As a place of in-betweens and great power, the Void could be regarded as an entity unto itself—breathing, pulsing, even moving on occasion. The ephemeral fog and foam that defined its boundaries shifted and twisted. Without warning, to most.

To an Ethereal such as Argus? It was a reluctant home.

Argus had been traversing the vast expanse of the Void manually for a little while now. Teleportation was entirely possible for them and by far the faster way to go anywhere, but... There wasn't much to do, for them. Being the Collective's greatest geneticist meant that they had dabbled long into the work on their sacred Project... but it was hard to make any progress when they were getting stonewalled again.

They sighed gently. Red-tape was a staple of the Collective and they knew half of it was out of spite at this point. The Collective would agree eventually to the changes Argus had proposed, but for now? They were left with nothing but to wait.

So a short "walk" it was. The humming of the Void and the gentle, but encompassing vibrations that reverberated endlessly was the only thing outside of power-based sight that Argus experienced. The Void was nothing more than a temporary safe haven as their bodies decayed. Even Argus's rotted as they traversed, a constant clock over their head.

Well, that and the physical clock of their Phantom. Argus cast a look back up at it, and it to them. It had been their companion for as long as they could remember—a ghost of their own power and even an extension of it. Its form... varied, but the state of it now, Argus thought fitting. A shortened, grandfather clock for a head, multiple disembodied arms ever-changing in number, and a lower body that split into twin tails, helixing around each other. All purple, of course, formed of their own psionics. Phantoms were an extension of the subconscious and Argus knew much of it. Argus knew much of time—their plans, long-winded but effective. But of course—

Ah. Who else to interrupt their thoughts than that orchestra? The sensation of high-pitched trumpets of irritation were particularly evident in Cronus's signature as Argus observed him teleporting in from afar. Perhaps if Argus acted fast enough, they could escape this. If Cronus was angry, this wasn't going to shore up well for them.

No escape, however. Cronus turned—Argus was surprised he could hear their signature under the crashing cymbals—and glided towards them with clear intent. His own Phantom trailed after him, now out and free as opposed to the meeting, where they had all hidden theirs. Argus would liken the form of it to a Berserker—made as "masculine" as possible while maintaining the distinct outline and muscle-like plates. It did not hunch—rather, it kept a straight back that gave it an uncanny air compared to the usual leaning of a Berserker. Robes much like the usual Ethereal ensemble clad its body, and it, too, had four arms. Wicked, jagged horns as well. "Argus! I knew you would deign to stalk this particular plane of the hellscape."

Argus straightened, preparing for a long conversation. Their Phantom retreated behind them, in an effort to avoid confrontation. Cronus seemed to be practically... what was that human phrase? "Chomping at the bit?" Something like that. "Elder Cronus. I'm surprised you deigned to remember my habits."

"Easy to gauge you when you stalk the same space," Cronus returned. "Your habits and your plans share one thing—they're tiresomely predictable."

Goodness. Only a few exchanges in and Cronus was hitting the easy notes. Judging by the swell of the brass and the chuff of his Phantom, he was pleased with that little observation. Grand... "Predictable as we all know I am," Argus carefully responded, "surely you know my next question is 'why seek me out?'"

Cronus huffed, but got to it. "As estranged as you are from our affairs, I cannot trust talking to the others privately. Helena harbors no kind will towards me and I'm sure you understand that Odin seeks to undermine us all."

Oh, wonderful. Argus had heard this wind-up before a few times. Cronus was about to use them to just talk at something for Void knows how long. Still, they kept their back straight. No use complaining too much or trying to deflect him too hard—Argus had seen where that had gotten them before. They could only try to get this over with quickly. "And your grievances, Cronus?"

"Firstly, that ignorant 'son' of mine." Jax-Rai was getting the short end of the stick recently. Argus counted themselves lucky they were able to intervene when they could. The Chosen didn't deserve even half of the abuse that came their way, but Argus's hands were largely tied in trying to help them. Only outstanding incidents like the flaying Jax-Rai got were major enough to stop. Void help Ref-Il... "Talking back to me?! And daring to try to deface me in front of the others! I still cannot understand how you were able to stop me from wiping him off the face of this pitiable planet. Useless."

Was that "useless" at them or the Warlock? Could be both. Still, sensing that they were expected to chime in, they shook their head. "As I said then—he may be your 'child...'" Didn't want to say this next part. Their Phantom's hands fidgeted out of sight. "... and you may be free to punish him but you know how the Collective would look upon destroying your own creation in such a manner."

Cronus flicked his wrist in irritation, disturbing his robes. "Of course—and Void knows you know what gains their ire. You've been the cause of every rule in the guidelines by this point from your behavior, and I would not be surprised to find you making more." He scoffed, and his Phantom crossed its arms. "Why, I would almost go so far as to say it was your doing that has me in this loathsome situation. One of your typical ideas..."

All blame seemed to fall on Argus. They were used to it by this point—was easier to blame the odd man out. "I simply drafted the concept of the Siren, Cronus. You were the one who decided to do something of your own with the knowledge within the file."

Hmmm... bad nerve to hit, or maybe they just grazed one. The orchestra quieted down, and Argus could practically feel Cronus evaluating them, looking for some way to repay that observation equally. Finally, he hit upon something, Cronus's Phantom staring him down. "That was the truth, was it... if you're so partial to telling the truth, enlighten me, Argus; why did you delay so long with the Siren? Twenty years ago you drafted the concept, and just on Unification Day you finally decided to act. That's an interesting gap, even for you."

There... seemingly would be no good way out of that one. Argus was silent for a moment, their singular instrument slowing tempo and growing softer. Cronus—nor the others—could know the truth. An expert excuse it was. "Truth be told, it was still usual for me. You seem to know much about me, so you would know I go through several concept phases, even if I have a definite outline. The observation of how you and the others' Chosen were shaping out was part of my process—and the reason I took so long. On the Collective's urging is when I finally decided I had seen enough and could move on what I had gathered."

It was a while for Cronus to digest that—but Argus could tell they had him hook, line, and sinker when the orchestra resumed its usual volume and his Phantom relaxed. "Hmph. For as much as I know you, I hadn't considered that you were including the Chosen in on your experiments. It really is typical of you, Argus."

Argus's signature returned to normality. Might as well include some "humor" to really hit it home. "While my plans have ample time behind them, it is always for good reason, Cronus." Still, didn't want to stick on this subject, or just have Cronus vent at them for who knows how long. "Speaking of delays—how fares your progress on subverting those cuffs?"

Cronus waved a hand dismissively. "Please. I hardly require you to monitor my progress—and even if I did, you would find the job already complete. I have a solution in mind to deter XCOM's attempts to capture our last Chosen, and I think all involved will find the method especially effective. No need for you to interfere anymore."

Cronus's tone made it clear he wasn't leaving any room for discussion. Even then, Argus wanted to probe further... but knowing Cronus like they did? That was a recipe for disaster. Best to leave it for now. "Well, grand of you to have found a working solution yourself, Cronus."

As always, Ethereals dealt in subtext, and Cronus seemed to catch a hint of it. "I 'appreciate' the 'praise,' Argus. You are ever so eloquent when it comes to laying on compliments."

Well, with the way that was going, Argus didn't see this going anywhere but down—a constant exchange of thinly-veiled insults, to be exact, and Argus wasn't feeling it. "So, Cronus. Anything else you would have out of an Ethereal such as myself?"

Argus could almost hear Cronus's sneer. "Considering your condition, calling yourself that is frighteningly accurate."

Ouch. Out of low blows, that was the lowest—and easiest, considering it had been an active choice on Argus's part. Still, not as if the Collective could contest it, with the leverage Argus had... "—My question remains, Elder Cronus."

Cronus turned their head. "Nothing else, Argus." Surprising, but welcome. Argus must have put their opinion out enough to convince Cronus it wasn't worth it. "Go about your delays." With that, the orchestra crescendoed, and then diminished to silence as the Void transported Cronus elsewhere.

When they were sure he was gone, they went back to their somewhat dread-inspired slump. Their Phantom gently rose behind them, planting one of its many hands on their shoulder. A nigh infinite expanse of Void and Argus still couldn't get away from the others. Some days, they were convinced it would be only the Pit to ward them away...

Argus knew well the Collective would only ever get close enough to throw them in there themselves.


The quiet, shuddering towers of a civilization lost echoed something in Jax.

It was as if their presence held a mirror up to him—looming over him and threatening to cave at any moment as he walked among them, peering into dusty windows at the featureless visages of the still-standing mannequins. Snow fell behind him, already sticking to the ground and blanketing the world in a cold embrace.

A "Lost City," if he remembered some of the human terminology he had heard correctly. Filled with the shambling husks of twenty years time. Jax found himself contemplative amongst his melancholy as he went on his "patrol." A "walk" was more apt—Jax had to get out of his Stronghold. He had asked to Void to deposit him where it may, and this was where he had ended up. He couldn't face his Priests anymore—not after what he had asked of them. He knew what he had done; he had asked them to abandon him when he would need it most. Denying them that... was most likely making them suffer.

But he far preferred it to the alternative—having XCOM slaughter them by the masses as they did naught but their duty. He knew the identity of every felled Priest that had been in his care. Jax had been determined to make sure that number did not rise any further from where it stood. They deserved far more than death at the hands of the pitiful resistance. Perhaps far more than him...

He lidded his eyes, sweeping them over the ground. The alternative there wasn't any prettier either. If he wasn't looking after them, who would? The Elders would doubtlessly send them to "fulfill their duties" and he... understood Their intent. But the Priests were his. He would not see them massacred.

The Warlock's eyes and thoughts stopped once they rested upon some fresh tracks in the snow: bare feet, moving out of an alleyway and towards some unknown destination. Curious, Jax broadened his gaze. More and more footprints were in this area than he had thought—and they were all leading towards the same general direction. From what he had seen of the Lost, they only traveled in small groups when not otherwise frenzied...

Jax's intrigue spurred him into following their trail deeper into the city. There were far too many tracks to suggest an entirely quiet atmosphere in the city; Jax was surprised he wasn't hearing anything. Then again, with the snow? It was likely muting any sound of commotion.

Well, he was not his sister, nor his brother. He could not hear through the dampening effect the snow created, and he could not peer into the far distance and look closer at the tracks. But, the Warlock had talents of his own. Closing his eyes, he stilled his breath and fanned out his signature. Sensing was one of his specialties—all living things, and some unliving, possessed a psionic signature. Even those who lacked the Gift had psionics cling to them like wisps.

There, in the distance. A horde of weak motes were advancing on a group of slightly stronger embers... with a bright, recognizable beacon in the middle. Suddenly Jax understood—that signature belonged to Iris. One of his Priests, sent on a mission he had deemed safe! The motes were slumping over at a reasonable rate, probably gunned down by the troops that surrounded Iris. Their squad was the only one for a long while... but what was—

Jax doubled over, coughing despite himself, lungs burning. He had once prided himself on his deep-search ability and how long he could stay within Stasis as he summoned his armies, both depending on his ability to breathe slowly and shallowly or simply hold it. Ever since Cronus had... marked him, his lungs protested at such extremes. A sense of mourning took over him for a second—but it was quickly washed out by purpose. Iris's squad was getting overrun by Lost. He had to do something. Jax couldn't sit there and lament.

Leaning forwards, Jax broke out into a sprint. The image of where the squad was was still imprinted onto his mind and he moved accordingly, weaving through buildings. To the alleyways on his sides, he could hear more movement—undoubtedly the Lost, hurrying to the same destination he was. As he got closer, the commotion was finally proving too much for the snow to mute; mag fire and the dying wails of Lost were filling the air.

He knew he couldn't stick to the ground too much longer, lest the Lost see him as a viable target and converge on him. His eyes locked on the building to his right as he ran and he stopped. With a mere flex of his psionics, a pillar of psionic energy rose under him, lifting him higher and higher. This building was one of the shorter ones, and he reached the top quickly, stepping off and looking over the scene below.

The squad was typical for one traversing through a Lost City—a few Purifiers and some Troopers, with a Shieldbearer to protect the squad and an Officer to direct it. In the middle of all of them and taking shots with her own rifle, Iris stood. It was clear a few of them were injured, but they couldn't stop to tend to the wounded—the Lost were hounding them even as they swept their weapon fire over them. Jax watched as a Lost with green, cyst-like growths over its body broke free of the horde and scrambled under gunfire, making a beeline for a terrified Iris.

No. Never again. Jax could feel his consciousness roar as his psionics flared to life, the world slowing down as he focused on that Lost. The Void overlayed on the area twisted around him as he willed it, and he leapt forward. The Void carried him in its embrace and ferried him faster than sight to a quickly-shrinking space between the husk and Iris, landing on his feet. With a swipe of his gauntlet, he snatched the offender off the ground. It flailed in his grasp right up until he clenched his hand and crushed its neck, snuffing it out.

He could hear Iris gasp behind him as he dropped the corpse, and the rest of the squad near him pause and turn. Jax stood tall and quickly cast a glance over all of them. "No shepard in their right mind would abandon a flock in need. Fight! I will see you out of this city yet!"

The sight of most of them breaking out into grins and cries of victory warmed something in Jax's heart and cut through his earlier melancholy. He focused back onto the hordes as his squad did. The problem was the sheer number of Lost descending upon them—there were almost far too many to even shoot, and Jax knew how... lacking of a shot he was. It certainly wasn't the only offence available at his disposal, of course.

Psi-energy lanced across the horns of his amplifiers, and he gathered his power into his gauntlets. He could see every weak spot of light that made up the Lost's signatures. The fact that there was any at all didn't surprise him, but it meant that they could be exploited. Flinging his right hand into an extended, open palm towards them, a bolt of energy lancing off it. It connected with the closest Lost, lancing to another, and another, and another... Some stumbled over and collapsed from the sheer friction and burn his psionics caused against their unprepared minds.

Some, however, stumbled... and stayed put. Jax could feel that familiar connection opening, the one that always did when he surged into the mind of another and took it over. The Lost were so vacant, and lacked any willpower to fight against him. Normally he would find it challenging to maintain two controlled soldiers, but the Lost? The Lost were nothing. Jax could see what he could do.

With a swift command, the mind-controlled Lost surged against their fellows, grappling them and struggling to hold them in place. A Trooper to his right saw the opening and took aim, getting a clean shot on the trapped husk. His satisfied grin told of an opportunity taken, and the rest of the squad followed suit. Jax occasionally took the momentary breaks in the wave to control more Lost when his own numbers thinned, the horde slowly retreating under the new tactic.

As they fought, Jax looked over his shoulder at Iris. "—This was supposed to be a simple scout mission, was it not?"

Iris fired on a shambler. "Yes, my Chosen! Midway through, we had received a message from a nearby detachment—they had reportedly found the Reapers' headquarters. They stopped responding soon after an explosion from their direction, and we were left to deal with these."

Jax turned back to the hordes, sending a thin lance of psionic energy towards a Lost that was giving the squad trouble, watching as it crashed to the ground. "Our wisest course of action would be to retreat—your squad is not fit as is to handle the force of the cornered dogs that is the Reapers."

"Precisely my thoughts, Warlock Tessura," the Officer spoke up. "There is a docks area three minutes behind us that I can call down an evac from—the problem is getting there. We've got multiple wounded, some able to run, some... less so."

Jax got the implication there, and looked from her to the squad. He could see who fit that bill—a Purifier and a Trooper in particular, propped up against an abandoned truck, bleeding but still firing on the horde. He... admired their dedication. The numbers of the Lost were thinning out, enough that they could make a break for it, provided they abandoned their most wounded. That would be the wisest course of action, yes? They were expendable—the Elders could make thousands more.

They could make thousands more Priests, as well.

Jax found himself striding through the squad. "As I have spoke, only a shepard out of his mind would abandon a flock in need. The Lost are thin enough—I will turn their brethren upon them. We shall make for the docks as a unified force." As he spoke, he ended up at the two wounded soldiers, who both looked up at him. After a moment, he crouched down, arms out. "When I speak unified, I mean it heart and soul. Come. If it means I must carry every last one of you out of here, let it be so!"

The two of them could hardly believe their eyes and ears—but they weren't going to leave an offer like that from the Warlock hanging for long. He reached forwards as they reached out, clutching them to him as they adjusted over either of his shoulders. Jax stood and nodded towards the Officer. She nodded back, taking one last shot at a straggling Lost. "—You heard our Chosen. Disengage and follow me!"

The Officer turned and dismounted from her perch on top of the truck. Soon enough, the rest of the squad followed after ensuring their retreat wouldn't be impeded—some soldiers even supporting others as they ran after their Officer. Jax himself willed his controlled Lost to shove down whoever they were engaged with and follow after them, a fair distance to the sides and ahead. He'd use them to scout for danger as he fell in line. He could work without his hands.

The blitz through the desolate city was accented by the thudding of footfalls and the crack of magfire. Each time one of his Lost scouts encountered more of their numbers, Jax would call out the direction—and soon the threat would be handled. Subconsciously—on his part and the squad's—Jax found himself drifting to the front of the group, easily keeping pace with the Officer even with a soldier slung over either shoulder. They were almost nothing to him; he estimated he could pile on several more and the only thing he'd have to worry about was balancing them. The only thing that was threatening to slow him down was his own lungs, and he grit his teeth and took deep breaths, willing them to cooperate. He couldn't show that kind of weakness in front of all of them.

As they sprinted through the city, Jax contemplated. The Trooper and Purifier on his shoulders were nobodies to him. He didn't know who they were in the slightest—about the only person he had any attachment to here was Iris. So why did he bother? It was just as likely that the next encounter they would be in would be their last, and it wouldn't have mattered if he had left them to die here. But as Jax thought of leaving them behind, something in him recoiled at it. They were nobodies. Nobodies. An earlier version of him wouldn't have hesitated to lead the rest of the squad on without them. So why?

He felt the Purifier's shaking grip on him tighten, and it twisted his heart. Echoing the action, he held them both tighter. The answer hit him: because they were somebody. Maybe not to him. But in their squad, to their Officer, to Iris. Leaving them behind would hurt them. Plus, leaving them said, in a way, he wasn't confident enough to get them all out alive. Of course his pride wouldn't have that! He was a Chosen. He could save all of them and have them live to fight another day. He could... recruit them. Invite them to his Stronghold. There, they could be somebody to him.

What if XCOM comes? The answer was simple—the very same he offered his Priests. Run. Hide. Escape his fate.

A cry to his left alerted him out of his thoughts. One of the injured Troopers must've had a worse injury than she initially thought and was on the ground, the Shieldbearer of the group trying to get her back on her feet. If she was falling down now, it'd keep happening. No problem to Jax. He halted in his tracks and ran over, he Trooper looking up as he arrived. "My Chosen, please, go on without—"

"Nonsense," Jax cut her off firmly. "Dare you insist I could not save you, too?" As he said that, he twisted his signature, the purplish-reds of his power solidifying and manifesting at his sides as another pair of arms that reached out for her. He supposed she didn't have an answer to his question, as she simply leaned into him as he lifted her up, slotting her between the other soldiers.

That handled, he turned back to the squad, expecting to have to cover some ground to catch up—just to find out they had stopped for him. Some were regarding him and the now three passengers he held, others were still on watch and shooting down Lost. He nodded to them all, and when he sprinted back to the front of the group, they were all on the move again. Once again, his lungs cried out in protest, but he further grimaced. Not yet.

A few crash courses through buildings and a duck through a warehouse later, Jax and his group came across the docks the Officer had mentioned. The Warlock stopped and turned. They'd keep a good enough pace that the Lost were far behind them—even farther with the interference he'd ran with the ones he'd controlled. With a mental flex, he found it easy to fatally sever the connections, feeling the lights in his mind's eye darken and fade.

Meanwhile, the squad was preparing for evac. The Officer was cracking off a flare and speaking into an earpiece while the less injured were keeping watch for pursuers. Jax watched them go about their work until he could feel Iris at his side, psionically pinging him. He turned, nodding. "Iris."

She bowed, slightly out of breath. "My Chosen. If... if you would please set them down, I can see to some rudimentary first aid until the transports arrive."

That was a good idea to him. Stepping to the side, he kneeled down. First he sat the Trooper down, then the other two that had been slung across his shoulders. He got a quiet "thank you" from each of them, and he could feel a smile tugging at his lips. Jax stood, backing off as the extra arms at his sides dissipated. "I wish you—"

That was about as far as he got before the coughs he had held back came to him in force, making him bring a fist to his mouth as he delved into a fit. Squeezing his eyes shut, he wheezed for breath between hacks, hand shaking as he tried to reign it in. Eventually, eyes watering, he took in a deep breath and straightened back up. Desperately, he tried to play it off. "I wish you the best of luck, dear Iris. I will keep my sight trained firmly behind us, to ensure we will have little trouble."

Iris... seemed highly concerned, as did the soldiers around him. Luckily, none of them apparently had the confidence to bring something up that Jax seemed very firm to brush off. "Of course, Warlock Tessura."

That handled, he stepped past them and back towards the warehouse.

"My Chosen, wait."

The Warlock looked back as the Officer called out to him. She was jogging up to him, weapon at ease and flare burning behind her. "You... you did not have to carry them. Or stop for our newest member. Yet... you did." Now, was that a smile she was showing? "Thank you. It is comforting to know our last Chosen still looks after his 'flock.'"

There was a time when that statement wouldn't be true, and Jax... rued it. Still, to the Officer he offered a softened expression and an incline of the head. "I would be a far lesser Chosen if I did not care for even the lowest of my ranks."

"Forgive me for saying this, but we do not even belong to any legion under you." She jerked her head at Iris, currently tending to the wounded. "I can only assume you were in the area to monitor Iris."

He... did not want to disclose the real reason he had been out of his Stronghold and in some Lost City. Plus, to say he had only been here for Iris... not true either, but not unexpected of him. Jax waved it off. "The reason I was lingering in the area matters little. What concerns us now is that you all are safe." He gave her a knowing look. "The fact that the lot of you are not in any legion directly under me... can always be changed."

She opened her mouth to respond to that, then closed it. Then she began again with a barely-restrained smile. "It... it would be an honor, my Chosen. Thank you."

Jax's chest warmed and he nodded to her, looking to the distance until he heard the roaring of engines behind him. He turned, and three transports were coming in, doors opening on their descent. Cords unravelled from within, dropping to the floor. Those who could stand on their own around him started making for the ships, some even carrying those unfit to walk.

He regarded the Officer a moment longer. "File in—I will have the appropriate proceedings done to incorporate you into my Stronghold done shortly. You have done well today, even if you were required to retreat."

One more smile from the Officer, and a salute. "Thank you, Warlock Tessura. I and my squad will be awaiting our reassignment... eagerly." With that, she marched off to be with the rest of her detachment.

Iris joined him at his side as the numbers on the ground became fewer and fewer. "There was a time," she quietly began, "when I would not have imagined having anyone but me and my sisters at your holy Stronghold." She looked up to him, and smiled softly. "I think it is a good change. You have done them a great deed today, my Chosen."

He nodded. The last Trooper was being helped on, giving the Warlock a salute before she was lifted up. The transports full, the Officer waved them on, the sides closing. Dispersing the snow through force of lift, they sped off into the haze of the night.

Iris looked after them, too. There was silence between them a moment longer... broken only by a cry from a Lost in the distance. She cleared her throat. "Back to your Stronghold, Holy Father?"

Jax nodded again, turning to her. Technically he didn't have to do what he was about to do, but... He reached down and brought Iris into his arms, more intimately than the way he had carried the Trooper and Purifier. He'd just intended to carry her—but he ended up holding her closer and longer than he had meant to. A hug? Yes, it was a hug by most standards. Iris didn't do anything for a second, but quickly snatched the chance and returned it. He sighed gently and peacefully.

He'd done good today. He'd saved people. It wasn't the begrudging satisfaction of a haven overturned. This was a warmth that burned out the cold of the snow. Jax closed his eyes, feeling the thrum of the Void around him as he called to it.

Warmth, closeness, affection. All things he could not find in the Elders...