized refugees, and healthcare, banking and… well, most civil institutions are not in a good place to be very generous. Our military is well-equipped, but nowhere near as large or as well-trained as ADVENT."

She looked around the room. "That is the very basic overview."

"Several questions," Kaan had a hand to his chin as he appraised the map. "From what I have gathered, you lack a coherent foreign ministry or outreach department. Not even the skeleton of one, much to my disappointment."

"Foreign affairs have largely been handled by myself," she said. "This has not been a good time for pursuing that."

Kaan muttered something to himself, before clearing his throat. "While you are doubtless aware of this, it is past time that be created, if for no other reason than to establish something formal between the SAS and the Ethereal Collective."

Tyres snorted. "Ah, the unnecessary bureaucracy begins."

"And out of everyone in this room, I think I'm the only one who has actually held a role in a functioning government," Kaan shot back. "No offense to you, Grand Marshal, but frankly, you have never run a country and it shows. I have no idea why the Collective did not bother to address this glaring oversight."

"The SAS has functioned fine under the current system," Keeper said mildly. "Betos has insisted on limited alien intervention."

"'Functioned fine?'" Kaan released a long-suffering sigh. "I truly wonder how your people achieved spaceflight if you consider the absolute state of the SAS fine, but I digress," he flicked a wrist. "It is not unfixable, but Grand Marshal, with your approval, this is an office I would like to establish, as well as formalize some other institutions that are lacking here."

She nodded. "So long as you inform me of your changes. No going behind my back."

Tyres chuckled. "I'd second that. You don't want to get on her bad side. The previous administrators found that out the hard way."

For his part, Kaan didn't seem perturbed. "No doubt. Africa is hardly known to house stable governments, or ones with fewer holes than a sponge."

"The previous leaders were more concerned with personal power than governance."

"And where are they now?"

"Dead."

Knaag smiled. "It seems you can have a spine, Little Marshal."

She narrowed her eyes. "I have my lines, mercenary."

"Lines so far away as to be meaningless, not when you are so soft," he drawled. "You are no warrior, thus you will know no victory. There is no place for softness here, Little Marshal, not in Africa, and not against ADVENT. Pitiful you don't know this."

"Which is easy to say for a killer," she answered. "The concept of governance is one you will never understand either. But you know this, you are simply content to be a tool. First for warlords, now for the Collective. If ADVENT paid you, you would fight for them."

A smile was on his face, but his eyes flashed. "You do not know me, Betos. I wouldn't make presumptions; a few of my employers once made certain mistakes. Treat me as a tool at your own peril, Little Marshal."

"I don't respond well to threats."

"Then deal with it as you see fit," he said simply. "I don't care for your government, yourself, or your people, because none of them ultimately matter. Governments form, collapse, and degrade. People live meaningless lives and die. Meaning is ascribed to them where there is none. Peace does not matter, for it is fleeting. The only constant is war, for war brings change and shifts." His smile widened. "And trust me, Little Marshal – I know war."

One meaty hand gestured to Tyres. "He knows this, as does your alien. You want me to win your little war against ADVENT, I can do that. Most of my employers preferred to employ my talents to settle scores, petty grudges, and the affairs of little minds. I am a mercenary, Betos, but I know what to do to win a war. Even with your incompetence now, I can win it."

"And what proof do you have?"

"A little event called the War on Terror," he smiled again. "Did you think the Caliphate didn't know to expand into Africa? Or that the Muslims in Indonesia and India were silent when the Caliph began his call for blood? No, no, they did. And me and my brothers were the ones that stopped the fanatics in their tracks."

"Not of your own volition."

"Of course not, the clients paid well," he rested his hands on the table. "Men who are frightened of losing power will go to great lengths to protect it. The point, Little Marshal, is that I have seen the single-minded fanaticism on display. ADVENT, the Caliph, they are no different. They are driven by ideology and religious fervor – though of course they would not ever admit such."

She snorted. "Not how I would describe ADVENT."

"I don't care how you describe them," Knaag shrugged. "Your opinions have no bearing on my job. You want to win a war, but in the fantasy you call war. War is blood, screams, terror, and fear. Those who understand this, win. Those who do not, lose. ADVENT understands this. You do not, and thus, you will lose."

"And I will not put myself on their level."

"Little Marshal, have you actually walked on the streets of the people you claim to protect and serve?" He retorted. "Have you walked among the tear-streaked faces, the shriveled bodies, and the men who have lost wives, women who've lost children, and orphans who've lost parents? Will you respond to their demands for vengeance with platitudes of morality?" He narrowed his eyes. "Stand in the midst of those who have lost everything, and ask them if honor and morality matter. Look them in the eyes, and display your vapid platitudes to their face. The others here will be diplomatic with you, I will not. You are in a war. Act like it, or get out of the way."

She kept her face blank, but he… did have a point. It was… simple for her to claim the high ground here, even though she knew what was going on. At the same time, she didn't know if she could actually say that to the people who were on the receiving end. They didn't care about being better than the enemy, they just wanted to be avenged and protected by any means necessary.

She didn't know what that line was, the justification was a slippery slope.

At the same time, what she was doing wasn't working. "You made your point," she finally said. "And you're not making it unless you have a solution."

"One solution, Little Marshal, and for one area, I have little interest in your affairs of governance. Rely on Kaan for that if you would," he motioned to the man. "In war though, I do. You have a population that is traumatized, angry, and vengeful at your disposal. You have an ally who can give you whatever you need. You have power in your grasp that you refuse to use."

He leaned forward. "Now, Grand Marshal, it is time for you to act, and this is what you must do."

Oversight Division Command, Philadelphia – United States of America

8/20/2017 – 9:54 A.M.

It was, Saudia believed, the first time she'd been asked to meet with Watkins in the nominal Oversight Division headquarters. It was a heavily fortified building, and while it didn't stand out where it didn't need to, it was impossible to miss the exterior fortifications and soldiers assigned to guard it outside.

No one came here unless they had a reason to be.

Not an issue when the Chancellor arrived, but for everyone else there was a long and involved process that involved background checks, ADVENT Intelligence, and multiple clearance levels. Generally, it seemed the Oversight Division preferred to come to people, not the other way around.

Saudia had been asked to come here, but in the subtext of the message from Watkins, it had effectively been a command. Rather bold of him to take that approach, which made her ever-so-slightly concerned about what he wanted to talk about. He would not have requested in such a fashion that she came unless it was extremely serious.

The obvious question was – about what? It might have to do with the investigation into EXALT – but she wasn't sure of that. That was still going on, and if that was the case, he probably would have mentioned it. Regardless, it wouldn't be too long until she found out one way or the other.

The guards waved her in after her identity was verified, and she was escorted to Watkin's office, which- contrary to tradition- was on the first floor instead of a higher one. It didn't surprise her, as it was arguably easier to secure, and he liked to be at the heart of whatever he was in charge of. A few more gates and checkpoints, and she entered.

Watkins was waiting inside. He stood, and nodded to her. "Chancellor. I'd give you a tour, but I doubt either of us have time for it."

"Likely," she said, shaking his hand and inclining her own head in his direction. "Unfortunate, I would like to better see your operation. However, I trust that you have everything under control."

"I like to think so," he said, once more taking a seat. "While I cannot keep track of everything in the Oversight Division, I do make a point to regularly appraise myself of the major efforts being undertaken. Trusted subordinates take care of the rest."

"A good approach," Saudia agreed, figuring that he was about to use that as a segue into whatever reason he'd asked her here for. "Now, since I'm here, I'm very curious why you so politely requested I meet with you."

The corners of his lips twitched. "Before that, Chancellor, why do you think we're meeting?"

"Either regarding EXALT or you've uncovered another conspiracy that you can't share anywhere else," she set, resting her hands in her lap. "You would not waste my time for something trivial."

"You're right, I wouldn't," he said, clasping his hands together, and resting them on the table. "However, you are incorrect in your guess. This does not have anything to do with EXALT – that remains ongoing. Nor is it necessarily a conspiracy, merely the culmination of poor management and institutional failures."

"That does not narrow it down."

"In a word, Scipio," he said.

She frowned. "Scipio? The operation?"

"Yes, and you wondering why I'm bringing that up is the heart of the issue," he continued. "Chancellor, do you know what is actually happening in Africa right now?"

"I'm familiar with the goals and intentions of the operation," she said carefully, still uncertain where this was going. "I've received daily updates on the status of the various African fronts. We have made progress, though have reached the fortified cities. We've authorized Phase II to begin-"

"Chancellor, I'm going to stop you right now," Watkins lifted a hand. "That is not what I am talking about. I expect you to understand the high-level efforts taking place. I'm speaking of the actual conditions and conduct on the ground."

She furrowed her eyebrows. "This is about the methods the operations relies on, isn't it."

"Correct."

"I'm going to have to dispute that," Saudia said. "The Oversight Division officially sanctioned the operation. Commander Christiaens made a point to ensure there was authorization for it due to concerns that this was a questionable operation. I am well aware of the goals of the operation, and methods that are being utilized. I am not so ignorant as to be unaware this is taking place, Chief Overseer."

"You did go through the process, that is not what is in question right now," Watkins nodded. "The first is that Commander Christiaens and her team based the core of their arguments around the safeguards and only employing harsher methods when there was clear military benefit, or no other means of achieving operational objectives. In short, that the ADVENT military would take steps to mitigate or neutralize the clear drawbacks of the operation."

He grimaced. "Now, I am not going to put all of the blame on Commander Christiaens. As you said, it was sanctioned by the Oversight Division, and the process was technically done correctly. The onus was on us to acquire more concrete details and institute our own measures. This was not done. The individuals responsible for approving Operation Scipio have been removed or demoted. This operation should never have been approved."

"Even if that is true," Saudia frowned. "In no way does that warrant this kind of action. They did what was expected of them, and should not be punished for doing their jobs."

"Chancellor, I tend to dislike the argument of 'following orders'," Watkins said dryly. "Make no mistake - this was not done lightly, but we take these kinds of issues seriously. I am not unreasonable - the subordinates were merely demoted. The ones who had specific approval roles - who knew better - were removed. I'm telling you to give you an idea of how serious this is - not to gain your approval."

She appraised him carefully. "But why?"

He fixed his eyes on her. "We have uncovered enough evidence and witness testimonies to objectively determine that Commander Christiaens misled or lied in her assurances that she could implement what she promised. Regardless of our organizational failings this time, the fact is that Commander Christiaens has failed to hold to what minimal promises she agreed to, and neglected to inform anyone in the Oversight Division about the true details on the ground."

A pause. "To a certain extent, I can forgive your ignorance of the current situation. You have multiple responsibilities, and frankly, managing the day-to-day military operations is not your job. However, Commander Christiaens was appointed by you, and you were involved in authorizing this operation. She does not have the same excuse."

He slid a beige file on the table towards her. "Several facts I want you to be aware of. There has been a two-hundred and sixty-two percent increase in soldiers who are experiencing PTSD to various degrees. A review of the exact personnel shows that nearly seventy percent of them participated in Operation Scipio. The Oversight Division has also received several thousand requests, many of them from people actually participating in the operation, as well as other high-profile individuals, informing us of the situation on the ground and their concerns relating to it."

She picked up the file and began reading it. It was largely a compiled summary of what he was saying. "If we are lucky, Chancellor, we get two to five instances of corroborated activity," Watkins continued. "That is considered urgent, as it is a systemic issue. I hope that puts into perspective just how utterly alarming this is."

"I see your point." She said, frowning. If soldiers were being affected to this degree, it was not a good sign. Unfortunate that Laura hadn't taken this into account. Likely a mistake, though one that was going to hurt them.

"I don't think you do, to be frank," he continued. "We didn't have a good idea, and honestly, we still don't. However, what we know is more than enough. If you look through the overview, you will see multiple issues. Looting, arbitrary executions, and unnecessary force employed at hundreds of points."

His lips twitched. "There were a significant amount of loopholes left in Scipio, intentionally or unintentionally. When this was presented, Christiaens told us that ADVENT forces would only employ sustained sieges only if there was a direct military demand, or doing otherwise would lead to a severe loss of life. This was interpreted in action as, 'We will gas every city and town and then move in, regardless of military necessity.'"

Watkins shook his head. "We have usually deferred to military officers as it relates to justification. It is their job, and their lives are on the line. However, this clearly was a mistake, and if ADVENT is terrified of a bunch of civilians maybe killing one or two soldiers, then there are much deeper systemic problems."

She nodded ever so slightly as she read. There were definitely issues of questionable efficiency that she could understand - there was no reason for ADVENT to be holding back if they held the numerical, psychological, and technological advantage. That was just slowing the whole operation down. Watkins still wasn't done. "The amount of use of force violations against civilians is also not acceptable," he said. "When you're throwing people out of their homes and putting them on marches elsewhere, you are going to provoke resistance. That does not give you license to break their limbs or outright shoot them – especially if unarmed. I don't care how much easier it is, or if it takes longer otherwise – that is not justifiable."

He let that linger for a moment. "Which is another core problem with this entire situation. This came down from the highest ranks, from the Commander to the officers. The military follows orders, morality does not come into it. Soldiers do not question, and they will do these things for fear of discipline. Accountability comes from the top, and the nature of this is going to make it problematic to determine what needs to be done, considering the very real punishments for refusing orders."

She continued reading silently, and looking at the pictures. Houses with families shot or dead, piles of bodies haphazardly thrown together, images of the refugees with clear injuries on them. Confiscated items and jewels from looted homes. The more she read, the more she could see that she really had underestimated what was going on - badly - and it was much more disappointing and wasteful than she estimated.

ADVENT was supposed to be more practical than this. The fact that there were soldiers utterly wasting their time and resources on performing such idiotically juvenile things like looting was disappointing, and Laura would need to address that. The deaths, however, were irrelevant, so long as the goals of the operation were met - frankly, that had been expected in this operation. It really wasn't a surprise that some of them would fight back.

"This is not acceptable," she said, looking up.

"I'm glad you think so, because it's not," he agreed. "And most people know that – even those who are participating in it. Because those are their orders, and no one can seriously take soldiers, many of whom come from armies where there is a code of conduct, and put them into positions where they are required to act against what they've been conditioned to do their entire careers. I'm hoping we're not aiming to emulate the Imperial Japanese, Nazis, Red Army, or Khmer Rouge, are we?"

"Absolutely not. We are professionals, not juvenile bandits."

"I thought as much," he leaned back. "While you were on your way here, I have ordered a complete freeze on Operation Scipio. All military operations relating to it are paused until we can figure out exactly what is going on. This is effective immediately. ADVENT forces will be able to conduct defensive actions, but all offensive measures are halted."

"I'm sorry?" She raised an eyebrow. "I can understand that this operation has raised concerns - you've certainly raised important points that will be highlighted, but if there is one thing I absolutely will not endorse, it is completely pulling the plug."

"This is not up to you, Chancellor."

"Technically not, but I fail to see what you are trying to accomplish," she narrowed her eyebrows. "Despite the unprofessionalism displayed by some of our soldiers, we have the SAS on the back foot and the objectives continue to be met. The mental casualties are unfortunate, but these are relatively few in number - certainly not enough to pause an operation this large and critical to the war effort."

He cocked his head. "If it were just about that, I would agree. However, it is not."

"I've said I agreed that the looting and unnecessarily harsh treatment is similarly unprofessional," Saudia added. "And again, it is certainly not enough to justify this stoppage. This is, if you were, throwing the baby out with the bathwater. I would recommend that Commander Christiaens be immediately informed of this so corrections can be made."

There was a brief flicker of surprise across Watkin's face, and then the dawning of… something she couldn't place on it. "Chancellor… respectfully, this is… not just around the damages and inefficiencies to ourselves. The fact that you're not seeing this is… well, respectfully, Chancellor, I have already made my decision about this, and will inform the Congress it is ongoing."

Saudia pursed her lips. "I hope that you will provide a sufficient justification for exposing our soldiers there, and allowing the SAS a reprieve."

He laced his fingers together, an unreadable expression on his face, as he seemed to be viewing her… almost with caution. "Are you intending to challenge this order?"

There was a long pause as she considered. This is a severe overreaction from her estimation, and one that was going to hurt their African operations and allow the SAS to catch their breath. Yes, the looting and juvenile actions were beneath them, and yes, the rise of PTSD in the soldiers was an issue, but both of those could be addressed relatively quickly.

Still… she was wary about picking a fight with Oversight, especially since she was still under investigation. "No, for now the Executive will accept your judgement without complaint," she said pointedly. "And I will hope that whatever you uncover is worth this. I cannot say that the others will accept it."

"I am aware," he said.

She nodded. "And Commander Christiaens?"

"She will be handled," he said nonchalantly. "Though if I were to give some advice, Chancellor, I would suggest considering options for a new Commander of the ADVENT Military."

"I would not be so quick," Saudia warned. "Regardless of the deficiencies in Scipio, I absolutely will contest her removal in any capacity. She has performed well in managing the task assigned - and even in Scipio, we have achieved our objectives - a fact I trust you will take into consideration."

She narrowed her eyes. "Laura is the Commander, but she is one woman, and personally blaming her for the actions of multiple unprofessional soldiers is, frankly, beneath you. I won't tolerate a witch hunt."

"We don't do witch hunts here, Chancellor," Watkins said firmly. "I make no promises one way or another. How she conducts and justifies herself will be important for any final determinations."

"I suppose I will accept that for now," she said, somewhat sharply. "Are there any other matters?"

"No. This was the only one."

"Thank you," she stood. "I want to be informed of each releasable development. I trust you can do that?"

"With pleasure, Chancellor," he said. "A good day to you."

"And you," Saudia turned around and left the room, her head focused on what she'd heard and the report in her hands. Irritation and anger festered, not just at the situation which Watkins was outraged at, but something which immediately struck her as an extreme overreaction. She would need to talk to Laura about this, and determine a strategy.

No matter what Oversight did, the unprofessionalism from the soldiers was not acceptable, and something needed to be done to reduce mental casualties. She hoped Watkins would be reasonable, as while she did not want to challenge Oversight, if they didn't have a good justification for what they did, she was willing to take that step.

Oversight was meant to bring justice and accountability. If they abused their power, there would be a reckoning, of that she would ensure.

Ankara – Turkey

8/25/2017 – 2:00 P.M.

The weeks that had followed the Battle of Ankara had been relatively calm, all things considered. The battle had ultimately ended as the stragglers were captured or killed, and within a few days the entire country had been placed under nominal ADVENT control. A victory, one she felt proud to have taken part in.

Anna was still healing back at the Praesidium, and she and Ted made weekly visits back. It wouldn't be long until she was back to normal. However, with all of the ceasefires and the areas of operation being substantially reduced, there wasn't as much of a need for her, since all of the other theatres had squads deployed.

So she could have done two things – return to the Praesidium and wait until something changed, or she could stay and help around Ankara. After the battle the Lion had offered for her to help if she was interested, since they'd received word about the deal with the Collective. After getting approval, she'd agreed, since it was likely to be more interesting than weeks of nothing at the Praesidium.

The deal ADVENT and XCOM had made with the Collective was…

Well, she wouldn't have made it, to put it one way. She could see the logic in it, but there was a lot stronger logic to just removing a threat once and for all. "Reasonable" as the Battlemaster might be (compared to the other Ethereals), she wasn't sure that justified ADVENT taking him seriously beyond that.

At the same time, it wasn't as though the Second Guardian was an especially unbeatable threat. Her capture to begin with had proven as much. She still wouldn't have taken the risk, but it was more forgivable than, say, giving Quisilia back or something. It was somewhat satisfying to see ADVENT be forced on the defensive for once, as the popular outrage was finally unified in something most could agree on.

She doubted ADVENT had won everyone over.

In the end, they'd all taken away an important lesson.

If you have an opportunity to capture or kill, always kill.

Better a dead alien than a live one that would just be sent back. Oh well, their own fault for making the deal. Sierra had tried not to focus too much on it, since it would only make her irritated. Ted had been much more vocal in expressing his displeasure, but had gotten over it after a few days and working himself to exhaustion.

Fortunately, there was no shortage of things to do.

ADVENT trucks kept rolling in with supplies and resources. Engineers and construction workers were also flown in, and the streets of Ankara bustled with a mixture of citizens who watched ADVENT work, and the workers themselves. She'd done her own part, mostly moving stuff around or helping destroy particularly troublesome walls that needed to be removed.

A MEC helper appeared to be very useful for a lot of people, and since she didn't get tired or exhausted, she could work as long as needed. Ted had joked that ADVENT should start making construction MECs, and she would not be surprised if that suggestion somehow got back to ADVENT after this.

It wasn't just work, though; there were a few other places to go around and visit. She'd never really planned on coming to Turkey in any serious capacity, but since she was here, she'd figured she might as well see if there was anything here. As it turned out, there was a decent amount. Old castles, museums, and some pretty tasty restaurants were throughout the city, a few of which had been recommended by the Lion.

She had to admit, the man knew his geography suspiciously well. Enough that the idea of him avoiding the global intelligence community seemed more plausible than at first. It would not surprise her if he could all but disappear in the space of an hour.

What did surprise her was his taste in places to plan within, if she didn't know better, she'd assume he was paranoid, given the eclectic variety of locations he'd chosen over the past few days.

Today, however, was more typical. The sign above read, rather blatantly at that, 'Kurdish Coffee and Cakes.' It was on the side of another building, with an open air section, and a set of stairs leading down. A young woman sat on the waiting table near the stairs.

"If I didn't know better," Ted said as they walked in, her having to duck under the doorframe. "I'd say he has a thing for food."

"Wouldn't blame him," Sierra said. "He does have good taste."

"I guess there are worse places to plan your plots than over a good meal," Ted agreed. "Maybe XCOM should take that approach."

"I'll suggest it to the Commander," Sierra said dryly as they walked forward.

"Excuse me." The woman said softly. "Are you Ms. Morrow?"

"Sierra is fine, but yes," she said, and nodded to Ted. "Hope he's on the list too."

"There's a reservation for both of you, VIP section." With a neat little bow, she gestured down to the stairs. She winked at her. "Everything is on the house, please, enjoy."

Without further ado, she and Ted stepped down. Only pausing at the sound of quiet conversation, and the pungent smell of pleasant musk. A decorated wooden door, with ornament calligraphy lay at the end.

"This feels like an evil lair, somehow." Ted snorted, opening the door and marching in.

"He was involved with the Caliphate," she reminded him. "Seems fitting."

"Glad he changed his mind," he said with a snort. "Even if he didn't change his habits."

The place was packed to the full, rifles lay stored on a closely accessible armory. Pistols neatly put on holsters, arranged for each table. Knives, combat knives, were present on every last person inside, of whom all were, without a single question, either insurgent or Ikhwan.

For a breath, she saw every eye measure her up. A MEC, even one clothed and displaying skin was one who stood out from a crowd. She saw the brief assessments and questions. Was she a threat? A danger? Then the room returned to their hushed, polite conversations.

The Lion sat surrounded by an array of electronic screens, a dozen of them, books lay opened and bookmarked all around him. Maps and folders, and a stack of neat papers. A fountain pen in hand, and a notebook before him. Focused eyes breaking away from his task, he raised his hand for her, gesturing towards his table.

Avel, Kizgin, and two other men were playing a card game.

"Ms. Morrow, and Mr. Holden." General Avel said. "I hadn't expected you'd show up, gotten bored of the city lights? "

"Here on invitation, actually, he gave us a recommendation," she nodded to the Lion. "Didn't expect to see you here, sir."

"It's a nice place, and has even nicer company." Avel smiled kindly. "Kizgin, it seems, has a habit of owning establishments of fine repute."

Kizgin snorted. "Better than the wastewater you Americans call coffee, I'd rather join the Lion's suicidal plans than drink that sewage." He flagged a waitress. "Their orders, quick as can be."

With a nod, the waitress turned to her. "Your orders, madam, and sir?"

"One moment," she said as she began scanning the menu, looking to see what they had.

"I'll have a plate of the variety nut cakes and mint tea," Ted didn't hesitate long, already handing the menu back.

"Excellent," the waitress said as she jotted it down. "And you ma'am?"

"Uh…" her eyes settled upon something. "I'll have a cinnamon roll."

Ted looked at her incredulously. "You come to a Kurdish cafe and you order a cinnamon roll?"

"I like cinnamon rolls," she defended. "Besides, it's something I can actually read and vaguely know what it is."

"Oh for the love of," Ted, looked back to the waitress. "Also a bowl of luqma qazey if you could."

"With cheese, sir, or without?"

"With, please," he looked to Sierra. "You'll like it, I promise."

"I'll trust your judgement," she said as the waitress left to prepare their food.

Kizgin put a hand up, stopping the waitress. "A big bowl, you understand? She's a big eater."

With a soft chuckle, the waitress nodded, leaving out to the kitchens. Sierra was not quite sure how to take that, if it was meant earnestly, or if it was a slight mockery. She didn't know the man enough to properly guess, but she wouldn't have been surprised either way. Which was how she felt about a lot of these people.

It was a very different place than she was used to visiting. Definitely had the atmosphere of an insurgent or rebel cell, not really helped by all of the militants and people who she was pretty sure were Ikhwan walking and lounging around. Without a doubt, she felt like an outsider, especially as an American.

Ted seemed somewhat more at ease, though she was glad she had full control over her facial expressions. At best this was a very awkward place she now found herself in. Even if the Ikhwan in particular weren't the exact brand of madmen the Caliph had employed, she knew enough that they weren't exactly innocent people either.

Then again, to a certain degree it was a bit hard to know what was actually true or propaganda around these people. Not that the Lion was an especially unbiased source...but a brief stint of research she'd done seemed to confirm a few things he'd said. At the very least, they weren't as bad as she'd been led to believe, and there were likely other things she was wrong on too. Just keep an open mind.

The Lion seemed a decent man, even if he'd been involved in the Caliphate, it wouldn't be fair not to give the rest of them a chance. That said, she was still alert even if logically, no one would be stupid enough to accost a seven-foot tall cyborg woman.

Probably.

"You is American, yes?" The man, an Ikhwan, recognized by his style of clothing, asked her. Looking up from his card game, and straight into her. Aggression laced into expression, his accent thick, with a Russian tint to it.

"Yes…" she said slowly.

"You come here using flying? Yes?" He continued, putting his cards down and leaning intently.

"Uh, depends at what time," she said, confused. "One time in a Skyranger. Most other times Gateways."

"There was also that brief plane trip to Aleppo," Ted reminded her.

"Right, that too," she said, briefly locking eyes with Ted who just barely shrugged, as if to say I have no idea why either.

"No, no. No. This is very bad, very bad," he grumbled, looking around the place. He started pointing towards her, raising attention towards her, his voice loud. "Look at this, my brothers, look at bad woman, at military woman come with flying… flying… thing… What is word?"

"Plane," one of the Ikhwan called out. "Khasan, the word is plane."

"Why you come use plane?" Khasan asked her, eyes narrowed, disapproval on his face.

"Because… I had authorization…" she said, frowning and feeling somewhat pinned by the intense man. "I'm sorry, is there a reason you're interested?"

"Haram!" Khasan enthusiastically yelled out. "Absolutely haram! You know haram? American?"

Oh no, he better not be implying what she thought he was. "I've heard of that. Sorry, not interested."

"No, no. This is bad. Planes are bad. I explain." He stood up, dragged his chair and sat beside her and Ted. Patience written across his features, he started explaining. "You know, plane is basically magic. You know magic? Plane is magic. We consider plane magic, because of this, it is haram to make, or use for anything but jihad. You can use them just for jihad. Only jihad."

He paused for a second, with an injured look, and a low voice, he quietly said. "Is okay, we need just hear sorry."

Khasan looked around the cafe, and all the Ikhwan who met his eyes nodded intensely.

It was right now that Sierra really wished she was a telepath so she could figure out exactly what was going on. She didn't know if this was a prelude to this man starting a mob attack, or politely informing her that she was an infidel, but she was torn between pure confusion and slight concern. "That's...interesting…" she said.

"That, uh," Ted coughed awkwardly. "I've… not heard that before… yes… very interesting, though… Sierra, you want to tell him what you fly?"

"Uh…" she really didn't, but since he'd brought it up for some reason, the Ikhwan was waiting expectantly. "Flying metal armor," she said, since he seemed to have a loose grasp on English. "Yes. I fly this. Is not magic. No use for jihad."

Khasan broke out in laughter, face turning red as he laughed and laughed at her. The man Avel was playing cards with fell off his chair, wheezing as he struggled to control his breath. Khasan stopped laughing for a beat, looked at her, and continued laughing, fist tapping the table for support.

"Look at her face." Khasan said, speaking fluently now. "Look at…" he wheezed. "Look at her face."

Before long, the whole place, Kurdish militia, and Ikhwan alike were laughing at her, the laughter so enthused, the tension of the entire place died. With a wry grin, the waitress came in, and put her order infront of her.

"What?" Ted eloquently spoke.

"Americans." Kizgin snorted, trying, and failing, to keep a smile off of his face.

Sierra narrowed her eyes, before replaying the last few minutes in her head. "I think," she said, focusing on the extremely amused Khasan. "That this was one big joke."

The Lion looked up from his work, utterly unperturbed. "You think?" he asked her. "What tipped you off, pray tell?" He shook his head, turning back to his work. "Westerners," he muttered.

"Maybe the fact that everyone laughed," she said dryly. "Yes, yes, make fun of the Americans."

"Jihadist plane jokes," Ted muttered. "How original."

Khasan shook his head, drying out his tears with a handkerchief. The man who fell picked himself up, breaking out in chuckles every few seconds, barely managing to keep his cards in his hand.

Avel, for his part, broke out in a grin.

"You Americans," Khasan started. "Every time I make this joke, you fall for it. Every time." His grin was downright silly. "How do you think we Ikhwan travel? With camels?" He chuckled at her.

"No, no," Ted smirked. "Definitely by horse."

Sierra shrugged. "Honestly, it's not something I thought much about before."

"My name is Khasan, Chechen member of the Ikhwan." The man said, returning his chair to its place. "My brother is Arif," he pointed at the man playing cards, "He comes from Indonesia. I know you, madam Morrow, are American, but what of your friend?"

"Also American, thank you," Ted said, smiling. "Not all of us fit the mold like Sierra does."

She snorted at that.

Khasan shook his head. "But you are tense. Awkward, seeing our preconceptions, not who we are. Please, laugh with us, talk, speak to all of our brothers. You were welcome here, it is not right to sit silent, to take no joy in companionship."

He waived around, and every one of the Ikhwan gave them a polite head incline. "Come, let us talk, ask of me, and I shall ask of you. We shall be as kin, even if only for the little time it lasts. Let us share words and laughter, would you not like that?"

This certainly hadn't gone in the direction she'd thought it would have. The man wasn't wrong though, she did feel a little more at ease now. The joke, albeit as long and unnecessarily confusing as it was, had broken the tension a little.

"Sure, why not," she said, looking to Ted. "Any objections?"

"Nah, no harm in having conversation," he said. "I guess apologies if I'm not especially comfortable. I had family who lived in the region during the War. Much of what I heard was...unpleasant."

He nodded to the Lion. "He corrected some of my misconceptions, but old habits die hard."

"Scars of a tyrant's hunger," Khasan said, accepting a cup of coffee from a waitress. "It is a reminder of what evil does, of the bones it spits out." A shadow passed over Khasan, before his smile came back in force. "But look at now! Tyrants toppled, old wounds healed. American soldiers and Ikhwan on the same table."

Khasan's voice was somber. "I never thought I'd escape the Turkish dungeons, I never thought I'd dream of the sun, of the taste of coffee. Of laughing, of a chance to put the old wrong right. But all of us, here, can see it."

"Can you?" He turned to Sierra. "Can you, madam, see it? Here, in this moment, how the Hand of God brings us? Unconceived by us, a reminder of resolve, of standing fast, even when we cannot see hope?" He smiled at her.

"More eloquent than I would have put it," Sierra said, finding his good mood rather infectious. "I wouldn't say it in quite that way, not especially religious. But that's a good outlook."

"Aye," Ted agreed. "Christians have a saying of Him working in mysterious ways. Found it more applicable nowadays. Then again..." he trailed off, probably thinking best not to unintentionally reveal some other miraculous reason Humanity was still around. Such as a Sovereign One under the sea.

But the Ikhwan didn't really need to know that.

"We too have a saying." Khasan continued in good measure. "With hardship comes ease."

Arif glanced away from his card game. "You said that when I ended up shot six times, in the gut, by those infidels back in Lebanon. While convincing me I was going to meet God."

Khasan's lips quirked up. "See, my friends? With hardship comes ease." He grinned. "Ease from life."

"Brother," Arif smiled. "That is a terrible thing to say to me, think of how I feel."

He chuckled, he turned to Sierra. "You are curious, madam? Ask anything, we are friends here."

She hesitated, but then decided it was best to simply ask. These men seemed like they could handle a straightforward question.

"Do you regret what you did?" She briefly paused. "The role you played in propping up the Caliph? I don't know the finer details but...what I've learned points to your people laying the groundwork for what it became."

"More than you know," Ted said quietly.

Khasan looked down at his coffee. "Have you, madam Morrow, ever thought about the things you would have changed in your life, if you knew what you have now come to know?"

She thought for a moment. "A few things here and there. Enough to where I would end up in a different place? Probably not," she shrugged. "For better or worse, I'm content with who I am."

"Then you should be grateful that life has been kind," Khasan was smiling. "For us, we have seen and been history. We served our people, we fought relentlessly. To be Ikhwan is prayer, contemplation, gunpowder, and death."

"The brothers martyred would fill a graveyard, and those killed would create a mound." Arif murmured.

"To be an instrument of fate, to be an agent of change in the world." Khasan said. "It is intoxicating, hypnotizing. By our hands and will, we broke dictators and brought them low. We turned famines caused by opium fields, into thriving towns fed fat by wheat."

His eyes bored into her. "Can you imagine that? To see the world change? By the will of the Caliphate, to see the wrongs done by the great and powerful, made correct?"

She was about to answer, when Ted decided to speak. "Change is a funny thing, it can be good for certain, but not all change is so innocent as what you say - nor is justice," Ted interjected, leaning forward. "Respectfully, that wasn't her question. I know you went after many who were deserving. But do you hold that same view for the Shia rebels you put down? The freedom fighters you made mass graves off?"

He shook his head. "The question was not fighting corruption. She was asking if you regretted solidifying the Caliph's, and enabling him to act with impunity until he antagonized the West." He leaned back. "I don't mean to downplay the good you did - but every member of my family was divided on you for a reason."

"If you believed that your every action was for the better, you would do what we did." Khasan replied. "The Caliphate was order, justice, and a home for us and all who believed. So it was, that not all our acts of malice were evil, and so we believed that kindness was not wise."

"It was a place for all who believed - and no one else," Ted nodded slowly. "Is that your answer then? You didn't know better? You were following orders?"

Khasan thought for a brief moment before replying. "We didn't. We so blindly obeyed, we so eagerly faught, we so doggedly died, for the veil of glory had become our blindness. Obeyed and served and killed. We cut the disease out, root and stem, and thought ourselves saviors of the world."

"Trapped in between the trees, we could not see the forest." Arif stated. "Would you have been any different? Any wiser? Any greater? Would you deny orders for the greater good, that you've seen before? Refuse and object, even when all others obeyed?"

"Had I grown with the indoctrination and propaganda you had, I very well might not have," Ted said. "But your order likes to portray themselves as independent. That none were immune from justice. That you protected the innocent. Yet from the beginning, that was never your mission - or if it was, it was through a warped perspective. Did no one question why you were killing your own? Why, despite your claim that none are above the law, that you took commands from monarchs and Caliphs?"

Arif looked up from his card game. "No army stands on its own. We brought order, peace, and slaughtered those violent, and in exchange, others committed the deeds of civilization. Companies took mines and farms. Leaders took offices and police civil order."

"It seemed so right." Khasan played with his coffee. "So correct. So innocuous, we did our tasks, and others did theirs. We did not trample upon the weak, we did not oppress those different."

Ted narrowed his eyes. "That is a lie. Or a partial one. You did not oppress those different. You killed them."

"And not only kill," the Lion interjected. "Shatter their wills, humiliate them with terror and zealous fury. So relentless, none dare raise a sword. The shadow of your will a nightmare to haunt all."

Ted didn't expect the answer, didn't expect to hear the next words.

"We did, didn't we?" Khasan laughed, the hurt impossible to hide. "How happy to follow orders. How rigid our code."

"How content to be merely dogs." The Lion's smile made Khasan shiver, as the man returned to his work.

"We are guilty by association, abetters if not actors." Khasan said quietly. "How could we not?

He looked at Arif. "How could we not, when by our word, protesters would march to the gates of their leaders, demanding justice by God's Divine Writ? When no criminal could outfight us, when even the vilest men dreaded our name?"

"Then the world stopped making sense." Khasan whispered. "Where was up? Where was down? What have we done? What are we creating? Where are we going? Have you, sir Holden, felt the ground slip beneath your feet, as realization swallows you whole?"

"I...hmm…" Ted glanced upward, thinking. "I can't say to that degree. There's been...certain points for sure, and most of them in relatively recent memory." Sierra could imagine a few such things - all of them relating to the secrets of XCOM. It was certainly something that made everyone question a little of what they'd believed.

"When was it?" Khasan asked, almost talking to air, almost lost. "When we realized we played to his hunger? When we'd given him everything he'd ever wanted of us? Or was it before then, before we even thought of it?"

"Like the fools you were." The Lion said, glancing away from his screens. "The flies to the spider's web."

"We deserved it, for failing the Divine Writ. For daring to obey orders like dogs." Khasan hissed.

"Deserved what?" Ted asked.

"The dungeons, the torture, the brothers who died, freezing in the cold." Khasan muttered. "The hundreds and hundreds and thousands and thousands dead. We let a tyrant veil our eyes, we let his hunger fool us. We failed."

Ted was silent for a moment. "You were not blameless or innocent in your role. Deserved or not, that ultimately doesn't matter now. What matters is that, regardless of how long it took, you realized what you were doing and acted. You failed, but you learned, and now...well, perhaps you can build something better."

"Mark my words, the Hand of God cares not for the unjust." Khasan said. "How could we, who claim His name, not be punished for such a crime of negligence, for we, who suffer not tyrants, to empower one? To not see what was right before our eyes?"

"Because you were blind." The Lion said. "Too enthused by your significance, believing yourselves the masters of fate, thinking you knew better than those you killed."

Khasan laughed, tinged with hurt. "Ah, how the truth cuts all lies."

"How courage is rarer than treasure," the Lion replied. "Hold your head higher,. Ask him, Sierra, ask what they did. Ask."

She fixated on Khasan." And what did you do?"

The haunted look in Khasan's eyes was beyond terror. "He knew. Every step. Every move. It was his dance, and we played it."

"The Caliph knew?"

Arif smiled, a dead smile. "We noticed it too late, at every deployment, he had enough men around to kill all of us to a man. Everywhere, our supply lines, our command outposts, we thought it was aid, reinforcements."

"One hint, one wrong motion." Khasan snapped his fingers. "and we would not live long enough to reach our weapons. He knew the bite of his hounds, and he waited for us."

Arif looked both of them in the eyes. "The flies were in the web, long before we could see it. We knew, and knew beyond certainty, death was all that awaited us."

"And you still decided to bide your time." Sierra said.

"No, we chose to roll over for belly rubs. Obedient dogs asking for treats." Khasan smiled, a cracked and pain filled thing. "Every command heeded, every order obeyed. He thought us blind. He thought us soldiers. He thought us pet murderers. Soon enough, he forgot his fears."

"At midnight, we sharpened our knives," Arif growled.

"We obeyed no longer." Khasan closed his eyes. "Insurgents armed and trained and guided. Battleplans immaculate, laid to waste by ambushes. Entire cities, made impasses. Linchpins made the deaths of armies. Everything he hid, we exposed. We died, unamned, unremembered, unmentioned."

"Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, Egypt, Israel, Iran, Arabia, Palestine," Arif listed off with his fingers. "Everywhere we could, everywhere we might, everywhere we ought. Did you think any mere insurgents could stand against the Caliphs army? That any resistance could fight equal to the weight of thousands of infantry?"

Sierra thought about the stories of the Commander. "Not any resistance, no."

"Our graves are unmarked." Arif said. "Hundreds of us, lost to history, lost to memory, lost to us in every sense. The records are tampered, and we left no traces."

"All are beneath the law. All men. All." Khasan leaned towards Ted. "And we obey no mortal man, and injustice cannot be left to stand and how dare we claim God's name, when we let innocent blood be shed while we stand by?"

"We lived to die," Arif said. "No more. No less."

"We plotted and hid and schemed. Our lives a struggle, a timeline heading towards one, singular, end. Inevitably, certainly, everyone and everything we called home would be turned against us. But we dared not let the world rot with cowardice."

"And at dusk, we bared our fangs," Arif muttered, eyes closed.

"If you knew, with certainty, that fighting was futile, defeat was certain, and you would never win. Never, ever, would you win, and you would die, if you tried, would you fight? Madam Morrow?"

"If the alternative was worse than living itself?" Sierra considered. "Yes."

"The alternative was gold, riches, power, glory, authority and honor," Khasan said. "He offered us everything, all we could ever want."

"But that would mean you would have to live with yourself," Sierra noted. It made her think of Patricia. She had power, authority beyond any of them. She wondered if Patricia ever reflected on what she'd done, if she regretted anything.

Probably not. But she wasn't Patricia. Rationalizing to that degree was difficult to imagine.

"All men could lie to themselves, become convinced of their own righteousness," Khasan replied. "Who dares lie to God's Divine Writ? Who dares veil his eyes to what he knows? To pretend to be alive, when they are the dead walking? Hiding from their certain end? All men die, all gold turns to dust, all power becomes ash to the four winds."

"And what remains?" the Lion asked.

"That which has never lived and never died," Khasan said. "Only justice will remain. Only our deeds will remain. Our flesh will be devoured by the worms inevitable and certainly. Only valor will echo. Only justice will ring. Only resolve will never burn out. Only God is Greater."

"And where did that land you?"

"Labelled us the blackguards, the villains, aides of usurping tyrannical oppressor. Hunted like vermin. Starved like rats. Tortured, killed, trapped in the dark, left in the dungeons to die a slow death. Our homes, our honor, our lives, lost twice over. Everything we ever had, taken of us. No hope. No clothes. No beds. No sunlight."

"And what did you have left?"

"The only things we ever owned of worth," Khasan replied. "Our faith. Our will. Our deeds."

"And you would do it again," the Lion's eyes were cold, abyssal pits. "And again."

"And again," Arif said.

"And again," Khasan said.

"And again!" all the Ikhwan in the room yelled.

"Noisy bastards," Kizgin muttered.

Avel chuckled, long used to this state of affairs.

The Lion turned to Sierra and Ted. "All of ADVENT glares at me, whispering when they think me blind. Thumbing their noses at us, mocking our existence. Questioning my decision to free them, and my worth to lead. Do you believe, if you were offered what they were, you would have refused? That if the Imperator offered you everything you ever wanted, do you believe you would have refused?"

"Perhaps at one point, I might have," Sierra admitted. "It's not something any of us could know for sure until we face it ourselves, but knowing what I know, and what I have seen...nothing would turn me, short of his powers."

"Patricia made all of us confront this to some degree," Ted sighed. "The one single service she did when she betrayed us. And it's a question we need to answer now, otherwise when we're confronted with it, we may surrender to it just as she did."

"No, she betrayed nothing, for she lived for nothing. And she will die for nothing, truly nothing." the Lion said. "She thinks herself great, she thinks herself significant, another fool believing themselves a master of fate. Those who live for something, will die for it. Good, bad, malevolent or benevolent."

"They will live to die," he told her, the words ringing in her head. "That is the only life worth living. One lived for death."

"Do you believe, Sierra Morrow, and Ted Holden, that you can aspire to that ignominy?" he asked, the pits of his gaze stripping them. "Or do you believe it is better to live by any means, denying death to the last, that you may aspire to find glory?"

"I don't really aspire to glory, or anything like that," Sierra said. "My task - my role, I guess - is to fight and defend for the future, so others do not have to. If I die, it will not be meaningless, and I'm content with that."

"Can't really add more," Ted nodded. "Death is an end, but it doesn't need to be empty."

The Lion put down his pen, and stood up. "Then you are welcome among us, welcome with us, and welcome to die beside us. Even if our deaths are insignificant, even if we are never remembered. Even if our fate is dust and ignominy, our dignity was worth it all."

He raised a cup to the air. "To the unjust, tyrannical, and oppressive and arrogant! To the scum-sucking, warmongering, blaspheming, profane Imperator of the Collective! To the unworthy who shed blood! Who trample the innocent!"

Ted lifted his cup, and Sierra joined him.

The Ikhwan raised their cups up.

General Avel raised his cup.

Kizgin grumbled, raising his cup, even as his militiamen beat him to it.

The Lion walked to the center of the room, all eyes on him. The very focus of the room, even without spotlight, the attention was all on him. "Our resolve, our faith, our deeds are all we ever owned! Even our lives we do not own! Those are all we ever had! These are all that cannot be taken from us, and all that we will not give!"

The Lion spoke quietly, all the same, his voice rang like thunder in their minds. "Shall you fight when death and defeat are all that await, in the name of what is greater?"

And all of them spoke, in one singular voice. "We will!"

Sierra had no doubt everyone in that room meant it. She was surprised to realize she meant it too.

Korean Collective Front, Near Seoul – South Korea

8/27/2017 – 2:00 P.M.

ADVENT was taking the lulls and ceasefires all over the world to begin more properly reinforcing and starting a concerted effort to strike back. Infiltration efforts were more dangerous, as ADVENT had surged psions into the city, particularly telepaths to root out the spies and saboteurs.

Unfortunate, but expected.

XCOM and Lancers were intensifying operations near the south of the country, causing disruption and potentially laying the groundwork for another land invasion. Patricia was skeptical they would do so, however. They would find that out well-ahead of time, and every indication was that ADVENT was preparing for a pincer attack from the north to push them out.

She was taking losses, but so were they. She could sense there were more and more psions arriving, and the Zararch had intercepted intel that indicated that ADVENT was mobilizing to push a direct confrontation where they would all directly target and kill her. Rumors that the Pantheon would be used were strong.

She could take them, she wasn't concerned about that.

But it would be difficult.

The longer this siege lasted, the more entrenched ADVENT would become. When they were able to focus, they were able to counter her long-term sabotage efforts easier, or replace casualties fast enough that it was effectively pointless. Worse, they were learning.

Nearly every major piece of infrastructure, particularly those related to food, water, and necessities was under constant guard, with ADVENT Engineers going to the trouble to add additional failsafes and countermeasures to tampering. Telepaths were on every corner, and ADVENT Intelligence had a large enough presence that the Zararch was effectively growing blind.

It was difficult to infiltrate a city when there were psions on the lookout for anything foreign, and she knew from experience that Human minds and alien minds felt distinct, and if you were looking for them…well, it wouldn't take long to find them, especially if you had a lot working in conjunction.

However, she was certainly not giving up. The Korean front was just going to take longer, and in the interim, she'd been planning another strike which would actually have a significant impact on ADVENT. One which they were unlikely to see coming.

The Zar'Chon stood in hologram form before her as she reviewed the report.

"And all of these are recent?" She asked.

A nod. "Within the past three days. He is there, and unlike our initial assumption, he is not leaving."

Very curious, but useful for her purposes. The images were fairly benign. Him speaking with locals, him entering the ADVENT facilities, and a few of him in slightly unexpected places like restaurants or cafes. A man who enjoyed the culture, it seemed. It almost – almost – felt like bait.

However, there was little evidence that suggested that was the case.

"The XCOM soldiers," she said. "Assigned bodyguards?"

"Unknown, but we don't think so," Ravarian dismissed. "We have been able to identify the XCOM soldiers in question. Ted Holden and Sierra Morrow. They've been working closely with him during this entire period, but we do not think they're assigned to him. Likely more of a friendly relationship, curiously enough."

Patricia had recognized Sierra when the images had started coming. She'd not realized that she'd become one of the newer MECs, and wondered what battle had caused that transformation. She'd not interacted too much with her, but she'd met a few times. A nice woman, when times were much simpler.

A shame she was likely going to die. A Valkyrie MEC was a powerful weapon, but unfortunately, it was unlikely to be effective against her – assuming she was able to reach her MEC at all. Holden would likely be a more dangerous element. He may not be the most powerful Dynamo, but everything indicated that he was extremely competent, as well as an Archangel.

She decided to lay her misgivings out plainly. "This doesn't fit what we know of him."

Ravarian cocked his head. "In what way?"

"Two possibilities," Patricia set down the tablet, and paced. "One, he is not concerned about a direct attack or threat of assassination, which explains why he is cavalier about his public presence. Two, he is concerned, and we are being lured into some kind of trap."

Ravarian clasped his hands behind his back. "The Lion is an extremely creative and gifted tactician. He is not infallible, nor invincible, nor perfect. We should not let his successes affect a rational judgement. While it is tempting to wonder if there is a hidden plan, there is no indication that this is actually the case."

"Fine. So what is there worth noting?"

"Two elements," Ravarian continued. "The first is that, while the Lion may not be taking his safety as seriously, ADVENT is. There is at least one ADVENT Intelligence group that is near him at all times. It is unknown if he is aware of this. The second is that, no matter where he goes, there are individuals from the newly freed Ikhwan. A small number, but they are there. Disguised, usually, but sometimes they aren't hiding it."

"Your assessment?"

"In your case? Nonfactors, both of them. No psions from our information. They will not pose a threat to you."

Patricia nodded. "And an indication of when he would leave?"

"Unknown, but Ankara is largely recovered," Ravarian said. "It will be sooner than later unless he is retiring, and I highly doubt that is the case."

"And the posture of the ADVENT forces?"

"Present, but not on high alert. There are no open fronts near Ankara, and most efforts are being focused on Korea and South America," Ravarian answered. "They are poorly prepared for a direct attack. Namely, they've been massing their heavy hitters in Seoul to take you out. There is nothing that indicates they even know Turkey, let alone the Lion, is on your radar."

"And they won't until it happens," she said. "Good work. Any additional updates?"

"Minor ones, but significant enough," Ravarian briefly consulted a holodisplay from his hand – and then a cat suddenly jumped out from the ground onto his shoulder, and didn't take long to perch on it, opening its mouth in a large yawn. "Insipid creature," he muttered, while simultaneously reaching his free hand up to scratch the cat under the chin.

Patricia smiled. "He's gotten big."

"And loud. And heavy. And he is continually starving," Ravarian said dryly. "Are all cats so manipulative? I received no fewer than three notices from my staff asking if he was being fed, because every time they would come by, he would be meowing despite the automatic feeders dispensing at the proper times."

"Afraid so," Patricia said. "They're clever like that."

"And disappointingly selfish," Ravarian cleared his throat. "Now, returning to the topic. There is evidence that ADVENT is starting to experience some minor difficulties. While our assassination campaign has remained relatively low-key, Zararch sources have reported that ADVENT is starting to have issues properly controlling the lower-level bureaucracy, causing stagnation and gridlock in key positions as there are knowledge gaps, conflicting personalities, and safety concerns rising to the forefront. ADVENT Intelligence and the Oversight Division are working overtime to address these, but their operational capability has begun slightly degrading from the workload."

"Good. It has to start somewhere," Patricia said. "Continue as you were – and keep me updated."

"Of course, Harbinger. And Turkey?"

"Expect it," she said. "Sooner than later."

Much, much sooner than later.

She reached out to the mind which was always prepared for hers.

I believe it is time.

If you are certain, let us do so.

They will not expect it.

Then prepare yourself, and we shall begin.

Indeed. There is a city to burn and a Lion to kill.

Above Ankara – Turkey

8/28/2017 – 4:26 P.M.

The day was one that the superstitious would call foreboding. The sun was hidden behind clouds as the day was overcast. A light breeze blew, whipping up sand in light swirls. By all accounts, it was a wonderful day in Turkey, and many people were out and about, intending to enjoy the time while it lasted.

Few were looking to the sky. Fewer thought they needed to.

Of course, there would be few who saw the figure hovering in the sky. Below her, the city seemed so small. Patricia hung suspended in the air, almost aimlessly as her link with the Imperator held strong. Such displays were almost effortless now, and as the cape whipped in the wind, she idly mused if this was how Superman felt.

With the exception that the city below her was not one she was here to save, but to tear apart. The Lion was here, and she would tear apart every single building, raze every monument and home, until he was found. She knew he was here, and it was simply a matter of tracking him down.

It would not be aimless, he was not someone who hid. She would look into the minds of those in this city, and sooner or later she would find him. Of course, he would try to escape. If he tried, he would find that there were a few Zararch operatives she'd teleported into the tunnels below Ankara.

And unlike previous times, there would be no escape for anyone else – no matter how much they wished and fought.

Today, there would be many, many ADVENT soldiers who would die, along with any who were foolish enough to get in her way. There were precious few psions to defend, and ADVENT would need more than soldiers, MECs, and ADVENT Intelligence to save the day. There was a reminder to be shared here.

Victory, ultimately, was meaningless.

No matter what they did, she would be there.

They could not protect everywhere.

Not from her.

Not from the Imperator.

She reached out with her mind to the edges of the city; the hundreds of thousands of minds unbothered and unconcerned with what was about to happen. Good. They had not noticed that she was here yet, though that would not last for long. There were a few telepaths, minds which stood out like fireworks in the sea of the silent.

There was some work to do here first - but quickly before they took notice.

No chances for… interference.

One, two, five, ten, fifteen…. yes, that seemed to be it. Not all psions here, of course, but telepaths. Their guards were lowered, aware but not fully cognizant of any impending attack. Some more alert than others, but it was a passive alert. The ones presumably on duty were focused on monitoring the crowds, not hostile telepaths.

Do not fear, this will not be long.

Closing her eyes, she formed her telepathy into a technique she'd been refining, especially in the days that the Seoul telepaths had continually attempted to overpower her. Together, they might indeed have a chance. Thus, it was important that they were paralyzed from doing so.

Thus, with the assistance of the Imperator, she had developed a response. Javelin, she called it, a spear directly into the minds of the telepaths. No complexity, nothing fancy, certainly not subtle, but it went straight to the mind. A spear loaded with nothing but commands and paralyzing pain. Lower-brain telepathy was more powerful, but that took time, and she couldn't perform a mass attack with it.

And there was no guarantee she'd remain unnoticed here forever.

She aimed her mental spears towards fourteen of the telepaths, and launched them. The spears went through their paltry defenses, and immediately she felt them become unconscious as their minds were forced to contend with the series of commands. The strong ones would come out of it, the rest would be trapped in a purgatory of pain.

It turned out that certain techniques from the Hive Commanders did have their uses after all.

The final psion she performed a complete, overwhelming attack, smashing her mental defenses and entering her mind and locking it in a vice grip. She felt the sheer panic and terror of the woman who realized what was happening, but no longer had control over her own body. The Manchurian Restraints would unfortunately prevent a full hijacking, but they would be able to paralyze, and that was all she needed.

Calm now, I will only be in here for a minute.

She immediately began sifting through her most recent memories, and watched through her eyes. She was in her barracks, relaxing and getting ready to go on duty. A few people passed her, and Patricia made her smile and nod. The previous few hours were important and… there. Yes, she had seen the Lion.

Entering a building she knew was the working city center.

As good a place to start as any.

Your cooperation is appreciated. Now sleep, and do not wake up.

She released the grip on the psion, who subsequently fell unconscious. Fully returning to her body, and the general feel of the city below her, she began sensing some brief tinges of alarm and concern.

Well then, perhaps she had been spotted.

No grand speeches or heralding of her presence here. No point in theatrics this time. The link strengthened, and she began drawing upon the power as the air crackled around her. A hand extended below, and a pure psionic shield appeared over the city. A dome that would in some instances protect the city.

In this case, it would turn it into a prison.

No way in.

No way out.

Every exit accounted for.

She locked the Psionosphere in her mind, committing it to massive maintenance. She would need it maintained as she operated within. A simple enough matter, and she doubted that there would be heavy opposition.

Now the panic spiked.

A thin smile materialized under her helmet. Now they knew.

With a flick of her wrist, she vanished into the city.

Time to hunt.

Ankara – Turkey

8/28/2017 – 4:35 P.M.

It was a largely uneventful day thus far. Sierra had not expected anything significant to happen – or at least not beyond the ordinary. It was a nice day, in fact, as the people outside were clearly enjoying it. She and Ted were talking near the barracks, when there was a clear shift in… something.

Not a bad feeling per-se, but something in the air seemed to be wrong.

An alarm suddenly rang out.

A moment later, a dome materialized over the city. It was massive, bigger than any she'd ever really seen before personally. The closest comparison was what she'd heard described in Beijing, but there was no psion here that was capable of performing something like this. Aegis, yes, but he wasn't here…

"Not good," Ted grunted as he immediately hopped up on alert, eyes scanning the immediate area and hands ready to call upon his psionics. "What do you think it is?"

"Don't know," Sierra said, standing straight and quickly trying to figure out what to do next. "But it's clearly only a few actors."

"We need help," Ted said as they began striding towards the streets. "We're not prepared for an attack. Not with a psion…whoever it is."

He was right, Sierra grimly acknowledged. Even if it wasn't Patricia, it was clearly a powerful psion that no one was ready to deal with. ADVENT didn't have enough psions, and she and Ted were the only XCOM personnel still in Ankara. Why attack here though?

Several soldiers led by an officer marched nearby and she immediately moved to them. "What's going on?"

"We're under attack," the Officer said. "All of our telepaths were just knocked out."

"Confirmation on who it is?"

"No. None yet," the Officer paused. "It's likely Trask. All I know is backup has been called."

"Understood, where is General Avel?" She asked.

"Dead with the rest of the command staff. Whole building crashed down on them, they're buried under the rubble," the Officer winced. "We haven't had contact with the Lion, he wasn't in the command center."

She felt a pang of sadness at that. From her interactions with him, he seemed like a good man. Not an easy one to replace. There wasn't time for regret or grief now, not when they were under attack. "Thank you," she said quickly, as she turned away and marched back to Ted, who had grabbed a weapon. All the while she was quickly thinking about what could be the reason for the attack, Patricia or not. It clearly wasn't to retake the city, which meant they were here to send a message…or achieve something else.

But what?

What was…

Oh.

Would they really go through all this trouble just to take him out?

Well, probably not just him. Avel and the entire Command Staff had just been targeted. If Avel was targeted and dead, then it was almost certain who she would be going after next.

Ted waited as she walked back over. "Do you know who it is?"

"Seems the main guess is Patricia," she answered briskly. "Get back to XCOM, tell them what's going on."

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"I'm going to find the Lion," she said. "I think she's here for him."

"For him?" Ted sounded skeptical. "Why him?"

"Not just him. General Avel and his command are dead," she briefly paused. "But him specifically because he was the reason ADVENT won so quickly – Patricia wouldn't come all this way to just take out her frustration. She's here for a reason, and if it's not to capture the city, it's to take out someone or something. Get to XCOM, I will not be long."

"Alright," he said, nodding sharply. "Do you even know where he is?"

"No, but I have a guess," she said. Sounds were heard in the distance, gunfire and explosions, as well as sounds of buildings and psionics. "Go."

"I'll see you soon," he promised, and he immediately began sprinting in the other direction as she charged into the streets. No time for her suit right now – it wouldn't fit where she was going, anyway. However, she didn't need to slow down or adhere to the normal limits of Human speed.

She charged through the streets and panicked people who were cowering in houses, buildings, and ADVENT soldiers waving everyone off to the side as they readied their weapons. They quickly moved out of her way as she barreled through, turning and jumping with mechanical precision as she navigated the streets she'd become rather familiar with over the previous weeks.

Hopefully, she was right.

It wasn't a café, but it was effectively a little hideout in an abandoned building where she knew he liked to go. As he'd explained it, it had been an Ikhwan safe house many years ago, and contained a small armory and command center – something she suspected he'd upgraded in the weeks since.

As she ran, her ear buzzed as a new voice sounded. "Of all the times to suffer such indignant intervention, it would have to be now. And in Turkey of all places. Baffling."

"JULIAN?" She grunted.

"Yes, don't sound so surprised," he said sarcastically. "Ted returned safely, and informed us of the situation. From having tapped into local feeds and ADVENT radio, it does indeed appear to be our friendly neighborhood traitor who has come."

Not good. "Any idea why?"

"No. Though given how she's been grabbing random people, holding them for a moment, and then tossing them aside, I'd say she's looking for someone."

That confirmation was bad, and she needed to go faster. "If it is any consolation," JULIAN said. "You're going in the right direction."

"You know where he is?"

"Yes, his computer security is utterly and completely lax. I currently have an 'EVACUATE NOW' message being displayed on his screen, which he is ignoring in favor of pestering me for updates of everything happening in the city, despite my repeated insinuations that he is likely to be turned into psionic slurry if he remains."

Somehow, she wasn't surprised at that. Unfortunately, this was not something he would probably be able to plan his way out of. "Just…tell him I'm coming," she said. "And to get ready to run. She's here for him, I'm sure of it."

"I have conveyed this sentiment to him, and ADVENT," JULIAN said. "I am also currently antagonizing Patricia as we speak. She appears to find my presence irritating."

"That's great," she said as she turned another corner. "But we need help."

"A team is being assembled now," JULIAN stated. "It will not be long."

She arrived at the building and didn't hesitate before just punching the door open and sure enough, the Lion and a few of his Ikhwan friends were waiting. "I did not realize XCOM was in the possession of a rather insistent machine," the Lion said, seemingly unperturbed. "I dislike digital vandalism."

"Funny," she said. "She's here for you."

"Insignificant," the Lion said, nodding to the men. Sierra noticed that all of them were wearing the same outfit. Grey desert clothing, no identifiable markings, sunglasses, and a cap. Were she not familiar with the man, it wouldn't be easy to pick him out in a crowd. "This was inevitable, the scale is the only question. Avel?"

"Dead, Patricia took out the command center," Sierra shook her head. "Collapsed on top of all of them, and his staff."

"Hank Avel dead by rubble? Amusing. Remind me to fish him out of the rubble," the Lion absently noted, looking at a map of the city. "Wouldn't do for the excitement to make us forget."

"Is he alive?" she demanded.

"He survived the last time," one of the Officers replied, throwing a rifle at her which she caught. "You know where the Gateways are?"

She didn't have to debate on the chances of whether Avel was actually alive or not. Hopefully he was, but she wasn't distracted by that now. "Yes," Sierra motioned for him to follow, hearing the sounds of fighting in the distance. "We don't have time to waste." She frowned. "Why are you asking me? I'm sure you know where they are as well."

"All exits are bait, she's waiting for our nerves to break," the Lion muttered, eyes sharply staring at his screen. "No doubt she's also trapped the tunnels, and that barrier prevents conventional escape. She's waiting for me."

"Fine. What's your solution?" She didn't have time to argue. "We don't have time to delay."

"No, we don't," he agreed, and nodded to his people who left the building, he looked at his computer screen JULIAN had hijacked. "Your rescue, can they kill her?"

"Yes, help is coming," JULIAN spoke over a hijacked speaker. "I am amazed you are still alive with your self-preservation comprehension of a brain-dead cat. Lest I repeat myself again, there is a very angry psion who is likely hunting you specifically. You need to leave or I will have Sierra haul you out on her shoulder."

One of the men looked at Sierra almost expectantly. She shrugged in response.

"I asked a question. I expect an answer. Do not waste time. Yes or no?" The Lion's eyes glinted.

"Oh for the love of - yes, he can kill her. What? Did you think XCOM would send someone to lightly tap her on the shoulder?"

"How much time does he need for that? Ask them. Now," the Lion demanded.

There was a brief pause. "In theory, only a moment. Practically, it will take longer in a direct fight. Now, are you done? There are easier ways of suicide if you are so insistant on jabbering your questions in this particular moment."

"Take control of the drone systems, the missiles systems, and our command and control, every soldier alive," the Lion ordered, commanding as he walked toward his maps. "Use the decoys as bait, drag it out. Their lives are yours to spend. Squeeze every drop of blood and every second."

"What?" JULIAN actually sounded both surprised, and there was a clear tone of seriousness that hadn't been there before. No more mocking in his tone. "You understand what you are suggesting, Human? What you propose?"

"You are a machine. Calculate the longest possible method. The price of lives is irrelevant," the Lion continued, heedless. He took a phone offered by one of the Ikhwan. "When your rescue is ready, lead her to me. Turn my position into a deathblow. Ambush her."

"You understand she is going to kill you, yes?" Sierra demanded. "This is a suicide mission. I came to keep you alive, not sacrifice you."

"Our lives are coins, pieces on the board of victory," the Lion replied, not a hint of fear. "To be spent in the name of victory. Let the Knight take the Queen. For there can be no hesitation in this game, for we dedicated our lives and souls to victory, no matter the ignominy, no matter if it led to death."

Sierra remembered that day, when they'd raised their glasses and affirmed their dedication and oath. The Lion remembered it, and it was no mere bonding moment, it was something he intended to live by. Something she must embody as well, no matter the end.

He took a picture of the map that was annotated, and nodded when JULIAN received. "She thinks herself divinity over us mortal men doomed to die. Let us remind her, that Achilles was only as strong as his heel. Machine, send me the XCOM files on her psychology," the Lion called out.

"Sent. I trust you are a fast reader," JULIAN stated, his tone focused. "I have summarized the important points for your convenience. I have had time to observe her psychological state for quite some time."

"She will track your actions by the CODEX, use that against her. Frustrate. Infuriate. Make my death a delicacy she wants to enjoy. Create a vulnerability in her mental state, that is all I ask. All I need," the Lion replied, putting his cap on.

"It will be carried out. If you insist upon this suicidal course of action, I will ensure it shall succeed."

The Lion turned to his people. "Soldiers!" he called out. "This is my last order. Give your hearts! Dedicate your souls! God. Is. Greater!"

Both of them exited, with the Lion directing them away from the fighting. Sierra glanced to the Lion, his face eerily calm. "How many of the decoys do you have?"

"The city has become a decoy," the Lion explained, weaving through alleys and streets with single minded guidance. "Every life, every missile, every house. All of us are a decoy."

"They do know they might-"

"She is a natural disaster with a human mind, everyone was in the line of fire regardless," the Lion murmured. "Evacuation is impossible, escape playing to her hand. The only solution is to make every life paid worth it."

They went into a clothing shop, empty of inhabitants as the sounds of combat broke out. In the distance, there was a burst of purple energy, and a building was just… toppled. Destroyed. Shouts and screams and gunfire.

Dust and fire rose in a plume towards the sky.

The Lion swiftly grabbed a large jacket off a rack, alongside a scarf and a hoodie. "Put these on, quickly. You stand out."

He wasn't wrong, even if the clothes were ill-fitting. In retrospect, it was difficult for a MEC to take a low profile. Even if it wasn't necessarily going to help right now, she wished that she was in her Valkyrie. Right now she just felt powerless and useless as they moved through the streets which were once more torn by fighting.

"She's becoming more irritated," JULIAN updated. "She's destroying cameras whenever she sees them. Her focus is being shifted, and she is no longer thinking as logically as she prefers."

"Push further," the Lion said, kicking out the backdoor of a donut store. "I want her hungry for success."

Sierra soon lost track of where they were going, as the Lion weaved a maze through the city, sometimes going through buildings and stores before coming out the other side. Some of the time they stopped and hid, until the Lion gave them the all-clear. As they doubled-back in some roads, they were able to see the devastation Patricia had wrought.

Bodies littered the streets, all ADVENT, and some civilians who had been shredded by the rubble, mashed flat by toppled buildings.

"JULIAN," Sierra hissed as they strode through. "Where is our backup?"

"He is nearly ready," JULIAN answered. "A few more seconds. Then she will come to you."

"Your last chance." The Lion was smiling. Eyes alight with hunger. "Face death with me, kicking and screaming, or live your life. Choice is yours."

They reached a large market square. It was tempting, she wouldn't lie. It wasn't as though she was going to be able to make a difference one way or another. Yet there was a chance here to end Patricia forever, and her job was to do whatever it took to protect Humanity.

Including giving her life for it.

What did it say about her if she fled when it really mattered?

She met his glittering and hungry eyes. "You're not going to get rid of me that easily. We live or die today, but we will not run."

Besides, perhaps they would get out of this alive. It wouldn't be the first time the Lion had gotten out of odds that were impossibly stacked against him.

"Your bravery will be recorded for future generations, and I will do my utter best to explain why both of you willingly elected to kill yourselves in such a convoluted manner," JULIAN commented. "Nonetheless, you have my respect. Such stubbornness deserves some recognition. Prepare yourselves, she is coming. Good luck."

"It has been a pleasure to meet you, JULIAN. Thank you for your empathy, and farewell," the Lion said, clasping his hands behind his back. Standing calm and at peace.

Sierra almost expected a final quip from JULIAN, but there was not one. Perhaps that said more than anything else.

The air was lighter and quieter than it had been before. The sounds of battle had faded. There were people hiding nearby or cowering behind rubble, who were cautiously looking around, wondering if it was over.

Then it broke with a thunderclap.

Patricia materialized from the air and fell to the ground, landing with a shockwave that threw up a wave of dust and rubble and was strong enough to force her to take a few steps back, and the Lion barely steadied his feet, almost falling.

"This has been quite a long, involved chase," the towering form of Patricia Trask said, her voice shaking the air. The sightless mask bore down on her, imposing in its blankness as her chestnut hair fell from behind the mask, tainted by sand and pieces of rubble. The voice that spoke was not Human, not truly.

It was the altered voice of the Harbinger.

"You are not the only one with machines," she said, glancing to the Lion who stood firm before her. "A clever trick, relying on your decoys, drones, and soldiers. All for naught. How many did you sacrifice for nothing?"

"How many minutes did it take you to decide on killing your former friends?" the Lion smiled at her. His eyes were serene and defiant as he faced down the Harbinger. "You certainly enjoyed your new employment."

The Lion waved at a corpse beside them, impaled by a broken rebar. "The power was truly worth it. I could have ruled the world twice over with it." He took a step towards her. "How magnificent, queen of mankind. Ruler over all."

She extended a hand with lightning speed, her wrist wreathed in psionic flame that blasted into the face of the Lion. Corrosive, encompassing, yet Sierra had seen a Dynamo blast from Ted many times, and this was not enough to kill - but enough to punish and maim. The scarred skin of the Lion burned and tore, his eyes melted and congealed, and his hair burned.

He fell down, his face melting and burning as the Harbinger looked down on him. "You know nothing of me, Lion. Do not pretend you understand otherwise. You like to speak, mock, and challenge, but it merely is a vehicle to reinforce your own superiority. You sold out your people to ADVENT - if we are speaking of betraying our side, then you have little to stand on."

She took a step forward. "Yet of course you would not see it that way. I do not condemn or deride your decision. You made the best choice with the information you had - even if it betrayed what you once stood for. Even if it was for the greater good. I had come to kill you, but before I do that, you are going to share everything you know with me."

"It didn't take you much," the Lion wheezed, laughing in a voice destroyed, and a face ruined. "Between being another soldier. Insignificant, simple, another faceless tool. And carving your name in the annals of history. So afraid of dying, of being forgotten. You love it."

He stood up, his laughter grating in its mockery. "You love the power. You enjoy it. You thrive in it. You dreamt of it. You wanted it." He staggered, teeth bared in hilarity. "You didn't live for anything but yourself. Now you'll become the hero of mankind, what's a few friends killed for that?"

Patricia extended her hand towards him, and squeezed.

Sierra heard it first, then seemed to almost feel it. One snap, two, three, and four. His body was suspended in the air, only a few centimeters off the ground. His limbs suddenly twisted in odd angles, popping and breaking the joints. His chest seemed to cave as the ribs broke, and his spine snapped.

She had to do something now. Standing around wasn't an option. She charged.

It was futile, doomed, and pointless, but Patricia was not going to let her live. She would not go down without a fight, not without one swing. Valkyrie or no, she was going to try and make the traitor feel pain - or at least save the Lion from experiencing any more. Patricia's head turned towards her, before, making a sweeping motion with her hand.

A barrier materialized between her legs, and severed them instantly, she fell face-first into the ground, barely stopping as she tried pushing herself up with her arms, but she was helplessly gripped by a telekinetic vice, and held up. Another swipe of the hand and her arms were torn off.

Were it not for the lack of feeling in them, the pain would have been unbearable. The worst part was feeling a part of her control just vanish in an instant. The mask of the Harbinger looked at her with contempt.

"Pathetic."

Sierra felt the vice compress around her. Her body was durable, but it was not invincible, and psionics was a vice that could not be stopped forever – only delayed. Patricia seemed somewhat surprised her body was durable enough to not be crushed outright, but she focused on her.

It was a strange thing, to know what was happening, and to feel the crumpling but not the pain.

"You are going to die," she said to Patricia. "Maybe not today, but you will be fought, defeated, and killed. I promise you."

Patricia cocked her head. For a moment, the vice stopped. "No. I won't." She resumed the compression, and brought the destroyed body of the Lion to her hand, wrapped around his throat.

Patrica pulled the Lion closer. "Any last words?" She barely heard his croak, so she moved him closer to hear.

"You're enjoying this." He smiled through ruined lips, and gazed at her through destroyed eyes.

There was a moment as she held him, likely penetrating his mind. Then a rebar spike flew from the ground and impaled him through both lungs. He hit the ground hard enough to crack his skull with a snap, a dead man who would live a final few minutes of a phantom life. Dying drowned in his own blood.

"Another legend has fallen." Patricia didn't seem to be speaking to her, but seemed to be almost musing after what she had done. The reflection only lasted a second before she returned her focus to Sierra. "Do not worry. You will not take long."

This was the end.

XCOM had failed to come. They had failed to stop her.

Sierra smiled at death.

Ankara – Turkey

8/28/2017 – 5:29 P.M.

The Lion was a slippery one.

Patricia hadn't found him at the first building, which was more or less expected, but it hadn't been long before she'd successfully found someone who appeared to be him. Only to find upon closer inspection that it wasn't the Lion at all, but a decoy. Unfortunately, she'd killed him before she'd found that out.

She hadn't made that mistake again.

She'd found another, and this time she'd briefly extracted his memories – and then killed him. There were far more of these decoys than she'd expected, and it felt like she was being led around the city instead of actually tracking him down. It was made more irritating by the fact that ADVENT was fighting back.

They were killed, of course, but it was a distraction that slowed her down. A few buildings were destroyed and walls collapsed, as well as some psionic demonstrations which had decimated those who had tried to defend. The barracks was the first place she'd deliberately destroyed, as that was where the Gateways were – the singular place that he could feasibly escape too.

In theory, it was possible that he could have escaped when she'd arrived, but she definitely didn't think so. Otherwise, his decoys would not have been deployed. One thing she had noticed from them was curious when she entered their minds. Defiance. Even if they were helpless, they felt no fear before death.

Interesting.

It was made more problematic when JULIAN began hijacking the public systems. Taunts, mocking music, and scathing tirades were directed at her. She wondered if XCOM had designed him to be this irritating, or if it was a learned skill. Nonetheless, it was… an irritant, but one that she couldn't stop getting under her skin.

What's more, was that the longer she fought and hunted, the more she realized something. In the beginning, the response to her had been disorganized and haphazard. Chaos ruled as she pursued her targets. Yet she had run into organized squads, shockingly effective and precise drones, and signs that there was clear coordination in response to her.

No one could do that so quickly but an AI.

Which meant that she was being delayed, which subsequently meant she hadn't been on the right track. JULIAN was using everything as one singular, effective, distraction. How he had gained this authority and control, she didn't know, but nothing else made sense. And with this, he knew where she was at most times. He was almost certainly in contact with anyone in left XCOM – and there was likely at least one person assigned to the Lion. It had been a simple matter for the CODEX to trace the location of where the radio was being transmitted to - and it was the one isolated from all of the others.

Finally finding the Lion - the real one - had been both a relief and had filled her with a sense of sweet satisfaction amplified by the bond.

There were many figures that failed to live up to their exploits and legends. They were humbler in person, more reserved. Merely Human. Only a few lived up to their myth. The Lion seemed to be one of those, he was as grandiose, defiant, and arrogant as she'd imagined. Yet she couldn't help but feel some respect for a man who knew he would die, and yet felt the urge to mock her anyway.

Even turning his face to pulp hadn't silenced him.

His mind had similarly left her with a moment of reflection. The half-seen memories she hadn't focused on in favor of relevant information, most of it largely a blur until she could parse through it more thoroughly. Yet the glimpse of who he was left an impact that few others had.

Indeed, a legend that had ended by her hand.

It should have been over.

Everything played to her will.

The Harbinger of the Imperator had won.

She had turned to end Sierra, give her a quicker death, as she had been little more than a bystander. That was until something very peculiar happened. Sierra vanished before her eyes. She immediately turned just in time to see the Lion's dying body vanish. It wasn't just them. The civilians nearby also were gone.

Portals. She'd seen enough to know them.

But where? And from whom?

She should have felt anger that they'd slipped from her grasp, but the Lion was so wounded he would likely die even with ADVENT's medical advances, and Sierra she didn't care about.

Right now she suddenly felt concerned. A sense of foreboding settled upon her.

She reached out with her mind and found nothing. It made her tense, and the Imperator echoed his own confusion through their bond. It was as if every single person had vanished off of the face of the Earth. There was a silence that had descended upon the city. As if the Rapture had come to Ankara.

This was not normal.

For a moment, she considered leaving then and there. No, no not yet. She needed answers. She noticed something on the ground, a phone. She extended her hand and it flew to it. The Lion's. He must have dropped it. She briefly scanned what it showed, and frowned under the mask.

A map of the city, markings with ADVENT symbols, lines and notes that indicated choke points. She hadn't been reading into it - there had absolutely been coordination to stop her. But the main question she had was for what? Then the phone screen switched, and a very familiar video started playing with Rick Astley getting ready to sing as the first notes to "Never Gonna Give You Up" started playing.

She resisted the urge to sigh. One final prank from JULIAN-

The flicker of a portal caught her eye and she moved out of the way just in time to miss a blue beam blast right past her. She immediately erected a shield in front and behind her as she spun looking for the source. Another small portal materialized, firing, and this time she erected a shield in front of it, getting a good look at the beam.

She'd seen it before. From the particle weapons used by T'Leth's Agents. A possibility began dawning on her, and she continued backing up. The noise of another one firing behind her forced her to turn around. More from the sides materialized as blue beams fired from all directions. She blasted a burst of psionic energy towards one, but it dissipated.

She jumped into the air, hovering. Portals appeared below her now, her sight able to determine where they would likely aim, and she shifted in the air as she thought how to handle this situation. It was clearly a distraction of some kind. She moved further up, and the beams became less frequent.

Several fired at once, and it was only through the sudden yank from the Imperator, who briefly took control, that she moved centimeters to the side. There was a swipe in the air. She felt something graze her throat, and a thin trickle of blood begin welling. She only saw a glimpse of her assailant, but it was enough time for her to realize what was happening.

She'd been lured to this spot.

This whole time.

Her assailant was moving in the split-second she processed this, and slammed into her from above, boots smashed into her body and feeling the telltale speed of a psion using telekinesis to accelerate a landing that would crush her body once landed. She quickly teleported away and landed upright on the ground.

Right into the line of fire.

She didn't have enough time, the weapons were firing before she'd even landed. Blue beams slammed into her armor, leaving deep furrows and grazing her head and mask that left scars and burns that seared. It was only for a split-second before she surrounded herself with another barrier, but only seconds into the fight, and she was already taking damage.

Her assailant slammed to the ground with a shockwave that she was prepared for and resisted. Rising from his position, she got her first look at who it was – and it was not who she expected.

She instinctively knew it was the Chronicler. She'd fought him and felt his mind before – and this was definitely him. But no more was he wearing his familiar grey armor of stone. Instead, he was clad in something wholly different; something unique in a way she didn't know he possessed.

The armor was black and silver, interlacing and overlapping plates that were reminiscent of the armor of old medieval knights, yet with gears and servos that whirred as he moved, the clear sign of advanced armor. His helmet was reminiscent of a knight's helmet, though with the eyes arranged in the six-numbered way of his Sovereign patron glowing a harsh blue.

The armor was not a simple piece of covering; it was beyond even the Titan armor XCOM employed. This altered and augmented his form closer to a humanoid MEC than mere armor. Across the shoulder and around the waist was an odd piece of cloth, almost toga-like and regal, colored silver with T'Leth's glyph of Regicide emblazoned on it.

A cape of black fell from his shoulders, and a sword of psionic power was clasped in his hand. The sun glinted off the armor, and he stood taller than her, despite her own augmentations. The air cracked and rippled with blue tears of reality; the Chronicler was here, and he had come to fight her.

She'd fought him before, but this was…different.

The air was different.

"Chronicler," she said as she lifted her hands and readied her power. "It seems you've changed-"

"Vermin. Insect. Worm. Parasite." the Chronicler began storming towards her with an aggressiveness that was unlike him. "You embody the worst of us. Our hubris. Our arrogance. Our decadence and selfishness cloaked in objectivity and righteousness." The sword swung towards her and a wave of psionic energy was cast towards her. She erected a shield which absorbed it and the Chronicler's march turned into a dash forward.

"To you, and to your Imperator. For waging war upon my people, for your crimes against mankind, for the blood spilt on my home, remember this. To you, I am not the Chronicler."

The pressure around her intensified, as telekinetic strings wrapped themselves around her, and gravity intensified her pull to her knees. She gritted her teeth, she would resist. She would not fall to the Chronicler today. The beam continued, and her shield maintained, but now she felt the pressure on her body.

"I am the Seraphim of Regicide."

The sword sang in his hand, glinting in the sunlight.

"I am the Killer of Kings."

The Chronicler's presence burned with raw fury.

"I am your ruin. I am your death."

The Chronicler lifted his free hand, and the air around her began splitting with psionic energy - he was creating a psionic maelstrom where she stood. The storm around her was more than just directed at her, but around the buildings and rubble. Piece by piece, it was torn apart and ground to a fine powder that began whipping up into the air. She quickly extended her shield to protect her as the storm intensified.

"Kneel!" The command echoed in her mind and ears, backed with the weight of a Sovereign, and the sword flashed as her mind was suddenly assaulted by an attack unlike any she had experienced before. It was a consistent, battering, and distracting experience reminiscent of a bladed choir.

One that screamed, one which held knives jammed into her psyche.

Her mind was a fortress, it would resist.

Her eyes glowed with purple fire, and she drew upon her own power, and with an explosive yell broke free of the strings with a burst that vaporized the buildings in the surrounding street. The burst sent the Chronicler flying backwards into a building with enough force to destroy the wall.

The building she was in began to be wreathed in blue fire, ripped apart and turned into a physical storm of dust, sand and rubble. Each particle, great and small, started whipping and blowing and colliding with each other, grinding each part further down. The beams had returned, and she was back to blocking them with psionic shields, yet the shields couldn't protect her from the whirling storm of particles she found herself in.

Seething and writhed in purple flame, she leapt a few feet into the air, and created her own psionic storm to destroy the building he was in. Instead of that stopping him, he raised an arm and completed the destruction, sending the particles to the growing storm that surrounded her. But she could see. With a burst of psionic flame, she burned away the particles around her, and sent many back with a telekinetic wave.

A building seemed to crumble before her as the Chronicler extended a hand and collapsed another, grinding it to pieces and sending it her way, which she blocked with another shield. He did the same to another building. And another. And another. The grains became so dense that she seemed to almost lose track of him.

The particle rifles continued to fire.

The screaming telepathic attack continued.

Now her attacks were augmented with her anger.

The Chronicler continued pursuing her.

Lightning burst from her fingertips and he blocked it with one hand, while sending a psionic energy wave towards her with the sword he held in the other. He teleported, and she did the same, as they appeared a short distance from each other, yet he wasted no time in closing the gap as fast as he could.

"You cannot escape your judgement, Harbinger."

Relentless, continuing, and ruthless. Sword swipes landed as the Chronicler materialized as she was distracted by the particle beams, and the storms of dirt and sand. The edge of the sword was freezing cold, and it seemed to pull her to it. She knew that there were times where she'd only been centimeters away from losing a limb or worse.

And as they fought, she realized what the Chronicler was doing.

They'd fought across Ankara, turning the environment into their sandbox to abuse and destroy. They threw each other across distances, they destroyed and razed buildings as they clashed with one another. Yet the Chronicler had destroyed in a way that was total, and added to the relentless assault on her body.

Tiny, insignificant particles grinding against her.

Her exposed skin was rubbed raw as a layer was outright gone. The sheen of her armor was dull and the outer layers stripped off. Grains worming their way through the minute spaces in her mask, and entering her eyes, ears, mouth, and the gaps of her armor. Slowly, imperceptibly, she realized she was intentionally being worn down, not just mentally, but physically.

The sun began falling further and there was no sign of relenting.

"You have intruded upon my domain without challenge for far too long."

The mental chorus and assault was beginning to take its toll. Her armor was scratched, scarred, and weakened. Several pieces were outright missing. Her cape was shredded and ripped. And she had almost lost her limbs to his sword earlier. She now realized something previously inconceivable was happening.

She felt the sand no longer just rubbing her skin raw, but eating it away, engorging itself and burying into her skin setting it alight with pain she hadn't felt for some time; a unique, consistent, and snowballing pain that just continued to worsen.

She was tiring.

No.

She was losing.

The Chronicler did not appear the slightest bit tired or damaged. It was growing harder to think for her, yet he was operating with the same ruthless precision he'd employed during the entire fight.

He appeared behind her and swung. She almost felt the air as it missed and landed on her barrier, so close she could see the edges of the blade that seemed to emanate the void; the chill she could somehow feel. The barrier wavered and she spun away into a portal a few meters away.

"Run, Harbinger, run."

The particle storm she had been continually surrounded with seemed to have a new element introduced into it. So difficult was it already to simply defend herself that she could no longer keep track of everything the Chronicler was doing. Yet there was something new placed into the mixture; a slurry of grey and red.

She wondered if it was what she thought it was.

It tinted the dryness with a horrifying humidity.

"Run to your master, Harbinger."

She blew all of the sand away once more with another telekinetic burst, and he responded by once more attempting to lock her in a telekinetic vice. She was prepared for it this time, and managed to break free, though not before being blown off balance, and subsequently slamming into a concrete wall. The blow from that impact briefly knocked the wind out of her, and she just barely missed the stab that would have gone right through her head, as the particle storm once more built around her.

"Run, for I am your ruin."

He thrust a hand out.

She went flying back and used telekinesis to anchor herself to the ground, gritting her teeth as she faced the Chronicler, standing a distance away from her. He swung his sword down to his side, and extended a hand towards her.

No, not towards her.

Above her.

The sky exploded above her.

There was only whiteness and scorching heat straight above. The blood and fluid within the storm of dust and sand superheated and exploded around her. Her body experienced multiple hard blows. She felt her ribs crack, her ear be torn off, her mask cracked, and several fingers go missing.

Yet all of that paled in comparison to the sheer, unrelenting torment of what she felt from above.

She stood under the direct rays of the Sun, a portal opened right above her.

The cuts she had suffered opened and wept as her blood literally boiled. She felt her insides twist, coil, and in the cases of some pop as parts of her seemed to spontaneously combust. Her eyes began melting as she threw up a barrier in a panic, which caused the worst of the heat to abate, yet it was too late to stop the solar wave she had been exposed to.

She screamed.

Her vision was blurred and ruined, her limbs didn't seem to work right, and she felt something she hadn't felt from the Imperator before. Fear that she would die right now. Unable and unwilling to stop him, he intervened and began overriding her mind, forcing her body to continue standing and moving.

He ignored her pain, as it would make him unable to focus.

She burned alive, melting in the hell made manifest on Earth.

The heat ceased, the world cleared, and she saw glass raining down. Bloody red mist coloring the world, and the barrier that had protected her from incineration falling.

She felt the earth tremble with every step, the world breaking with a thunderclap from his speed.

She looked upwards, her vision a blur and saw the black form of the Chronicler flashing forward, the sword in hand as he came forward to deliver the final blow, one that she was helpless to stop.

Get me out. Get me out.

This would not be how she died. It couldn't be.

The Imperator who seized her body, manifested a portal in front of her which she did not step, so much as fall into which immediately closed behind her.

She felt blessed cold on her skin on the floor of the Temple Ship. Bile and vomit came up through her throat and out into the mask, which she had not taken off. She couldn't move. She couldn't will her body to take off the mask and feared suffocation in her own fluids.

Help!

Her mental scream was directed everywhere.

One hand ripped off her mask, a moment after the Imperator severed the connection. She did not see the bodies who surrounded her, placed her on stretchers and began treating her wounds. She felt like she was melting, her skin falling off, her insides leaking onto the ground. Every inch of her in pain.

She heard the Chronicler's voice, ringing in her skull.

"Run, for I am the Seraphim of Regicide."

She felt something be placed on her face. She felt the presence of the Imperator.

"Run, and remember the vision of your death."

Yet there was only one voice she heard before she faded into unconsciousness.

"Run, and remember that I am your end."

To be continued in Chapter 72

Spartacus

A/N: I promise I am not trying to make the lengths of these chapters quite this long, but sometimes they happen, and there are a lot of different plots going on and things that will happen that require laying the appropriate groundwork. Hopefully the chapter was enjoyable enough that the length wasn't too bad; I think this is one of my favorites to write out. Special thanks to King, Thuzan, and Zillian for significantly contributing to the chapter.

One more order of business is this - the end of the Advent Directive. As I've written this, it's become clear to me that this entry has reached a length that, quite simply, is past the length that is enjoyable. Regardless of the quality, it's not especially easy to get into, and pushing it beyond what it is now is simply not ideal.

What does this actually mean? In short, it means that XCOM: The Advent Directive will conclude with Act IV. This is not the end of the story, obviously, and the actual series will conclude with a currently unnamed fourth and final entry. This has been in the works for a bit now, and I know how it is going to go. I expect it will be seamless enough that it will seem like it was the plan the whole time.

This was not necessarily a decision I wanted to make, but I do think it's necessary, and it has been repeatedly brought up by several readers, and that's feedback I consider valuable, especially when they're right. Hopefully everyone can understand this decision. The plan remains to conclude Act IV, and subsequently, the story this year. There are nine more chapters left in my outline, with an epilogue of some kind.

I'm looking forward to showing what's in store. Thank you all for reading as always.

- Xabiar