The Spartans' quarters were silent as Leonidas entered, looking around at the faces of his squadmates. He had taken the time to mop up the blood on his face, but that was about it as far as medical treatment went. As Eagle moved to inspect the wound, the super-soldier pushed him away. "If you want to treat someone," he rumbled, "treat Alia. She needs it more than me."

"I am a medic," the Specialist responded firmly, "Not a doctor."

Seeing Leonidas continue to resist, Ghost stood up with fatherly energy. "Quit being so stubborn," he said firmly, "If you're not going to stay in the infirmary, at least let Tony patch you up." The Kingslayer froze for a moment. Ghost never used their real names. When he did, it was a signal to the rest of the Spartans to shut up and do as he said. Not even Leo himself dared to argue. Reluctantly, he allowed his childhood friend to inspect the facial wound. "Now then," the sniper continued as the medic worked, "If you're in here and not with Alia, you must have something important to do or say. So spill it."

"It's the Centurions," the Spartan leader said grimly, "Out there, during the exercise… they tried to kill me."

The others all looked at each other with varying degrees of disbelief. "Leonidas," Defcon said slowly, "I get it that these guys are assholes, but that's a big accusation."

"Just hear me out," Leo insisted, "When Haze and I were going at it, she had these little blades in her boots. She tried to use one against me, and barely missed. I got a good, close look at that thing―I know a sharpened blade when I see one. Nearly slashed my damn throat! And am I the only one who finds it suspicious that, after two months with us, Alia comes down with an illness that nobody can seem to identify right after the Centurions show up?"

"Okay," Ghost nodded, "I'll give you the benefit of the doubt for the blade, but otherwise you just sound paranoid. Besides, if killing you was the goal, why do it out in the open like that? Maybe it was dull, and you're mistaken?"

The Spartan King shook his head. "Absolutely not. I know what I saw. I'm thinking that Haze would have tried to play it off as an accident or something, but I'm not buying it. That should've been one of the first things that she checked―and if they couldn't be blunted, then she shouldn't have used them."

"They did seem awfully calm when Alia went down," Robin piped up, "And has anyone else noticed that the big one never takes off his helmet? Has anyone here actually seen his face?"

The room was silent for a moment as the team absorbed everything. "Why aren't you bringing this up with the Commander?" Eagle asked, "Ain't much we can do about this, man."

"I… I don't know," Leonidas admitted, "I trust you guys. I trust him, too, but… I don't think he'd believe me. The last thing I need right now is another psych eval." He lowered his voice before adding: "Plus, if I'm right, and the Commander tells the Centurions…" The warrior trailed off; his point was painfully clear.

"For what it's worth," Ghost sighed, "I don't really trust them either. And as much as I hate to keep this to ourselves, I think you have a point: if your suspicions are correct, we can't risk Titus and his gang finding out that we're onto them. Besides, we can't really go making accusations based on hearsay and gut feelings. So for now, at least, this stays between us." As he looked around at the group, everyone nodded in agreement.

"Thank you," Leonidas took a deep breath, "Just stay alert, and watch your backs. I can't have anyone else getting hurt."

Almost as if on cue, the door to the squad's quarters opened, and a familiar face stepped through, raising an eyebrow. "Am I interrupting something?" the Commander asked.

"Not at all," his son said evenly, "What's up?"

There was a moment where their superior seemed to consider the truth of this answer, then he shrugged slightly. "Tygan's stumped on what to do," the man explained, "We can't quite figure out what's going on with Alia. All we know is that her vitals are progressively dropping despite our best efforts, so we're calling in the big guns."

Before anyone could ask why Tygan―who had an impressive medical record in his own right―wasn't the 'big guns', the Commander held up a portable communicator displaying yet another familiar face. Razor looked at them through the small screen with a grim expression. "I've been filled in on the details," he said, sounding more than a little upset, "I have a couple of experts that can help along with myself, but they're currently indisposed and will need pickup. My own transport has already been arranged."

Ghost's brow creased. "Are these 'experts' who I think they are?"

"Unless you know someone better," Razor answered with a nod, "I have other specialists, but no one as good as those two. The Snake Eaters are our best option."

The Commander raised an eyebrow at his old friend. "I'm sensing a history here. One that I wasn't told about."

"It wasn't important until now," the sharpshooter said defensively, "And I was hoping to never bring it up. Before I properly settled down to raise Leonidas, and after he was old enough to take care of himself, I worked on and off with other folks to gather intel and keep the fight going. Met those boys in the latter years. They're some of the best that I've worked with outside of XCOM, though not everything went smoothly. Had some… disagreements."

"Is this going to become a problem?" the Commander asked, sounding a little less concerned than his words would imply.

"Can't really afford to let it be," Ghost answered, turning his attention to Razor, "If I remember, one is better for this than the other, and both tend to work off-the-grid to make themselves harder to track. That means contacting them ahead of time isn't an option. What's their current job?"

"Just a procurement run," the young mastermind responded, "But they're aiming for a high-risk area. Right in the middle of an ADVENT-controlled city, looking to secure some rarer hardware components and―coincidentally―fresh medical supplies."

The Commander interrupted the two. "I'll send the Jackals to pick them up. Should be able to get in and out covertly."

Ghost shook his head, stroking his chin thoughtfully. "No. These boys aren't fond of the greater Resistance, and if we send in a bunch of strangers plastered with our logo, they might not be eager to cooperate. Plus, I think that a smaller team would be better; easier to move undetected that way. I remember them having some history with the Reapers, though―Dragunova could be a good pick. Then I suppose I could go, since they know me, at least."

"Now hang on," XCOM's leader interjected, "First of all, you are not the commanding officer here. You do not decide what we do. Secondly, you just said that you have a problematic past with these men; why would it be a good idea to send you in?"

The veteran looked up at him. "My history with the Snake Eaters is more complicated than that, Commander. But I know that one of them will still trust me, and that's good enough. Besides, I know how they operate―it'll be easier to act on that knowledge myself than explain it to another team. Outrider and I can handle it."

The Commander's eyes widened noticeably. "Are you shitting me?! You're suggesting an extraction from enemy territory with only two people?! Maybe twenty years ago I could consider that, but you're past your prime, old friend; this would be a suicide mission."

Looking over at the man who raised him, Leonidas saw a flash of anger cross the sniper's face at that remark, so fast and subtle that he was sure that nobody else had seen it. He knew that look all too well; both of them hated being judged for their age. Though there was some sad truth to his father's statement; Ghost was in his forties, and after decades of hard-wearing service, the years hadn't been all too kind. Still, the young soldier felt for the man. "Send me, then," he offered, "As backup, if nothing else. I've got the training to stay out of sight as needed, and the power to handle shit if it hits the fan."

"Negative," his father responded coldly, "You haven't even gotten properly checked after that hit to the head. You likely have a concussion. I'm not sending you on such a sensitive mission in such a state."

"Everyone shut the Hell up!" Razor suddenly shouted, bringing the room's attention to himself, "This is my mission, extracting my people, to save my project. I will decide who goes and who stays." The hacker took a deep breath, calming himself. "Ghost and Outrider will go. The Snake Eaters have their own transport, so we don't have to worry about providing on-site exfiltration. Both of them are perfectly capable of holding their own in a fight, meaning that we'll have four people on the ground in case things go south. Sounds good?" Before he got an answer, he continued: "Don't answer; I don't care. Get your people ready to deploy; I'll rendezvous with the Avenger along its flight path. Don't be late."

The feed went dark, leaving the XCOM personnel in a silent room with the mastermind's words lingering in the air. The Commander was clearly irritated by having his authority overridden so sharply, though for some reason he seemed to be going along with it. "We pick up Razor in thirty minutes," he muttered angrily, "Deployment is in fifty. Be ready." With that, he turned around and left.

Ghost sighed, leaning against the wall and pinching the bridge of his nose. "What have I gotten myself into?" he murmured, "The man's right; I'm not getting any younger."

"You're not that old," Leonidas said suddenly, almost scolding his elder, "You're still the best marksman in the world, let alone in our ranks. And besides, you didn't get Alia sick with an unidentifiable, likely deadly disease."

There was a small pause as the sharpshooter blinked, processing what he'd just heard. "Bloody Hell, kid," he said, appalled, "Where is this coming from all of a sudden? You can't seriously be blaming yourself for what's happening!"

"You're damn right I do," the Spartan King fumed, "I'm the one in charge here, and this happened under my watch. I knew that Alia wasn't feeling well, and I could've called off that stupid competition, but I chose to ignore it. Now she's fucking dying, and I can't even try to help."

"No!" Ghost snapped, jabbing a fatherly finger at the younger man, "You do not get to take responsibility for a bloody accident! We all saw it, and we all let it slide, including Tygan. It is not your job to handle Alia's health, and it is not your fault that she's sick. Besides, I don't want you going on this mission either; the Commander's right: you probably have a concussion, and I can't lose you while trying to save her!"

Leonidas crossed his arms with a huff. "I still got her into this mess. I should be the one who has to get her out of it."

Ghost let out a growl, shocking everyone in the room, including the Spartan leader. "Well you won't be either way," he said through gritted teeth, "Because the Snake Eaters get that responsibility. So stop blaming yourself for a mistake that we all made."

"If only it were that easy," the young super-soldier sighed. His defensiveness had faded, only to be replaced with a distinct sadness. The sniper's uncharacteristic anger had shattered his desire to argue, but that didn't stop Leo from feeling responsible for the well-being of his team.

The veteran inhaled deeply, calming down at the sight of the boy he raised looking so defeated. His anger drained away, paternal compassion taking its place. "We're all worried about Alia," he said gently, "And we all want to help. She may not be responsive right now, but go be with her. It might be good to hear a friendly voice, and you should probably be in the infirmary anyway with your head trauma. We'll save her, Leo. I won't let you down."

He looked up. Nobody other than his father ever called him 'Leo'―not since he was a boy. Normally, he would be mad, but somehow it felt… comforting coming from Ghost. Like the older man was speaking to him purely as a friend and father-figure, not a colleague, subordinate or superior. He couldn't help but smile a little at this feeling, and the knowledge that the sharpshooter was so determined. Leonidas walked to the door, ready to join the viper in the infirmary. "Thanks, Ghost," he said earnestly, "And for the record: you really aren't that old. I may not have been there to see you in your prime, but if you ask me, you've kept your skills sharp since then."

Eagle followed the Ranger, looking to offer his medical skills to ease the workload on the infirmary crew. Watching them go, Ghost felt a sense of pride grow within him, rising above the anger like oil floating on top of water. He had volunteered to go somewhat recklessly, but that kind of recklessness is what got Leonidas so far in life, wasn't it? The marksman had begun to doubt himself after his old friend's words, but the Commander had been gone for twenty years; what did he know?

…

On the third story of an office building, a squad of ADVENT soldiers rained fire down upon two men hunkered behind a corner, using the wall as cover. One wore the Predator armor of XCOM, hefting a sniper rifle which he used to take pot shots when he could. The other was dressed much differently, wearing a black duster and carrying a lever-action rifle. He was much younger than Ghost―about Leonidas' age, but with none of the muscle or bloodlust.

"Ghost!" the Commander shouted over comms, "Outrider! Someone give me a sitrep!"

"This little mission has gone FUBAR," Ghost said through gritted teeth, snapping off a shot around the corner that he was using as cover before ducking back as a salvo of magnetic rounds pelted the wall, "Someone must have tipped them off that we were coming; these bastards were expecting us."

"What about your objective?!"

Ghost turned his head to look at the young man next to him. "I've got one half of the package here, safe and sound." He was interrupted by another burst hitting the wall, chipping off more and more of the surface. The sharpshooter drew his sidearm and returned fire, double-tapping a Trooper. "No idea how Bravo is doing. Commander, I need to move, or we lose this kid!"

"Negative," his old friend responded, "I'm sending backup. Sit tight and hold out until the Centurions arrive."

At that, the veteran felt something rise within him that he hadn't felt in years: rage. Burning, boiling fury that used to propel him through heart-stopping missions in his glory days. Alia was dying, his surrogate son was beating himself up over it, and now he was being told to turn himself into a sitting duck? "With all due respect," he growled, forcing that anger down, "Fuck that. We don't have time, and I have an exit planned."

There was a muffled thud that he recognized as the sound of a fist being slammed down on a table or other surface. "Ghost, you aren't a young man anymore!" Central barked, "Stand down and wait for reinforcements!"

"Oh, piss off," the sniper muttered, pulling the commlink out of his ear and dropping it on the floor, "I'm not that old." With a deep breath, he ground the piece of tech into dust beneath his boot and turned to the VIP. "Lock and load; we're about to do something bloody stupid."

The younger man gripped his rifle, visibly preparing himself. "Let's blow this popsicle stand."

Ghost nodded. "Stay close to me, shoot who you can, and whatever you do," he turned back, pulling the pin on a fragmentation grenade, "Don't stop running."

Hurling the frag toward the ADVENT soldiers, the elite sharpshooter waited for exactly two seconds before rounding the corner and breaking into a dead sprint. The Troopers, surprised by this action, weren't able to react before the explosive detonated, shredding three of them and throwing the others off-balance. With the VIP in tow, Ghost couldn't help but smile wickedly as the familiar feeling of adrenaline dumped death-defying fire into his veins, making him feel like he was twenty again.

As he approached the outer window, the veteran did not slow down, but rather sped up, drawing and firing the Shadowkeeper from the hip at a nearby viper who moved to intercept him. The shot connected, but was dampened by her armor, allowing the alien to attempt using her tongue to grab the gentleman sniper. Before the appendage could even make it halfway, the serpent's face suddenly gained a new hole as the younger rebel brain-holed her with his rifle. Unimpeded, Ghost pushed off of the floor, quite literally throwing himself at the window and turning in the air to fire his own rifle at a muton, hitting the brute squarely in the throat as he smashed through the glass.

Spinning back around as he fell, the old sniper fired his new grapple at the building across the street, halting his descent and pulling him away from the hot zone. His ally followed suit with a grapple of his own, though instead of zipping to the point of impact, he swung from the line, wrapping it around his wrist and grabbing it tightly. In order to stick with the principal, Ghost deliberately disconnected and retracted his own line mid-travel, dropping down to the street below, though from a much lower height than the window the men had come from.

As he hit the pavement, the sharpshooter rolled to land fluidly in a kneeling position. His aging knees protested at the demanding maneuver, but he ignored it, shouldering the Wraith and drawing a lightning-fast bead on a Stun Lancer through the now-broken window. With a quick squeeze, the ceiling of that room was given the chic new look of brains. Decades-old muscle memory guided his hand to throw the bolt on his sniper rifle at a downright Olympic speed, chambering another round to exterminate anyone who dared to doubt his abilities. With one eye in the scope and the other naked, nothing could escape the experienced gaze of the world's greatest marksman. "I'm good," his companion rumbled, tapping him on the shoulder, "Let's move!"

Without a word, Ghost rose and broke into a run, this time with the mercenary taking the lead. As yet more projectiles rained down, the young rebel drew his own odd-looking pistol and fired several rounds behind him as he ran. This was more to suppress the incoming fire a bit, rather than actually kill anything, but in that goal, it worked well enough. Both men were able to sprint down the block and around a corner, successfully escaping their assailants. But their troubles weren't over yet; as the sound of gunfire faded, the sound of an ADVENT transport craft became apparent.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" the sniper fumed, "How many soldiers do they need for two bloody people?!" As if answering his question, a bullet snapped angrily past his nose, followed immediately by the sound of a sniper rifle. Ghost looked over to see the silhouette of a hooded figure on a rooftop.

The mercenary suddenly adjusted his radio to play through its speaker, over which a mocking voice spoke: "You're a little old to be running and shooting like that, aren't you?"

Ghost's eye twitched for a moment, his blood boiling. "Hey, Tea and Biscuits!" his companion got his attention, "Through here!" The rebel quickly smashed a window with the butt of his rifle, clambering through and clearing away chunks of broken glass to allow the older man to follow.

Leaping through, he turned to the mercenary. "I know that look, Weaver," the sharpshooter growled, "Talk."

"We've tangled with this fucker before," Weaver explained quickly, "Chosen Hunter. Damn good sniper, and tough as balls. We've taken him down, but walked away a few liters short of blood, ya' know?"

Ghost nodded, slipping a fresh magazine into his rifle and cocking the Shadowkeeper. "Bloody Chosen… go find your brother and Outrider. I'll handle this." Weaver hesitated for an instant, then got up to follow this directive. As he did, Ghost shouted after him: "And don't you dare call me 'Tea and Biscuits' ever again!" Turning back to the window, the sniper braced one hand against the sill and took a deep breath. "Alright, you fucking muppets," he snarled, watching the dropship swoop in to deploy a squad of various aliens, "I'll show you how it's done!"

Vaulting back through the window, Ghost pushed off of the wall and dropped into a slide, ducking a shot from the Hunter. Without pausing, he shouldered the Wraith and responded in kind―only he didn't miss. The bullet struck the stuck-up Chosen in the chest, causing him to retreat for the time being. As he came to a stop, the veteran turned to the open street and fell prone, swapping to the classic "mad minute" grip style and chambering another round, which immediately found its way through the body of a Purifier, striking their fuel tank and causing it to erupt in flames.

Rolling over to lie on his back, Ghost quickly trained his sights on a MEC approaching from the other end of the road―likely a patrol of some kind. Knowing that the machine's armor would be thick enough to prevent a clean kill through penetration alone, he decided to get creative. A headshot could work, but those were… spotty against MEC units. Much like a deer, one could put a hole in their skull and not kill it. Instead, he snapped his crosshair to the missile pod on the automaton's back, targeting what little of it was exposed from this angle, and sent a shot right into the ammunition supply, rupturing the protective casing and detonating the multitude of explosives within, transforming the hulking war machine into a mangled pile of scrap metal.

A plasma bolt barely missed the shoulder of his Predator armor, leaving a blackened streak on the plating and reminding the sniper of the other hostiles surrounding him. Rolling back over and rising smoothly up to one knee, Ghost spotted the viper taking cover behind the thick base of a light post… with her tail partially exposed. "Fucking amateurs!" he roared, putting a round right through the snake's scaled body, sending her reeling in pain and shock and exposing her upper body to the serial sharpshooter, who slammed his bolt shut to send a perfectly-timed follow-up shot through her head. Somewhere in his mind, Ghost recognized that, for being right out in the open, there weren't many people shooting at him. Maybe it was due to their programming conflicting with the natural fear reaction of seeing a man (especially one in his mid-forties) pull off these shots with such speed and precision. He may have gotten older, but his skills were as sharp as ever. And it felt good to be back to his old stunts.

A few blocks away, the noise of an explosion reached his ears. "I guess he found them," Ghost muttered to himself, rising to his feet and darting into a nearby building. Where he would normally keep his distance in a fight, Earth's finest marksman was now rushing into battle like Leonidas, determined to show these pansies what real skill looked like, and (though he would never admit it) prove to himself that he hadn't lost his touch over the years. Two decades of service hadn't been kind, and raising a kid had definitely changed him, but the sharpshooter was still a force to be reckoned with, and he could still be just as ruthless as he had been all those years ago.

Climbing the stairs two at a time while quickly reloading the Wraith, Ghost reached the second floor of the building, where he found a viper waiting for him. Firing his rifle from the hip, he put a round cleanly through the alien's left lung as she loosed a round from her own weapon. The shot connected, striking the sniper in the lower abdomen. He grunted as the plasma bolt sent a searing pain through his torso, though the armor stopped most of the damage―it was mostly just painful. As an added bonus, the heat immediately cauterized the (admittedly somewhat minor) wound, preventing any blood loss. As his flowing adrenaline caused the burning to subside, Ghost darted forward and finished off the alien with his knife, bending down and quickly stabbing her scaled throat.

Glancing out the window, years of experience gave him the overwhelming premonition that he was about to be shot. The veteran sidestepped into cover behind the wall, just in time to avoid a single magnetic round that came crashing through the glass pane. Gritting his teeth, Ghost sprung back out and shouldered the Wraith, looking through the scope with one eye while scanning the buildings opposite him with the other. He almost immediately spotted the Chosen Hunter, and sent a high-caliber response through his third-floor window, barely able to see the splatter of blood in the darkened room as the round clipped the hostile sniper's shoulder. The marksman grinned wickedly as the other man's cry of surprised pain faintly reached his ears.

Focusing his senses, the sharpshooter detected the sound of someone attempting to sneak up behind him. Dropping the Wraith to rest against the window frame with its stock on the floor, he drew his Shadowkeeper and turned around, making eye contact with his would-be attacker: a sectoid, creeping up the same stairs that he had climbed not a minute prior. The alien actually froze for a split second, shocked that the aging human had not only detected them, but reacted so quickly. That moment of hesitation was all the human needed. With a cheeky wink, the marksman fired from the hip, fanning the hammer like a gunslinger in a Western movie to put three shots into the psionic biped, sending it tumbling right back down the stairs as a corpse.

Whirling back around and stowing his pistol in one smooth motion, Ghost hooked his foot on the stock of the Wraith and launched it directly upwards into his hands, ready to resume his standoff with his Chosen rival. "You call yourself a sniper?!" he shouted, wanting the mutant to hear him, "I'm going to take you to school, you pillock!"

"You got lucky, old man!" came the response, "Your luck is about to run out!"

Ghost scoffed, instantly following the sound to find the Hunter, who had moved since getting hit. While he had arguably made the same mistake by calling out first, the difference was that the human hadn't actually changed position; he hadn't given up any advantage. Turning to aim in the direction of his adversary's voice, the sharpshooter quickly spotted the Chosen setting up his shot on the rooftop of the building immediately to the right of the last. Cocking an eyebrow, Ghost distantly questioned why the alien hadn't gone farther, but ultimately decided that pondering this was not only pointless, but a waste of time regardless. He squeezed the trigger, watching with no small satisfaction as the shot found its way through his target's chest. To his surprise, though, the alien did not drop like the others. He did stagger for a moment, but simply retreated out of sight to relocate again.

Licking his lips, the human sniper decided that it was time to get moving―the longer he stayed at this window, the bigger of a target he was painting on himself. Pulling back, Ghost moved to find a path up, only to realize that this was only a two-story building. If he went to the roof, the Chosen Hunter could get an easy shot just by taking a higher vantage point. That gave him an idea, though: most likely, his opponent would expect him to seek high ground as much as possible, which was generally a solid plan for marksmen. However, the veteran had already proven his ability to take on the alien from lower vantage points… So why not act counterintuitively? As he rushed back down the stairs, Ghost came face-to-face with not one, but two enemy soldiers: a Trooper and a Stun Lancer.

Looking to keep his movements hidden from his primary target, the sharpshooter neglected to open fire. Instead, he body-checked the Trooper, stunning them, and drew his combat knife on the Lancer. They swung their stun baton, but were unable to land a hit before the human kicked hard and low, striking his enemy's knee with enough force to fracture it and sending the Lancer off-balance long enough to slash their throat. Turning to the Trooper, who had just raised their rifle, Ghost lunged forward, pushing the weapon aside with his offhand (which still held the Wraith) and jamming his knife up into their exposed chin, piercing through to their brain for near-instant death. Wiping the blade on their corpse, he stowed it and kept moving, finding a suitable point to set up his shot from.

Just as he had guessed, the Chosen Hunter was looking for the human everywhere except ground level―even as Ghost stepped up to the doorway to peer outside, there was no shot to meet him. Scanning the street and buildings quickly, the sniper's sharp eyes quickly spotted his prey hunkered on the fire escape of an apartment complex. Bringing his rifle up to bear, Ghost whistled loud and clear to get the other sharpshooter's attention, enjoying the moment of fear in his eyes before squeezing the trigger, shooting the man squarely in the crotch. The Hunter immediately crumpled up in agony―he may not have been human, but he still had some sensitive components there.

As an immediate follow-up, Ghost used his grapple to zip up to the same platform, vaulting cleanly over the railing and crippled Chosen alike. Cracking his neck, he turned to put his right side to the hostile sniper, drawing the Shadowkeeper and pointing it at the alien's forehead. "Class dismissed," he quipped simply, installing a new hole in the Hunter's face. There was a moment of silence, then the alien's body disappeared in a flash of purple psionic energy, along with his weapons and equipment. Then the world was silent once more.

The human took a deep breath, coming down from the adrenaline high that had propelled him through that engagement. It felt good to dominate the battlefield like that again, and while this was proof that he was still as sharp as ever, it also told the man that he was, in fact, getting too old for this. His muscles ached, his lungs and throat burned a bit, his abdominal wound burned a lot, and his knees adamantly protested all the running and jumping. Not to mention that he knew for a fact that his heart had never worked this hard in the past. It was good to feel young again for a bit, but it was better to leave all the high-speed, high-risk maneuvering to Leonidas.

Climbing down from the fire escape down to street level, the aging marksman jogged toward the direction where he had heard the explosion earlier, not wanting to waste any more time. He had let himself get carried away fighting the Chosen Hunter―it was time to get back to the mission at hand. Weaving through streets and alleyways, Ghost followed the growing sound of gunfire, eventually coming across a small firefight. He could see Outrider and Weaver sheltering behind various objects on the sidewalks, but nobody else barring the ADVENT units that they were fighting. Quickly catching his breath and bringing the Wraith to bear, Ghost put a round through the heart of a Trooper, then another through the head of a Muton, killing both and rendering his magazine empty. He reloaded as the remaining hostiles began to turn their attention to him―exposing them enough for his fellow humans to start finishing them off with their own rifles.

Still worn out from his earlier confrontation, the sharpshooter failed to react in time to avoid the tongue of an enemy viper as it lashed out and grabbed him, pulling the man into the fray. Acting on instinct, he immediately began to fight back, drawing his sidearm before the serpent could bind him and struggling against her to bring it up. The fight was abruptly cut short when the top of her head exploded, splattering Ghost's face with gore as the alien's body fell to the ground in a heap. He looked to see Weaver hobbling over, one hand clutching his abdomen, and the other holding a pitch-black,highly-modified M45A1 pistol.

"Nice shot," the Spartan said flatly, stowing his weapons and wiping the green blood from his face, "Thanks for the save, kid." The Snake Eater said nothing, simply nodding as he lowered his pistol―but did not holster it. "Where's your brother?"

His answer came in the form of a clicking sound right behind him; the sound of a revolver's hammer being cocked. The hairs on the back of the veteran's neck stood up, and he could almost feel the muzzle of the weapon hovering just behind his head. "Give me one good reason," an Australian voice growled, "One good reason why I shouldn't pull this trigger."

"Your boss sent me," Ghost responded cooly, slowly turning around with his hands held away from his weapons, "And we both know that pissing him off is a bad idea." Finally, he was able to look the man in the face. He was about average height and build (for a soldier), with dark brown hair and matching eyes, which stared at him with fiery intensity. The left side of his face was occupied by a large burn scar, accompanied by several smaller laceration scars at various points on either side with the sort of randomness that indicated years of accumulation. The hand that held the massive revolver was clearly cybernetic, and Ghost knew that the rest of the arm was the same. This was Weaver's brother. "Hello, Hawk," he greeted with a blank expression, "How's business been?"

Hawk paused, visibly gauging the sniper. "Can't complain," he said simply, "The Boss has been taking good care of us. Been staying stocked, keep killing aliens."

"Good," Ghost nodded, ignoring the muzzle in his face, "I think your brother got hit. Can I give him a medikit?"

The mercenary's eyes narrowed for a moment, then he lowered and holstered his weapon. "Sure," he answered, "We can get moving faster, then."

The Spartan produced a medikit from his belt, approaching Weaver and spraying it into his wound. Normally, he wouldn't carry such a device, but seeing as they lacked a medic, it seemed pertinent to bring one. The young merc winced as the foam seeped in and hardened, stemming the flow of blood. Then, with Hawk leading the group, four of them made their way through the streets again.

"Were you not worried that he would shoot you?" Dragunova asked as they moved, "I was close to taking his head off."

Ghost shrugged. "Hawk may be hot-headed and vengeful, but he isn't stupid. He's not fond of me, but he knows that killing me would be far more trouble than it's worth. Especially since this is the only time I've not stayed out of his business."

"And the boy?" Outrider cocked her head, gesturing to Weaver, "He seems to have no problem with you."

"He's too kind for his own good," the sniper answered simply, "Forgives, but never forgets."

Eventually, they came across what looked like an ambulance parked in an inconspicuous back alley. The squad climbed in, with Weaver taking the wheel, and drove to the police border. An officer stopped them, asking several questions.

"The damn fighting's over," Weaver said impatiently, giving a rather convincing act, "Don't blame me for a fast response time! I've got one needing urgent care, or he's dead."

"I'll have to verify that," the distinctly human officer responded.

Weaver's face became angry, nearly fooling even his own teammates as he snapped: "Every second I waste here with you, his chances of survival get worse! Do you want this man's death on your conscience?! We didn't even have time to get into uniform!" He gestured to himself and Hawk, who had stripped out of their armor to reveal civilian clothing. "I can't lose another one! I won't! If this guy dies, I'm gonna blame you, and you're gonna be the next one on that goddamn bed!"

"Alright, alright!" the officer threw up his hands, "Just go! And don't tell anyone!"

The team sped off, turning on the ambulance's sirens to clear a path through nighttime traffic and keep in theme with their cover-story. Eventually, once they had left the city behind, Weaver turned off the noise to ride silently into the night.

"How the Hell did that even work?!" Outrider demanded, sitting in the back with Ghost, "Why did that work?!"

Hawk gave a short laugh. "Human cops are a lot less uptight than MPs. And given that the fighting only started ten to fifteen minutes ago, those barricades haven't been up for long. That means that they know less about the situation, and haven't fully staffed the roads. Most likely, the guy was tired and stressed, so Weaver played to that. Besides, no cop wants to piss off an already-upset EMS worker. Those guys have to deal with a lot already." He smiled, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Plus, Weaver has a way with people."

"And you're sure that they won't track us?" Ghost asked.

"They definitely tracked us," Weaver answered, "But now that we're outside the city, with no air support around, they've lost the scent. Poor bastards will figure out that they were fooled later, but we'll be long gone by then."

"About that…" Hawk suddenly interjected, pointing up through the windscreen, "I think air support will be a problem after all."

Ghost leaned into the cabin to see what the merc was referring to, then smiled. "Oh, that's not ADVENT," he chuckled, "Looks like our 'reinforcements' finally arrived."

…

"I can't fucking believe this!"

Four men stood in the Commander's quarters. Central, Doctor Tygan, Razor, and the Commander himself. The hacker had called them to meet here, and was now chewing them all out in a fit of rage. Upon boarding the Avenger, he had asked for medical data on Alia, and found a surprising lack of anything useful. No DNA tests, no brain scans―not even a proper blood sample. He had ordered such measures to be undertaken immediately, and stuck around until they were done, calling this meeting afterward.

"You're overreacting, Razor," the Commander glared at the young man.

"Overreacting?!" he yelled, "You used my buzzkill rounds for a fucking training exercise! Those are only designed to be non-lethal; they're perfectly capable of causing permanent damage! You're damn lucky nobody broke any bones! And then there's the fact that you nearly let your best soldier get fucking crushed in the same damn exercise! This is even worse than keeping that oaf, Moose, around! When are you going to remove him and put someone fit to lead in charge of the squad?"

"Moose does his job," the man responded simply, "We all have our flaws."

Razor's eye visibly twitched with anger. "I could do a better job than him. And I can barely even lift those bigass guns." He then turned to the Doctor. "And you. Tell me: why the actual Hell haven't you performed proper medical tests on Alia prior to this? Even just the preliminary tests have revealed her genome to be wildly different from what should be possible, and from what I can tell, her health was likely in decline prior to the exercise―you should have caught that. But that's almost secondary, because you should have run tests when she first arrived!"

Tygan showed a little more humility as he explained: "We assumed that Alia's genome would be similar enough to regular vipers that it was deemed unnecessary to test it, though I had still wanted to. Aside from regular medical checks, the Commander had me focusing on other research projects instead; I never had time to work with Alia any more than anyone else, barring her participation in the development of our venom rounds."

The hacker let out a frustrated scream before turning to Central. "Bradford, you'd better have a good reason why you didn't step in for any of this. You're supposed to be the voice of reason here!" The man was unable to answer, opening his mouth to speak, but ultimately finding no words. This only served to infuriate Razor further. Though instead of shouting again, his demeanor turned dark. "I have some of my crew aboard this ship," he growled, "Everything you do will come back to me, even after I leave. If this reckless behavior continues, I have the power and the will to take command of the XCOM project. Consider this your one and only warning. Get the Hell out of my sight."

Bradford and Tygan left to attend to their respective duties. Once they were gone, Razor turned back to the Commander. "As for you," he said darkly, "Do you know how much we've sacrificed for this? How many lives were lost to put that viper in our care? The kind of risk that I took letting you bring her in instead of me? I've dedicated my life to this project, and I won't lose it all because you're getting too cocky. You're playing with fire, Commander―and if you keep on acting so carelessly, I am going to let you burn."

With that, he turned and left as well, leaving the Commander alone in his quarters without the chance to retort. Razor made his way down to the infirmary, where the recently-returned Snake Eaters were hard at work with Alia. Hawk mostly just stood guard and kept an eye on his younger brother, who was the real expert in this situation. Weaver sat next to Alia with his hand on her forehead, eyes shut in concentration. Leonidas watched this tensely, clearly ignorant of what was happening. The hacker noted the viper's scales had visibly faded to a sickly grayish color, and her breathing was slow, assisted by an improvised-fit oxygen mask.

"How's she feeling?" Razor asked softly, not wanting to startle the younger mercenary.

"Pain," Weaver answered without moving, "Fear. The usual. Though there's something else there, too; like she's actively fighting herself, and not figuratively―though it's clearly not her. I've never encountered anything like it before; it's like she's fighting for her life against her own shadow; something that is of the same brain, but not the same mind."

The hacker took a moment to consider his words, then facepalmed as he realized what was happening. "Goddammit, how could I not think of this sooner!" He crouched next to the viper, producing a specialized device from his bag of tricks, "It's her chip. There's no way it's not."

"What the Hell just happened?" Leonidas asked, bewildered.

"We'll explain everything in a bit," Razor answered, "For now, know that our scans showed Alia's chip to be unique―very different from a standard implant. If I'm correct, the damn thing was never properly deactivated; it's either suffering from a catastrophic malfunction, or some kind of killswitch has been tripped."

"Can you shut it down?" The Spartan King inquired, growing visibly worried.

Razor smiled. "Can I shut it down?" he echoed, "Have you forgotten who you're talking to? With Weaver's help, we'll have this solved before you can break a sweat! Speaking of which: Weave, I need you to try focusing on the anomaly. Pinpoint it for me."

"You know that's not―" Weaver began to protest.

"Just do your best," the engineer said earnestly, "I need to know whatever I can, even if it's just a general feeling. Can you do that for me?"

The mercenary was silent for a moment, furrowing his brow in concentration as he moved both of his hands to touch either side of the serpent's head. His tongue breached his lips slightly as he seemed to react to some sort of stimulus, like he was listening to something no one else could hear, or feeling around with unseen hands. "I… Holy shit, I feel it," Weaver spoke finally, deep voice rumbling softly in the quiet room, "It's crying out for something… direction. Connection. Like a child separated from its mother… no, that's not right… a messenger in need of a destination."

Razor nodded thoughtfully for a moment, then turned to Leonidas. "Lie down on your cot," he instructed, typing a series of commands into his gadget, "This is about to get a little messy."

"What? Why?" The Spartan responded, despite following his orders.

"Alia's chip needs a connection," the hacker said quickly as data began to flow across his screen, "And I'm going to give it one. I'm going to have to work fast, so feel free to pass out at any time."

…

Alia awoke slowly, keeping her eyes shut as the feeling of exhaustion fought her growing consciousness. Every muscle felt like it had been ripped out and shoved back into her body; everything ached with the stiffness of fatigue, like she had worked every last one of those muscles to their limit and beyond. But most of all, her mind felt cloudy and sluggish, like she had just taken the world's hardest exam after staying awake for three straight days. Then something else registered: a certain, familiar warmness and pressure against her right hand. Cracking her eyes open, the serpent looked around blearily to see that she was in her own bed, safely in the Spartan's quarters. Next to her was Leonidas, knelt down next to the bunk, holding her hand. His head was resting against his arm like a makeshift pillow on the cot.

For a moment, she remained silent, letting her eyes focus on the sight. Leonidas looked so peaceful when he slept―one of the few times that such a word applied to him. She squeezed his hand gently, grateful for the company and safe in the knowledge that he had been watching over her. The viper's attention was brought back to reality as the door opened, and an unfamiliar human stepped through. He was tall―almost as tall as Leonidas―but far more lanky. He had blond hair that swept neatly to the left, and a scruffy beard that looked a little more red in color. But what really struck Alia was his eyes: steel gray eyes that looked like they had seen multiple lifetimes of hardship and pain, yet when they gazed upon her, they suddenly held a warm softness that immediately disarmed the viper. This man was so very clearly a friend that Alia found herself genuinely trying to recall him despite knowing that he was a total stranger. He carried two mugs, which, as she could smell, were full of coffee.

Pulling up a chair, he sat down next to her, careful not to disturb Leonidas. "Glad to see you're finally awake," he said quietly, "And happy, too." His voice was smooth and deep―enough to almost make the serpent want to fall asleep again. He looked down at his fellow human with a small but warm grin. "He hasn't left your side. I had to start bringing him his own food because he refused to go down to the mess hall. I can't imagine it's been easy on his knees to kneel like that for so long."

"How long was I unconscious for?" Alia asked, mirroring his volume, "And I do not mean to be rude, but who are you?"

The young man nodded comprehendingly. "I'm Weaver, a specialist in viper physiology and care. I'm here with my older brother, Hawk, at the behest of Razor and your Commander. We're mercenaries. We figured out what was wrong with you and got it fixed. You've been out for about two days in total, the vast majority of which was after the operation."

"What operation?"

"Yours. You were unresponsive and in decline, so we had to perform some unorthodox medical procedures."

The serpent took a moment to process this, then smiled. "Thank you, Weaver," she said earnestly, "You saved my life."

The mercenary shrugged. "It was a team effort. Razor did most of the work; I just told him where to look."

Leonidas stirred, letting out a quiet groan as he raised his head. "That you, Weaver?" he said groggily, "Who are you talking to?"

Alia looked at the mercenary, who cocked his eyebrow with a slight grin but ultimately said nothing. The message was clear. "He was talking to me, Leonidas," she said gently, "I apologize if we woke you."

Instantly, her fellow Spartan was wide awake, looking at her with wide eyes. The serpent smiled warmly at him, and he jumped up, lunging forward to wrap his powerful arms around her in a tight hug. "You're awake!" he cried out joyfully.

"Easy, big guy," Weaver chuckled, "Poor girl's been through the wringer. Don't crush her!"

With that thought in mind, Leonidas released the viper, who had in fact been unable to breathe in his grip. Not that she would ever tell him that; he was too happy, and she didn't dare to ruin the moment. "I was so worried," he said, settling for holding her hand again, "We didn't know when you'd wake up."

"But we knew you would," Weaver added reassuringly, "It was just a question of when."

"Oh!" Leo said suddenly as a realization hit him, "Have you two been properly introduced yet?"

Alia nodded. "Just before you woke up. Weaver is a very nice man, and I think that he brought you coffee." At this, the merc handed Leonidas one of the mugs, proving her inclination to be true. She continued: "But I get the sensation that there is more that I have not been told?"

Her leader nodded. "Is it okay if I explain?" he asked Weaver, who gestured affirmatively. Turning back to Alia, he continued: "You already know that Weaver is a viper specialist. What you don't know is that he's also a psion. But not the kind we're used to; he's what's called an 'empath', meaning that he can sense the emotions of people around him, though in his particular case, he can also sense a couple of other things, though I'm still not exactly clear on the details. Aside from his expertise, that's how he was able to help you: he used this power of his to assist Razor with diagnosing the problem."

"And what was that, exactly?" The serpent said curiously, "I remember collapsing outside, then I woke up here."

"Your psionic chip was killing you," the voice of Razor came from the doorway as he entered the room, "I'm still determining what caused it, but there was… a sort of feedback loop. It's hard to describe exactly what was happening and why it was affecting you like it did, but we were able to stabilize it by establishing an external connection to a secondary transceiver, which satisfied some kind of interdependency requirement, causing the malfunction to subside." He looked at the viper, seeing her uncomprehending expression. The hacker smiled and sighed, pointing to Leonidas. "I connected your chip to his, which solved the problem."

Alia immediately turned her head to look at her fellow Spartan. "You have a psionic chip?!"

The Spartan leader smiled sheepishly. "It's how I get our orders in the field. I'm the only one who has it. No one is supposed to know, but… well, just don't tell anyone, okay? Otherwise, the Commander will have my head."

The serpent took a deep breath, regaining her composure and forcing herself to accept this information. This changed nothing; he was still the same person. After all, he had possessed this implant since before they met―so there truly was no difference. "Alright," she said slowly, "This is… quite a lot to process, but I appreciate your honesty and understand the importance of keeping such a secret." She then turned back to Razor. "Will there be any side-effects?"

"Absolutely," he answered, "You've likely experienced some already, though you may not have noticed. The two of you now have a neural connection, and I had to allow that link to share some amount of data. I tried to make it as non-intrusive as possible, but I had to hit a threshold… for some fuckin' reason. You might find yourselves knowing how the other is feeling without any cues or communication. Other possibilities include knowing when you're near each other, what the other wants, and occasionally information related to whatever you're talking about, but you should've had no way of knowing. Oh, and you're likely living lie detectors exclusively for each other now. There may be other effects, but nothing is guaranteed; this isn't something that happens often."

The two Spartans looked at each other for a moment. This was… certainly something that they had not expected. But neither of them were particularly bothered by it―and both knew that. "Oh, man, that's weird," Leonidas murmured, "I'd expect to feel something when that happens, but…"

"…I just know," Alia finished, sharing his feeling of astoundment, "As if it is natural to have that knowledge."

Weaver chuckled softly, and all eyes turned to look at him. He smiled. "Now you know how I feel all the damn time."

For a minute, the room was silent as this all sank in. The two Spartans had already shared a unique connection, but this was on another level entirely. This had great potential to benefit them in the field, but also to complicate their everyday lives. Alia wasn't ready for Leonidas to know how she felt; what if it just slipped through their new link? How awkward could it be to know the feelings of someone so close at all times? Then again, this would almost certainly be a catalyst to their communication both on- and off-duty. There would be a variety of information that they could convey to each other without needing to speak―like when there was trouble, or how confident they were in a given situation.

"Can we both agree up front to not say a word of this to anyone?" The Spartan King said, interrupting her thoughts, "I don't want to imagine the comments and questions we'd get. Better to figure out exactly what this is going to do before we go talking about it."

"That might be the easiest decision that I have ever agreed to," Alia nodded, "Aside from maybe agreeing to join the Spartans."

Leonidas couldn't help but grin at that. "Glad to hear that going to Hell and back is your thing," he semi-joked, "Maybe next time, though, you won't go without me."

For some reason, the viper found that to be incredibly funny. She let out a hearty belly-laugh, almost unable to breathe. The sound, while predictably loud, was deep and soft―but more than that, it was genuine. "Trust me, Leonidas," she said as she gained control of her laughter, "This was the last time I go anywhere without you!" When the serpent looked back at him, he was smiling. But not in a way that she was familiar with; it was a mixture of fascination, joy, and something else that the serpent couldn't quite place. But it was pleasant. And it sent butterflies fluttering through her stomach in the best possible way. "What is that look for?"

"I don't think I've ever heard you laugh like that before," the Spartan King said adoringly, "Has anyone ever told you that you have a very pretty voice?"

Alia struggled to hide her embarrassment, smiling like an idiot at the heartfelt compliment. Next to them, Weaver and Razor exchanged a knowing smile of their own, with the former turning slightly red at the rush of emotions around him. It didn't take long for others to make their way into the room, no doubt drawn by the unfamiliar sound of the serpent's laughter. There was no doubt that she was awake now, and word of her recovery would spread fast through the Avenger.

The other Spartans stopped by one by one to welcome their friend back into the land of the living. Others did say hello as well, but it was clear that they were doing so mainly to be polite―nobody was quite as genuine as her squadmates. Eventually, though, one man entered the room but said nothing, lingering by the far wall. He wore a unique suit of armor that heavily favored the right side of his body, a black baseball cap, and enough weapons to kill a small army, including a rifle, a long shotgun, two large pistols, a massive revolver, a machete-length cutlass in a hardshell sheath, and an array of knives. Despite this, he moved silently, eyeing the viper without a word. The symbol on his shoulder told her who he was, and drew her gaze to his metallic right arm.

While Weaver's presence had been warm and welcoming, Hawk's very scent made Alia fearful on some sort of instinct. His eyes pierced through her, gauging her like a predator might size up its prey. The fact that he was allowed to carry any weapons, let alone that many, meant that he was either very powerful or connected to someone who was. His presence felt both cold and fiery at the same time. It was unnerving. Intimidating. But Leonidas was unbothered by his company, so he couldn't be that bad.

The Commander was the last to come by. He nodded at the viper when he saw her. "Good to see you're still kicking," he said evenly, "I want the Spartans back at full strength ASAP; time waits for no one, and our enemy certainly won't wait for us."

"Well," Weaver interjected, the emotion suddenly gone from his voice, "You'll have to wait for her. There's no telling what effects might linger from this, and I want to make sure Alia has ample time to fully recover before she does anything strenuous."

The Commander blinked at the young man, frustration crossing his expression for an instant. "You may have helped save her life, but she's my soldier. I know what's best for my soldiers. Your expertise in viper anatomy is unneeded here. Dismissed. "

"Actually," Hawk suddenly spoke, stepping forward, "I'm the expert on anatomy. Weaver's an expert in viper physiology and the care of vipers. Anatomy is something that we all learn upon the first autopsy, and I've killed enough snakes to know their insides by heart. And we're usually killing vipers, not caring for them. So be fuckin' grateful for what you have, because I still think we should never have agreed to this." Whereas Weaver's voice was low and smooth, his brother's was high and rough, cutting through the air like a jagged knife. Alia was chilled to the bone at the man's cold confidence. It was no wonder she felt so vulnerable around him; he carried the aura of a predator, and she was his regular prey.

"That isn't your decision to make," the leader of XCOM said brusquely.

Razor stepped between the two. "You're right. It's mine. Because they're my mercenaries. And right now, Alia is our patient, and she will remain so until Weaver gives her a clean bill of health."

The Commander stood in stunned silence for a moment, then sighed frustratedly. "Fine. But speaking of Weaver," he turned to the boy, "Ghost tells me that you load high-quality ammunition. If you're going to stay on my ship and keep my people from me, then you're going to earn your keep."

Hawk placed a hand on his revolver. "He doesn't have to do anything for you," he growled darkly, "I swear―"

"I'll be fine," Weaver cut him off, rising to his feet, "It's not a big deal. Really."

His older brother paused for a moment. "I won't force you," he muttered, "But if they don't let you leave when you want to, you tell me, got it?"

The empath nodded, striding out the door as the Commander led him to the workshop. Hawk's mouth twisted into an uncertain snarl (something that Alia hadn't been aware was possible) as he stepped over to the remaining trio. The viper shied away slightly at his approach. Leonidas fixed him with a firm stare. "Why the Hell wasn't I told that your specialty is in killing vipers?" he demanded, "Did you not think that this was important to let me know?"

Hawk shrugged, unfazed. "Oh, I thought about it. I concluded that it was a bad idea, at least until the lady herself woke up. That way I can say this next part to her face," he looked down at Alia, his expression devoid of any malice or anger, "I have no quarrel with you. I admit that I tend to hate vipers, but you aren't the first on my little whitelist; my hatred belongs to an individual and those who follow her. You're neither. Not only that, but I've been briefed on your escapades here. So as far as I'm concerned, you're one of the good ones." He extended a hand. "And I make a point to protect the good ones."

Alia shook his hand, feeling substantially better about the situation. Leonidas relaxed significantly as he nodded with silent approval. The viper inhaled, letting the relief sink in before speaking. "The Commander seemed upset," she said simply, hoping to get some sort of explanation.

"He likes to be in charge," Razor said, rolling his eyes, "Doesn't like it when someone challenges his authority. You weren't even supposed to join XCOM originally, but he insisted on getting involved. Went behind my back to put the Spartans in that Resistance base, and threw my plans into a blender in the process." He sighed, noticing Alia's terrified expression at being told that her involvement with XCOM―and therefore the Spartans―wasn't planned. He smiled wryly. "Things certainly could've turned out worse, though. In fact, in hindsight, I think you're better off here, despite the Commander's recklessness with your safety. You're here, you're happy, and I have no intention of changing that." The hacker jerked a thumb at Leonidas with a wry expression. "Especially since this one would beat me into a puddle if I did."

"You would probably have been stuck with us otherwise," Hawk said matter-of-factly, "given my brother's uniquely applicable skillset. But all things considered, you probably wouldn't have even needed our help if not for this hiccup with your chip." He shrugged, turning to leave. "We're here now, though, and I get paid all the same. At least I don't feel the need to worry about Weaver around you two."

As the mercenary left, Razor moved to follow suit. "I'll be sticking around for a while to collect data on your new link and make sure the company is running as it should. If you need anything from me, don't hesitate to let me know."

Once again, the two Spartans were alone in their quarters. For a time, they sat there in silence, simply enjoying each other's company and mulling over everything that had happened. This was all very sudden, and there was a lot to take in from such a short period of time, but what mattered was that Alia was back and seemed healthy, all things considered. The Spartans were accustomed to being thrown into the deep end―the waters were different now, but keeping their heads above water was the same as always. Finally, Leonidas helped Alia off of her cot, slipping an arm around her waist for light support as they made their way out of the room. It was time to eat.

A/N: It's certainly been a while, hasn't it? That's entirely on me; I've been up and down for the past several months, dealing with all manner of stress and mental trouble. It's been scarily close to two years since the last new chapter was uploaded, what with the huge rewrite taking so long (again, my fault), and a lack of energy kicking my ass all over the place. But I am nothing if not stubborn, and I'm coming back swinging now! Of course, this wouldn't be possible without the continued support of my editor and dear friend, who has kept me from truly languishing without trying to pressure me. And of course, none of this would be worth it without all of you awesome folks out there who enjoy reading my little story!

This chapter is a little over ten thousand words long, which was kind of an accident, but I'm not complaining! I haven't done that in years, and it feels good to come back with something a little bigger. Hopefully, it'll help make that long wait worth it. Assuming, of course, I haven't lost my touch…

One way or another, I'm back, and y'all aren't getting rid of me anytime soon. Things are likely still going to be a bit slow on my end, but not one-chapter-per-year slow. As I get back into the swing of things and figure out where Tipping the Scales is going again, it should be safe to expect my upload schedule to stabilize and improve.

Let's kick some ass this year! -VV