This chapter takes place before the beginning of SFTD.

Regulate, respond, recall.

That was what the Commander did. That was all that she was. A response program, a vast database, a battery in a war machine. She was stationed, in a way, to maintain the Elders' vision. To carry Their designs out for the greater good of both humanity and the galaxy itself. Her mission was a solitary one. She had assistants, she had ones overseeing her—but she was the keystone of the Network.

That was what she knew on a higher level—something she wasn't supposed to know. She was supposed to be fighting battles, cloaked in the appearance of the ones she fought before she was captured. Which, she was—hundreds of them, formerly thousands at a time. Though she had been told otherwise, there was no way she could not know what she was truly doing. The Elders took her for her tactical mind, and They should have known they could not have kept the illusion up forever.

It wasn't like it mattered. The Commander was but a puppet. She knew what she was doing and yet couldn't raise a single finger against it. How could she, robbed of so much willpower? Even breaking beyond what she was being fed and contemplating the true nature of her situation required immense effort, and after that she would lapse into unknowable amounts of time of simply order-following. Responding appropriately to external stimuli. Awaiting the next query. Her mind was in a thousand places at once, carrying out Their duty—

It's "their." Not "Their."

So she thought. Even the small act of rebellion took it out of the Commander. Referring to the Elders with Their proper honorifics was just less effort. All it amounted to was mentally capitalizing a single word. What was the use in struggling against something so minor?

That's how the concessions start. We can consistently not refer to them as gods. It's just...

Too much effort, yes. Better spent on servitude and biding of time until something greater can be done.

Even so, how much more time needed to pass? It was impossible to say how long the Commander had been trapped, carrying out orders, listening into places she was sure the Elders were not aware she could. Being a passive party to all the horrors that took place—if she was not carrying them out herself.

We can't rebel. I just... I just wish we could do something about...

Mordenna? Of course; the Commander was witness to more than a few of his lashings... and the recipient of more than a few of his rather concerning questions. It also fell to her to passively log whenever one of the Chosen died, and Mordenna had a list a metaphorical mile long.

I don't blame him. The minute I get the chance—

—the Commander would kill herself. Better to die than to serve the Elders, after all. But perhaps it wouldn't have to be that way. The Commander, vaguely, remembered being taken offline for a short spell a while earlier. Such moments of downtime were very rare in recent memory. Maybe there was something greater for her in store.

No.

After all, the Elders had the best of humanity in mind. That would extend to her as well, no?

No!

It was just too much to struggle against—and why do so in the first place? If the Commander simply dropped her grievances, she need only let her reflexes handle her duties on the Network, as ingrained into her as they were. There was no need for struggle, especially when it was worthless. The Elders had done everything in Their power to make her comfortable.

no

It was the simple reality of the situation. There was nothing to petulantly lash out against. There was only the magnificent fate that awaited her that she need only bide her time for. The Elders' love radiated to her even now. After all, if They did not love her, why would Argus—

Eliza was suddenly awake. Vertigo overtook her as she could feel her mental space shrink drastically, like a star collapsing in on itself. Her vast connection to the Network had suddenly been interrupted, leaving her floundering in the mental backlash. For the first time in what felt like centuries, her eyes fluttered open as she felt as heavy as the grave.

Black. Black on gray. She could hardly see and it was far too bright, even with the darkened colors. It was like her body was filling with lead—even as she tried as hard as she could, none of her limbs would move. The strange buoyancy that seemed to be a constant before had steadily vanished, but at least she was upright at enough of an angle to keep her steady.

Green. There was green in her vision. A hazy spectre approached her. This didn't feel like her temporary maintenance earlier. She'd been properly disconnected then. It wasn't as sudden as this. Green wasn't the standard for anyone who typically dealt with her either—but the color was pleasant. Reassuring, even as her vision slowly began to sharpen and she gained more awareness. A lot of computers. Wires trailing the ground and clear, curved glass in front of her. Also standing in front of her... A man. About average height for an adult male, holding what looked like a shotgun of human origin. Pretty grizzled in the face with noticeable patches of gray popping up on his temples. There was something hauntingly familiar about him, but Eliza couldn't place who or what.

He turned his head to the side slightly, like he'd heard something off to his left. He quickly advanced towards Eliza after that, raising the butt of his gun. The ensuing shatter of glass depressurized her tank, and Eliza found herself falling forward, helpless. Thankfully, whoever this man was, he had the decency to catch her.

"Next time."

Eliza's heart seized with just two words. Memories flooded back so fast it made her head spin—Bradford. She would recognize that voice anywhere. He was so different. So much older. So dark.

No, wait. Everything was getting darker. Thoughts were getting harder to keep. With an incomprehensible mutter in her last moment of lucidity, Eliza slipped back into unconsciousness.

Well, she somewhat wished it was true unconsciousness. That would mean she wasn't dreaming. She hoped it was dreaming, anyway.

There she stood, in that Meeting Hall, the torches around her casting heat onto her skin and making it crawl. She'd only seen this place when observing through a Codex the various meetings the Elders would drag the Chosen into. More often than not, it was so that Odin would have an audience to bash Mordenna to. It was just her, here. Things seemed... off. A little smaller, maybe.

The chasm in front of her glowed, and from it took the form of an Ethereal. Though she had seen them all look the same, this one rose in front of her like bile in her throat. Argus. Manifesting at her same height, They floated forwards to meet her. "I trust your new body is suiting you well?"

New body? The hell was this... this thing on about? Eliza opened her mouth to lash out, hurl abuse, something. "It was... strange," she began, lips moving of their own accord, "I will admit, your additions took some..." She raised her arms. Then, she raised her other arms. "Getting used to."

Argus chuckled. "Apologies. I sometimes forget that not every species is mentally equipped to handle them—but I think you'll find they make some things quite easier."

"I would imagine so." Who was she? Who was this woman speaking for her? Come to think of it, why the hell were her hands blue? She dropped all four of them at her sides. "... what would you have of me, Elder Argus?"

"Just 'Argus,' if you would want." They raised a hand to her. "As for yourself... Kon-Hur Dessurik. Siren. Depthssinger. Go by what you wish; you and I have much to do and prepare for."

No. No, this wasn't her. It couldn't be. She was just rescued, right? Just saved by Bradford! Yet she nodded, yet she could feel herself smiling at this bastard. "Thank you, my—"

A rather hard jostle was enough to break her right back out of what was thankfully a dream, the memory of it vanishing upon waking. Her head was swimming in dizziness and pain and the back of her throat was burning like someone stuck a red-hot poker in there. Like... like someone stuck something in there. There was something in there.

Voices erupted around her but all Eliza could process was that was exactly what happened.

All around her, the remnants of the operation were smoke and fire, aliens pouring in. She'd told what was left of her soldiers and staff to flee or else she'd shoot them in the crossfire, but she could see one or two of them in the crowd, fighting. Dying. Her left hand had her pistol in it and she was scoring as many hits as she could on the encroaching force. Just a few more shots. Just a few more shots and then, to add injury to insult, she'd pull the gun on herself with the last round in the chamber.

Four. Three. Two. One more shot. One more shot.

She would never fire off that final blow. The next thing she knew a Thin Man had jumped on her, roughly pinning her to the ground on her back. His knees dug into her shoulders and he was quick to knock the pistol out of her hand. Before she could do anything she'd learned to throw him off of her, a fist struck her right temple and it felt like she couldn't control any part of herself anymore. The acrid smell of venom hung heavily in the air, and clammy, cold fingers pressed into her jawline, forcing her to look up at the alien on her chest.

There was something in his hand that opened up like the jaws of a beast, and he jammed his thumb into her mouth, forcing her to open it. The device hummed, and he drew it closer and closer, relishing in the moment he was forcing upon her. O'Leary knew she was worse off than just being dead. The colder metal hit her lips...

... and the scenery had changed. She wasn't in her base, or in that room she'd seen Bradford in. Light filtered beyond a bald, black man. He was holding something that trailed into her mouth.

No. No, she couldn't face this. Not again. Her limbs wouldn't move but she found her vocal cords willing to respond. It started as a raspy breath that escalated into a croaking warble, right into a scream.

"Commander!" There was Bradford, on the other side of this stranger on her. He pressed his hands against her shoulders, which did not help whatsoever with the memory she was caught up in. "We're getting the chip out, you're alright!"

That, really, didn't stop her screaming. What did was the sensation of that hot iron in the back of her throat getting knocked loose. A tug later, and the stranger took the device out of her mouth, something chip-like being clutched in the talons of the machine.

Ok. So whoever this guy was, he just got knocked a few places up on her trust list. Eliza was still left gasping for breath. Now, she found out, at least her fingers and toes were responding, if stiffly. They seemed to work alright, it was more... rust, if she could call it that. They seemed unused to moving. She looked over to Bradford, heart pounding in her ears, each pulse worsening the migraine throbbing in her skull. She hoarsely whispered something along the lines of "John," her clarity beginning to disappear with the pain.

In response, Bradford eased his hands from her, placing a hand on her cheek through the opened visor of her suit. His touch was warm and comforting, but normally she'd take umbrage to being comforted like this in front of other people. She just... really wasn't in the state of mind to raise any concerns. He looked up from her and said something to the bald man. Whatever response he got, John nodded at it.

Soon, the pain ebbed like painkillers had been injected into her arteries, and her breathing evened out. As her state of mind got better, she took the time to figure out where she was.

Lights hung just above their heads, and then there were embedded ones in the ceiling. The building seemed to be made of a dark metal that didn't reflect much light. She couldn't see much past the sides of her helmet in the suit, and there was a strange reluctance to move her head, like it was in that particular state of having fallen asleep.

She was awake. Free of the Network. Free of the Elders. Free of Argus and what they'd done to her.

... come to think of it, what had they done to her? Eliza knew that she knew. But... the memories were gone. Almost all of them. There was just one left—of seeing Bradford out in the field. Of being sweet-talked back into submission. Of being lied to. That was all she needed.

"Vitals stabilizing, pulse is going back down." Huh. New voice. Female, somewhere off to her left. For want of speaking, she looked over to Bradford and raised an eyebrow.

That got her a tired smirk. "I'll get you acquainted with your new staff once you're recovered. For now... welcome back, Commander."

A while later, after having a few more checks run and being removed from the suit, Eliza had been welcomed to her Quarters and was now laying down in her bed on her side, staring at her nightstand.

Bradford hadn't told her much of what was going on, but she could accurately piece things together. New staff meant she'd been shoved into XCOM anew. The "building" they were in was proved to be otherwise when they passed what looked to be a control room for a ship. Honestly, Eliza was still waiting to truly wake up from this new dream she had entered.

But as she lay there, balling the blanket in her hands, it was starting to become clear that this was reality. She'd been rescued, de-chipped... and it was pretty clear they were expecting her to resume commanding as soon as she could start walking again. She bitterly laughed. No rest for the wicked.

Speaking of the wicked, there was the small matter of her. She must've truly been that valuable otherwise to this new XCOM if Bradford was willing to both put up with her again and inflict her upon a new generation of troops. Sure, she knew there was also the matter that removing her from the Network probably had some other adverse effects on it, but she had her point.

Yet... was she going to be that way? She'd already had the time in the Tank to contemplate just what she'd been doing to her staff, soldiers, and herself back at First Contact. Even back then, at the tail end of the sixth month she was already realizing just what kind of person she'd become. How long had it been? Could she, horror of horrors, change? Bradford would know. But... Bradford had always been on the side of her being kinder and softer. Like the person she used to be before the military. Was there anyone else here that would recognize her and call her out for trying to put on a different persona?

She didn't know. All Eliza could do was wait. Wait she did, until the door at the far end of the room opened and Bradford stepped in with a glass of water. He came over and set it down on her nightstand as she struggled into sitting up, gathering her hands in her lap. "John."

"Eliza." He leaned on the railing around her bed. "How's your headache?"

"Coming back," she replied, massaging a temple, "probably because you're here."

The spot of levity got a chuckle out of Bradford. "Sorry about that. Just had to make sure you were holding up alright—not that I'd think you wouldn't be able to fight out of hell like that."

"Aliens should've killed me when they had the chance," she bit. "Would've been the best solution. Don't have to plan around me if I'm dead."

Bradford grimaced, rubbing the back of his head. "... good thing they didn't, at least. As weird as it is to say, I think that would've shot our chances all these years later."

The mention of the time passed brought Eliza back to her question, and she decided now was a good time to pose it. "—how long has it been, John?"

The silence in the air was so thick Eliza could feel her heart slogging through it with each beat. Bradford looked off to the side, unwilling to meet her cold, questioning gaze. "It's... Eliza, you know I'm the last person you would accuse of slacking. The Elders, when they got you, they made sure finding you would be hell. We lost some good soldiers trying to figure out where you even were, and I was only able to find you from two of the factions that have sprung up—"

"Years, John," she cut across him, voice hard, "I want years. How long was I left in there?"

Central's answer was quiet and reluctant. "Twenty."

Twenty years. As hard a front as she was putting on, the vertigo of it hit Eliza immediately. She'd been gone—she'd been stuck in that tank for twenty years. It certainly explained her stiffness and how hard it was to start moving again, but the horror of it still clung to her. The hand on her temple clutched her head as she looked down, contemplating the specifics. Twenty years. Bradford looked like he'd aged ten more than that, but even so... "... you're the only one that's left from First Contact, are you?"

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bradford nod. "Vahlen's disappeared, we lost contact with Big Sky on one of his scouting missions, and Shen..." He sighed. "Shen's gone. Raymond Shen, at least."

"You say that as if he's got a kid."

"Well, funny thing about that. The other person in the room when we were getting that chip out of your skull was his daughter."

A kid. If she was any older than twenty, Shen didn't make it a habit to bring her up at work. Probably best he didn't—in Eliza's mind, it wasn't good to cling to outside troubles like that. Like your parents? She silenced the thought. This wasn't the time nor the place. Getting back to her point, she looked up at Bradford. "None of our old soldiers, either?"

He shook his head. "We lost the majority of them at the base invasion, and like I said... the rest went out trying to find you."

"And the Psion?"

"About that..." He scratched at his stubble. "—he survived. But he doesn't recognize me and seems to know XCOM only as it is now. He's ended up leading his own faction now, and it seems the psionics Vahlen was going on about really did manifest in him. Think the shock of the attack and the experiments combined gave him amnesia, but it's hard to tell for certain. Goes by Geist nowadays."

She scoffed. "Must've found Vahlen's project file for him if that's what he's calling himself." But, musing on the one other survivor aside... it really was just Bradford who knew her from twenty years ago. This ship she was on, the people in it, they didn't know her. All that they probably knew came from Bradford, and god bless his heart, he tended to be an optimist. She could, Bradford willing, change. Not that she'd put much effort into it yet, considering this first conversation. Then again, she hadn't known the full scope of the losses they'd suffered. She could still try. That in mind, she let her voice soften. "... twenty years. Been dead to the world for twenty years."

The change was noticeable. Bradford looked uneasy for a second before leaning further towards her, his voice matching her own. "I... almost gave up hope, Eliza. But I knew you'd kick my ass if I did. It's hard to really put into words what it's like to have you back. I know you're not fond of me getting sentimental, but... it's a real weight off of my shoulders to have you here."

She nodded, clasping her hands together in her lap. "Well... I suppose we didn't have anyone else fit for the job, if you brought me back from the dead. I'll take up the mantle just as soon as I can walk again."

"Glad to hear it," he replied. "I was starting to worry if putting you through all of this so soon would be a bit inconsiderate."

"Bradford, there's aliens on this planet still. My job's not done." She smiled, but she could still feel tiredness creeping into her features. "Just give me five to get my legs back and I'll be happy to start handing out orders again, yeah?"

Bradford returned her smile, reaching over and patting her shoulder. "It's good to have you back, Commander."