Expectations

The Bastion, Library

"I believe that covers everything," Saudia told him as they sat at one of the few round wooden tables in the well-furnished room.

"Fascinating," the Chronicler answered as he jotted down notes on his notepad. Saudia had actually never looked at what he wrote down. She assumed he was using it for its intended purpose, but for all she knew, he could be drawing cats. Not an unreasonable guess since he was also a gifted artist.

But whatever his methods, he did his job perfectly well. The Chronicler was an older man, as his white hair and wrinkled face clearly showed. Despite that, he had the best memory of anyone she'd met; likely the reason he'd been chosen in the first place.

Saudia took a sip of her wine. "It was a pivotal meeting. Something that I feel will become more prevalent in the coming days."

"I'm privileged to live in such interesting times," the Chronicler stated reverently, putting his pad in his bag and resting his hands on that table. "I confess, I thought our victory would come after my lifetime."

Saudia snorted in amusement. "You? I'd expect you to outlast me. I'm the third Director you've known, correct?"

"True, true," he chuckled ruefully. "But even I won't live forever."

At times she wondered. The Chronicler had been alive her entire life and been essential in helping her as Director. He was as much a part of the Bastion as the building itself and the only one within EXALT that wasn't tied to the families in some way. The given reason was to prevent biases in the records favoring one family or another.

Objectivity was an excellent reason, but she wasn't entirely convinced it was the real one. The successor to the Chronicler would always be chosen by the current one, and as far as Saudia knew, that hadn't been done yet.

Well, she trusted him and in the meantime would enjoy his company. "I'm wondering if I shouldn't travel to North America," he said, looking up in contemplation. "It seems as though many important events are taking place," his tone turned wistful. "It's also been too long since I've seen the United States."

"If you wish, you could accompany me when I go to meet Matthew," Saudia suggested. "I don't see when there'd be a better time."

"I appreciate the offer," the Chronicler told her sincerely. "But I don't get my impressions simply from briefings and reports like you and Matthew do." His lips curled up. "It's too…impersonal for me. I need to go to the cities and talk to the people. I can't simply draw my conclusions from what my superiors tell me. No offense."

"Fair enough," Saudia nodded. That could be respected, even if she saw little point in it. Something she'd learned as a girl was that there were very few reasons to care about ordinary people. They were the equivalent of very young EXALT children; uneducated, unreasonable, and had little respect for order and authority. There were exceptions of course, people who rose above the mediocrity and these exceptions were frequently selected to join EXALT; where they could realize their full potential.

Public well-being was important, but only for reasons of efficiency. But even if she didn't regard the average human highly, that didn't mean the Chronicler was wrong for doing so. "My offer still stands," she repeated. "I can speak to Matthew and you can…" she waved her hand aimlessly. "Do whatever you want."

"Hmm…" the Chronicler took a sip of his own wine. Setting the glass down, he appraised her with a smile. "I might just do that."

She raised her glass in acknowledgement and they were silent for a few minutes. "Does it ever make you sad?" She asked, looking in her glass and swishing the red liquid around. "That almost no one will know the truth?"

He sighed and looked around the library, the shelves filled with hundreds of books older than her. The true story of the world scattered throughout. "They wouldn't understand," he finally said. "How would it feel, knowing everything around you has been carefully crafted? That the causes and events that you believe in are lies and illusions." He shook his head. "I suspect most people would be justifiably angry."

Saudia appraised him. "You didn't answer my question."

He gave a sad smile. "Perceptive as ever, Saudia. Honestly, it does a little," he looked away, his white eyes aimless. "The suppression of knowledge is always a sad event, even if I recognize the necessity of it." He looked back into her eyes. "I know you don't regard most of the human race highly, but I don't think they're all unreasonable."

"I've never said that," she protested. "But we both know humanity is incapable of uniting without our intervention. It simply isn't possible."

"I know, I know," he placated with a raised hand. "Trust me, I've memorized the unfortunate history of our species. I know what we're capable of in terms of our greed, ambition and conquest. But I've also read and witnessed all the good we can accomplish without EXALT."

He leaned forward intently. "I'll tell you the same thing I told your predecessor; Much as you may wish it, you will not be able to change the world alone. You need to know this now more than ever."

"You know I always involve the families-" Saudia began when the Chronicler raised a hand.

"I'm not talking about the families," he interrupted gently. "You've encouraged more cooperation than most Directors. No, you will need to look beyond your own. Not every ally you use to secure the world will, or should be, EXALT. It is simply impractical and unrealistic," he paused. "Deep down, I think you know this."

"As long as the major governments still exist, you have a point," she admitted. "But when all those are destroyed there will be little opposition."

"And what exactly will you do?" He asked, cocking his head to the side inquisitively. "Unite the human race with a few hundred soldiers? Somehow convince the world that an organization never before known should be trusted?"

She sighed. "A rather poor attempt at pointing out the flaws of our objective. Both of us know referring to the plan in such simple terms is wrong."

"But not unrealistic," he insisted. "Based on what I know, I don't think this will work out as…smoothly as you hope."

Saudia leaned back in her chair. "Why do I have the feeling that you're trying to suggest something?"

He was silent for a few minutes while she patiently waited. "I'm not suggesting anything yet," he finally said. "But…don't dismiss XCOM as a minor inconvenience."

She frowned. That had come out of nowhere. "And why not? Do you honestly believe they have a chance?"

He pursed his lips. "That depends on if you allow your arrogance to dictate the course of this war."

A smile crept across her face. The Chronicler was one who spoke his mind and answered questions directly, even if they were insulting. "I assure you, I'm treating XCOM as seriously as they deserve."

"Then I suppose you have nothing to worry about," he assured her. "But never underestimate your enemy."

"A fact that was drilled in by the Venators," she added, recalling the long days in the Gauntlet.

He chuckled. "I can imagine by the end it was exhausting. The Russian instructor I had delighted in repeating it every few minutes."

Saudia blinked. The Russian phase of the Gauntlet was the last trial before completion. Only the best of EXALT even attempted it since there was a very real chance of death. "You completed the Gauntlet?"

He looked surprised. "I never mentioned that?"

She shook her head. "No. I guess I just assumed…"

"That I was too old or not strong enough," he finished, amused. "Well, when you met me, I would have been. But yes, I did. A long time ago, though. I had heard much about the trial and wanted to experience it firsthand. I feel the records are better for my experience."

She snorted. Of course he would complete the Gauntlet for simple curiosity. She personally was curious what existed deep in the ocean but didn't really need to actually see it for herself. "Well," she raised her glass again. "You have my congratulations. Belatedly."

"Appreciated." He took another sip.

"Before I forget, thank you for looking after Martel," she told him.

"Of course," he answered happily. "He'd a bright kid. You've done well so far."

"He wasn't too much trouble?" She asked setting her glass on the table.

"Only if you consider endless questions trouble," he dismissed easily. "Though he was a lot more interested in what you were doing instead of his mathematics."

Saudia rolled her eyes. "How utterly shocking. What did you tell him?"

"He's your son," the Chronicler answered. "I told him you would answer your questions if he finished his studies and you wanted too. That seemed to placate him."

"I'm sure it did," she nodded. "I'll tell him tomorrow, since it's…" she glanced at the time. "Almost midnight. Well then."

"You ever wonder if you tell him too much?" he asked, an eyebrow raised curiously. "I'm not sure he fully comprehends what you tell him."

"Parents have an annoying habit of not sharing information with their children," Saudia answered somewhat defensively. "I found it irritating as a child and will not repeat it with my son. Furthermore, children are capable of understanding far more than people give them credit for. All they need is the right upbringing."

"I'll trust you on that," he said, standing up. "It's been a wonderful conversation, but I need to sleep. You as well, I think."

She stood as well. "I don't dispute that. Goodnight, Chronicler."

He inclined his head in a salute of respect. "You as well, Director."

The Bastion, Bedroom

It felt good to finally get out of that uniform. EXALT might be the most visually striking organization in the world in terms of attire, but that didn't mean she was overly fond of it. Now she simply wore a black t-shirt and shorts. She still found it somewhat amusing that the cloths designers somehow found a way to put the EXALT emblem on literally every piece of clothing.

Well, as long as it was comfortable, she didn't mind. As she was brushing her teeth, she heard someone come into the bathroom. She spit out the toothpaste and rinsed off the toothbrush. "I was wondering if you'd be sleeping tonight."

She turned around to see Ethan, still in full uniform, start taking off his weapons. "Just checking that no one smuggled anything here," he told her as he hung up his rifle. "A lot of people came here today."

Smirking, she walked over and helped lose the straps on his armor. "Always paranoid. I doubt any of the families would be stupid enough to kill me."

He shrugged as he put his pistol away. "It's my job, and it wouldn't necessarily be on direct orders of the families. It could just be some disgruntled agent. Can never be too sure." He gave her a wry smile. "Besides, I don't take chances with my wife, let alone the Director of EXALT."

She smiled and helped him out of his body armor. "I appreciate it. I suppose a little paranoia is warranted."

"Healthy even," he amended and stripped his gauntlets off. "I assume the meeting went well? Everyone seemed rather satisfied."

Oh right, Ethan would definitely want to know what had transpired. She'd tell him, but she was honestly really tired now. Still, if he wanted it…"You want the long or short answer?"

He appraised her for a few seconds. "Preferably the long version, but you look exhausted so I'll hold off. Short will do just fine."

Saudia let out a sigh of relief. "Thank you. Short version is that everything went great. Well, mostly. We have a good chance to secure South America, possibly North America as well."

Ethan's head shot up and he narrowed his eyes. "I know I asked for the short version, but…how? The United States…"

"I honestly don't know specifics," she admitted as she walked over to the closet and picked out a plain gray shirt for him. "But Matthew has a plan. One that he seems pretty confident in. Since we also stand to eliminate the Mexican Cartels, I'm inclined to trust him."

"That a recent development?" Ethan asked as he finished undressing and stepped into the nearby shower. The sound of running water filled the air as Saudia gathered the rest of his cloths.

"Yes," she answered. "Matthew estimates it will be at least a year before we begin to see real progress."

"Aren't you worried that these plans are…" Ethan paused from inside the shower. "Too long term? I mean, there's an alien invasion happening, I'm not sure we should be planning years in advance when they can end this war within a few months."

"A risk," Saudia admitted. "But if the aliens were concerned with conquering this world, I think they'd have done it a while ago. But when the aliens are gone, we'll need to have operations in place to secure order."

"You know more than me," he said, and she could imagine the shrug in his voice. "So anything else?"

"Russia and China might be looking to expand," she admitted with a sigh. "Diguon believes China will hold back, but Russia…there might be complications."

"Isn't that his job?" Ethan asked. "You know, to have people in place for this kind of thing?"

"Yes," Saudia agreed. "But I don't know how much he's delegated to the Russian side of the Mercados. His brother might know more."

She heard a snort. "Then he's incompetent or being outmaneuvered for his position," Ethan commented dryly. "Either way, Russia is too important to go uncontrolled."

"I know, and I he does as well," Saudia defended. "But you should know better than anyone how difficult it is to influence the Russian military and government."

"They are extremely paranoid," Ethan sighed. "Alright. What of dear Overseer Falka?"

"Elizabeth's going to begin our propaganda war on XCOM," Saudia explained, going back over to the mirror and grabbing a hairbrush. Using it, she continued. "Nothing really new with Hasina, funds are increasing and everything's in order."

"So what's Elizabeth's angle?" He asked, shutting off the water. "I can see several ways she can successfully run a campaign."

"From our preliminary discussions, I believe she'll be uplifting the dangers of a secretive paramilitary organization, along with using what we already have on the United Nations. Throw in some doctored footage and it shouldn't be difficult to turn the public against them."

"Let's hope she can pull it off," he said. "By the way, why was Zara walking out with one of our plasma rifles? I thought those were for research purposes only."

"They are," Saudia answered, putting the brush down. "But she asked me for one for "personal use," I didn't see much of a reason to refuse. If anyone deserves it, it'd be her. Besides, the aliens will provide us more weapons if we need them."

"No wonder she looked so happy," Ethan commented as he stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. "I suppose you said you're authorizing combat ops soon?"

"Yep," Saudia answered, turning back to him. "Something she's looking forward to."

"Which brings up something I've been thinking about," Ethan said, beginning to dress in more casual attire. "Are you planning to use me in any combat operations?"

Saudia hesitated. "Yes, for some of them."

He nodded once. "Good. I'd feel left out if Zara killed these UN puppets without me." She was surprised at how much venom was in his voice.

"You really want to do this," she stated, crossing her arms.

"I'd prefer NATO proper," Ethan shrugged as he finished dressing. "But until we move on the UN, XCOM soldiers will have to suffice. I might not be able to bring my friends or the Commander back…" He tensed up and clenched his jaw. "But I can certainly avenge them. Trust me Saudia, the rest of us feel the same way. This is personal."

She nodded as she walked over to him. Setting one of her hands over his she looked him in the eye. "I understand. Trust me, you'll have plenty opportunities to avenge them."

He smiled and swept her up into his arms in one smooth motion. She rolled her eyes and put her arms around his neck. "You do know I can walk to the bed myself, right?"

"Of course," he replied easily as he began walking to the bed. "But you deserve a break."

"Oh, fine," she conceded, not really feeling up to protesting and rested her head on his shoulder. He gently placed her on the bed and she quickly pulled the blankets over her. Ethan shut off the lights and joined her in bed. Snuggling closer to him, Saudia soon fell into a deep sleep.

The Bastion, The Next Morning

Saudia walked towards one of the rooms that had been converted into something of a study room. It wasn't uncommon, especially at the Bastion to find a room that had clearly been originally been something else. Part of this was that they were in Antarctica and adding a new room to the Bastion would be a nightmare in terms of time, resources and manpower.

So sometimes she got requests to turn a rarely used, or unused room into something the base personnel wanted. Unless the request was especially outrageous or the room was actually being used, she typically granted it with the stipulation that the people suggesting it put the work into remodeling.

It was a method of payment she felt worked best. EXALT personnel didn't get a 'salary' as the rest of the world defined it. The families all provided housing, food, clothing, healthcare, essentially everything needed for survival. That didn't mean the personnel received nothing for their service. While money could be acquire outside EXALT, most just submitted a request for one thing or another. It could be as cheap as a book or as expensive as a car; the cost was inconsequential for an organization as wealthy as them.

For her part, Saudia did her best to authorize the requests and make sure they were on the next supply plane. It was the least they deserved and nearly almost all EXALT personnel didn't abuse the system set in place and typically only requested small items. They were also typically shared if more than one person could use them. Book swapping was especially common.

At one time she'd noticed an unusable number of games, pool sticks and other conspicuous objects all being requested at the same time. She'd approved them, having some idea of what was coming next. Sure enough, a few days later a request came through for permission to remodel a rarely used storage room into a game room.

She'd approved it of course, though she'd had an amusing talk with the requester basically saying "If you wanted a game room, I'd have approved it. No need to acquire every piece yourselves." They'd had a good laugh over it and since then the Bastion personnel had been very straightforward with their requests.

She wasn't sure who'd requested this particular study room originally, but now it'd been taken over by Martel as his own study quarters. He had his own room of course, but didn't spend much time in it. When asked why, he said it was 'soothing,' an odd response until she realized this room was close to the heating generator.

The Bastion required constant heating to prevent fuel freezing and thus required a unique heating generator unlike any in the world. It was expensive to maintain, extremely so, but necessary if the Bastion was to remain livable. It constantly emitted a low hum that permeated through most of the lower floor. Saudia assumed that was what Martel was referring to.

She could understand that. Almost anything was better than dead silence and true to habit, her son was sitting on the couch, a math book beside him, a pad of paper on his lap and a pencil in his fingers. Anyone at first glance would suppose he'd inherited most of his traits from her, but in all honesty, he'd only inherited her black skin and hair. His face, eyes and features were almost exactly like Ethan's.

And right now, a look of frustration was on his young face. She rapped on the wall with her knuckles several times to get his attention. He looked up and his face lit up. "Mom!"

Beaming, she strode over to him. "Hey there, got some time?"

"Yes!" He exclaimed excitedly as he scooted over allowing her to sit down. She looked over at what he was doing.

"What are you working on?" She asked, looking over his work.

"Math," he grumbled, the sullen look returning to his face. "It's hard."

She smirked. "Well, Algebra wasn't supposed to be easy."

"Of course not," he sighed dramatically. "Can't you tell me about your meeting instead?"

"Don't worry," she promised taking his pad. "But let's finish this first. Now, tell me where you're having problems." With some resignation, Martel nodded, knowing he wouldn't get anything out of her until they were done.

So for the next forty-five minutes, she helped him. Math had never been that difficult a subject for her, so the problems in his text book were rather trivial. Still, for a child a little younger than eight, they were difficult enough. After a bit of explaining, Martel eventually grasped the concepts and with enough practice, she was confident he'd master them soon.

Still, he wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect. "I don't understand," he scowled. "How is any of this helpful?"

Oh boy. That question was bound to come up eventually. She'd answered it for herself years ago but wasn't sure if it would satisfy him. Taking the paper and book, she placed them to the side and looked him in the eye. "You want the truth?"

"Yes." He said without hesitation.

"Ok," she nodded. "What do you want to be?"

"Like you!" He answered immediately. She felt a burst of pride at that, she never wanted anything less.

"Glad to hear it," she told him, ruffling his hair. "But in that case, to answer your question, all these textbooks…you will likely not use much of what you learn ever again."

That was apparently not the answer he was expecting. He tilted his head, clearly confused, but waited attentively. Withholding a response until she finished, she was pleased he remembered. "The reason you spend hours on algebra is not primarily about the material itself," she continued. "But to perfect a way of thinking. Math teaches you to think analytically, orderly and logically. You want to perfect this until it not only becomes second nature, it is your nature."

He looked up, clearly thinking. "So the process is more important than the solution?"

"You're on the right track," she nodded. "When you take my place, you will be faced with problems that can't be reduced to a simple formula. In that case you have to rely on the thought process required. Gathering information, using the tools given and solving it in the most effective way."

"Ah," he nodded. "I think I understand."

"I think so," she agreed, standing up. "Come on, I think it's time you see the control room."

His eyes lit up at that. He was able to move throughout most of the Bastion, but there were a few places where he wasn't allowed, and one of those was the control room, the place she coordinated most of her operations. He eagerly walked beside her as they made their way there.

"So what happened?" He asked as they walked.

"Well, we made a lot of important decisions," she explained casually. "In short, things are going well."

"But if they are, why are you being friendly to the aliens?" He asked, looking confused. "Aren't they here to kill us?"

She sighed, not quite sure the best way to explain it. "I know. But we're…using the aliens. They can help us achieve our goal."

"So…you're tricking them?" He asked, looking up at her.

She smiled down. "Yes, that's pretty close. Once they take down the corrupt governments of the world, it will allow us to take control."

He was uncharacteristically silent while they walked. She glanced down to see he clearly wanted to ask something, but was holding back. "What is it?" She finally asked gently. "You have a question?"

"Yes…" he still hesitated. "Won't that hurt a lot of people?"

She was silent for a minute. "Yes," she finally said. "It will."

"But our goal is to help people," he protested. "Right?"

She wondered how best to explain it to him. She'd explained some of EXALT's goals in passing a few times, but this was the first he was bringing it up. Hmm…how to do this. "That is one of our goals, yes," she answered. "But our first goal is to unite the human race."

"So it's ok to hurt them if we can unite them?" He asked, still puzzled.

"Not ok," she cautioned. "But necessary. In a perfect world, no one would be hurt. But we don't live there; sacrifices have to be made. Do you know why we must be the ones to do this?"

He paused, looking up. "Because we're better than them?"

She chuckled. "A little blunt, but…correct. Humans are innately rebellious and don't know what is best for them. The average human is ruled by their emotions, greed and arrogance. Not conductive for our species, right?"

"Right," he agreed, nodding his head.

"You've studied your history, I presume," she asked rhetorically. It was one of his favorite subjects. "What usually divides us?"

"Ideology, nationality, race, wealth…" he listed off. "A lot of stuff."

She nodded. "Humanity is simply incapable to rising above this without intervention. We are beyond all the flaws that plague our species. That is why we are above them. And why we are the only ones fit to command them."

Martel nodded. "That makes sense…but does that apply to everyone who's not us?"

She contemplated. "For the most part, yes. Exceptions exist, individuals that surpass and break the rules society imposes on them. Your father is one. And despite the majority of the human race being beneath us, we must never ignore the exceptions because that only makes us stronger."

"Is that why we're called EXALT?" he asked. "Because we're the uplifted?"

She smiled. "No, that name used as a label to identify us. EXALT isn't the first name chosen for us, and it won't be the last," she paused. "Though I do think it's one of the better fitting ones."

She stopped in front of one of the doors. Quickly entering a code on the keypad beside it, the door slid open and she motioned Martel inside.

"Wow," he breathed as he looked around the room. Several monitoring computers lines the walls, some with analysts at them. Massive monitors lined the walls, displaying world news, stocks, cyber-attacks and various world maps. At the end was a hologram recreation of the world, which was slowly spinning on its axis.

Saudia walked towards it and tapped the globe which disintegrated into tiny blue cubes which recombined to assemble a flat view of the Earth on the holotable. Now she could see which operations were running throughout the world.

"What are those?" Martel asked, pointing at one of the markers on the map.

"Where agents are stationed," Saudia explained, touching one and a short dossier assembled in the air along with a picture displaying the agent in question. The dossier itself contained the name, rank and current assignment. "Though these are limited to what country the agent is stationed in. We can't completely track all their movements."

"What's she doing?" Martel asked, looking at the photo of the woman in question. A reasonable question since the information displayed only said "surveillance." Saudia took a look at the name to recall from memory what it was.

Ah. "Namr Ida…" Saudia said slowly. "She's keeping an eye on Israel. Making sure they don't do something without our knowledge."

"Can I use it?" He asked, eyes brimming with excitement.

"Not today," Saudia laughed, picking up a tablet. "All this is live and I can't risk you accidentally hitting something."

He sighed. "I understand, Mom."

"Hey," she chided, kneeling down and handing him the tablet. "I didn't bring you all the way up here just to show you the fancy equipment."

He took it. "What's this?"

"Some additional reading, if you're interested," she answered, smiling. "You're going to run this one day and I think it'd be a good idea for you to know some of the decisions you'll have to make." She nodded at the tablet. "That has quite a few completed mission reports on them. Take a look sometime, I think you'll learn something."

He clutched it to his chest. "Thanks!"

She gave him a quick hug. "Alright, enjoy that. I've got some work to do."

"Ok," he answered. "See you later!"

He almost dashed out of the room, eager to look at her gift. She turned back to the holotable, growing more serious. Time to get back to work, best see how the psionic subjects were faring.

The Bastion, Subject Cells

Annette Durand lay on the bed, struggling to fall asleep in the midst of the voices clamoring for her attention. Their intensity and volume rose and fell at seemingly random intervals but they never left completely. There were always whispers at the edge of consciousness, sounds that were begging to be understood.

She'd learned that she tended to sleep when they dimmed. The opportunities were few and far between, but in the end she almost had no choice as exhaustion forced her into a few hours of blissful unconsciousness.

It had been a blessing at first. The first day she'd been crying in the corner, just wanting something, anything, to stop the voices assaulting her. Eventually she'd fallen asleep and prayed to never be woken up again.

Yet she had. And the voices were louder and clearer.

Sleep terrified her now.

She didn't want to know what they were telling her for fear it would mean she'd finally gone insane. But no matter how much she tried, words, images and feelings were made clear in her mind. It was only flashes now, a recognizable word here and there, an intense feeling for a microsecond, but it was there. And only growing stronger.

The voices were a mix of male and female, younger and older, soft and firm, a broken chorus of screams, yells and whispers. The first few days she feared her head would explode from the physical pressure she could swear was in her head. She'd never had a migraine before, but she imagined it was something like that.

Sharp, constant pain for hours on end, like getting a screw drilled into your head slowly enough so every twist could be felt. There were no words she could describe what the first few hours had been like. Only screams.

It'd luckily faded slightly after a while. The pain returned when the intensity of the voices rose, but otherwise stayed at a dull, throbbing pain. Something she could deal with.

Funny how she would have considered that unbearable at home. This place had changed her in more ways than one.

It wasn't just the voices either. There was something else inside her now. A power within her that she'd accessed for brief moments when she'd been at her lowest. It was uncontrolled, dark and dangerous, even to herself. The scars on her arms were proof of that.

But the feeling of utter power had stayed with her and given strength through the shocks, pain and voices. For a few minutes she'd been in control and had power over her tormentors. That feeling was more potent than any drug.

And she was going to learn how to use it.

If these people wanted to prod, shock, stab and torture, she'd turn what they'd created against them.

With a shout of frustration, she threw off the blanket and began pacing angrily. It was pointless! It didn't matter what she did it was only going to get worse! One time she was going to wake up and the voices would be clear to her.

She needed to get out of here.

She paused and gave herself a reprimanding laugh. Yes, Annette, what a novel concept! Why ever didn't you consider that before? Idiot. She scolded herself. Of course she needed to get out of here, that had been clear since day one. No, the question she needed to answer now was how she needed to get out of here.

She had no clue where she was. She had no clue how many people were here. She had no idea of the layout of this place.

This was an impossible situation.

No! She berated herself. Not impossible. You simply don't have enough information.

Fine then. She shot back. So where am I going to get it?

She had no answer for that. She had to know what was beyond this cell first.

Think. Annette paused her pacing, taking deep breaths. How would Latrell handle this?

Her boyfriend would have been far better at devising a way of escape than she. A French GIGN police operative, his specialty was primarily focused on hostage rescue and riot control. Both of which involved lots of planning, into and out of seemingly impenetrable buildings.

Alright. She took another deep breath and sat down at the end of her bed, for once concentrating hard enough to push the voices to a corner of her mind. So what did she have? A few eating utensils they provided her, and…pretty much nothing else. She was fairly athletic, but nowhere near enough to be considered a threat by anyone roughly her size, let alone the guards who were undoubtedly stronger than her.

There was only one possible advantage: Her abilities. Problem with that was they were unpredictable. She'd been only able to use them in extreme periods of stress and was unable to recreate them.

No. a mocking voice in her head scolded. You're just scared of the pain.

She shook her head. No, that wasn't it.

Was it?

She looked down at her arms and hand, tiny white scars covering them. The skin was warped and twisted as if exposed to fire or acid. She felt no pain, and retained full functionality of her hands, but the sensation of her flesh opening up as the power released was almost unbearable. The only comfort was the rush of euphoria that followed.

Oddly enough, she remembered no blood or anything accompanying a normal injury like that. Though she'd never forced herself to watch it happen. So it seemed her only chance at escape was using her powers. Somehow. She had the impression that the voices were key to fully understanding her powers and if she really listened that might make her understand.

Or she would go insane.

She wasn't really ready to risk what remained of her sanity yet.

Annette took a deep breath. Ok. Then the first order of business would be to learn how to consciously use her power. Each time it'd happened, she'd been furious at these people and willing to kill each one of them. Anger. Yes, emotions seemed to trigger it. A good a place to start as any.

It wasn't difficult to get angry. All she had to do was recall all the times they stuck needles in her, fed her drugs, forced her into withdrawal. The way they treated her as some kind of domestic animal and whose well-being bore no more emotion than an insect was especially infuriating.

She gritted her teeth as she recalled lying in a pool of puke, mucus and waste as she went through withdrawal of one drug they'd injected into her. She'd suffered and writhed for hours until they'd finally come in and cleaned her up. And she'd hadn't been referred to even as a person.

Because she wasn't one. She was Subject Four.

That seemed to be the spark that opened the floodgates. As if a door opened, a flood of energy came into her, which had seemingly just been out of reach or locked up. She felt it running up along her body, looking for an outlet.

She gritted her teeth. As much as she wanted to release the limitless energy, she needed control. She forced the energy to converge into her hand. Closing her eyes, she imagined the energy as a purple mist, flowing around her arm, the power slowly growing into a ball of light.

She suppressed a scream as she felt a dozen tears in her flesh as she felt the power gather. Opening her eyes, she observed in amazement at her arm. The arm was torn open, but what came out wasn't blood, but instead streams of purple energy. The gaps in her flesh flapped like gills, expelling more energy.

The energy itself seemed to let off a corrosive mist that warped the skin around her arm. She barely felt it and only watched in amazement as her arm essentially bubbled, melted and reformed in the span of a few seconds, repeating over and over. As destructive as the energy was, it also seemed to prevent her from falling apart altogether.

She curled the fingers of her left hand into a claw shape, as if to hold a globe or ball. Gather, she thought furiously as the pain intensified. Converge! Congeal! Stick! Combine! Pretty much every synonym she could think of to gather the power in one place.

Then it happened.

A little teardrop of energy that slowly grew. The center grew black as the orb grew to the size of a golf ball. A black hole outlined by purple. The power running along her body was threatening to unleash itself and her vision was tinged purple and red.

With a scowl she closed her fist around the orb, everything clicking into place. The euphoria filled her again, but this time she was in control. If she'd looked in one of the mirrors she'd seen a woman outlined in purple flame, energy flowing through her arms, iris's glowing purple and eye sockets leaking smoke.

Annette Durand was in power and she was going to exercise it. Turning around, she looked at the sparse furnishings of her cell. A bed, experiment chair, toilet and showerhead. She curled her lip in disgust. Her cell had provided nothing but horror and she saw no reason to hold back.

Thrusting both her hands forward, she released some of the energy pent up. A purple shockwave tore into the furniture, though not doing much more than moving it back a little. Not good enough, she snarled and focused directly on the cot she'd slept on. With a shout she released a directed wave of energy at the cot which warped and compressed it into an unusable hunk of metal and cloth.

Not nearly done, she whirled around and zeroed in on the door, taunting her with the freedom she craved. Raising her hand, she once again willed the energy to conform and when she could bear it no longer, shot a bolt of purple energy into it.

It slammed into it with a spark but little else. Her fury growing, she repeated it again. And again. And again.

And again.

Her frustration became unbearable as the purple tint threatened to engulf her vision. Small pulses of energy coming off her unconsciously, she stormed over to the taunting door. The mirror that covered the walls covered it as well, showing her a woman being repeatedly denied.

"Open!" She screamed, unable to take it any longer and threw her fist into the mirror.

Her fist cracked through the bulletproof glass and another shockwave shot across the room. The mirrors closest to her were similarly cracked and even the furthest ones were scratched at the very least if the shockwave had hit.

Annette sank to the floor, her right hand feeling broken as the power and euphoria slowly faded, leaving her drained, in agony and defeated. The wounds that she'd suffered were now fully felt but she didn't even have the energy to scream.

Her only visible expression of her pain were the tears falling from the corners of her eyes.

The voices were making themselves known again, growing louder as she slowly lost the will to ignore them.

…Lost cause…

…Shipment…

…Brazil…

…Victory or….

…XCOM…strength…

…Aliens won't wait….

Stop! She begged as she began understanding more words. Please stop!

Subject Four…She gasped as she heard that.

Then the door opened, as some cruel joke.

The man and woman who'd experimented on her from the beginning stood over her, she unable to move.

"We didn't even have to subdue her," the woman commented, peering down at her with interest, Annette unable to move from exhaustion. "She exhausted herself."

"I think we can mark this as a success," the man nodded, making a note on his tablet. "Subject Four displays exceptional abilities when agitated. I think we can unquestionably draw a link between a higher emotional state and control over psionics."

Annette was beginning to lose consciousness, but was able to make out a few more sentences. "So that pheromone had the desired effect," the woman noted, taking out some kind of spray. "But I do wonder if it would have the same effect if we stimulated another emotion. Rage is easy, but what about…hmm. Sadness, perhaps?"

"Rage is the easiest," the man corrected as the woman sprayed some sort of liquid on her wounded arms. "Not to mention it proved our hypothesis. But I'll speak with the chemists to see if we can use another pheromone."

"Good," the woman nodded. "It'd be a shame to-"

Then Annette blacked out, the voices echoing in her dreams.