XCOM: The Advent Directive

by Xabiar

Australia has been annexed, the United Nations is in chaos, the world is under siege and the Ethereals have taken the field. Facing the full might of the Ethereal Collective, the Commander must rally XCOM, the newly formed ADVENT, and several other allies and rivals to unite the divided nations by any means necessary, for failure now will mean the fall of humanity once and for all.

75. Absolute

Absolute

---

Analysis Review Room – The Hall of Steel

8/10/2017 – 10:24 A.M.

The Analysis Review rooms were some of her favorites. Admittedly, Abigail hadn't had much reason to spend a significant amount of time in them, but there were periods where she'd decided to stop by and watch the analysts work. It was a largely bare rectangular room that simultaneously acted as a massive holodeck.

There were tables and chairs that could be manually popped up – which she had employed for a good while as she reviewed the reports themselves, but she preferred to employ the holodeck to visualize what she was thinking as she reviewed the massive amount of data they had on the Battlemaster.

Not just what he had been doing of late, but his history. Internal dossiers, reports that he'd written or which had been addressed to him, recordings of him in action, everything Fectorian had been able to collect. He'd accumulated an almost absurd amount of detail, a fact she would consider odd if he didn't have similar databanks for pretty much everyone else.

Liam had come in to help. While he was reviewing the data himself and sharing what was relevant, she was constructing a map of dozens of points, identifying tags, central figures, all to find the elusive answer they were looking for. She felt like she shouldn't have been able to keep track of all of this, but she…was.

She was invested in finding out this answer – and there was an answer here.

Minutes and hours flowed by like water as she pondered everything she knew, trying to find the identifying links and critical data points in this vast ocean. She entered into her trance-like state regularly here, calculating probability and statistics without thinking, to the point where she'd look over sometimes and see Liam about to doze off.

"You can go lay down," she'd told him.

"You're not tired?" He'd asked. "It's been…" he looked over to the time. "I think it's been over a full day now. I haven't stayed up this late in a long time."

That had made her pause. An entire day had passed and she had barely noticed. The odd thing was that she was not in the least bit tired. She was focused, invigorated, and determined to find answers. Thinking back, she realized this wasn't a wholly new thing. She just didn't get tired in the same way she used to, or that Liam did. When she rested, she simply decided to shut down for a time. No doubt yet another side effect of the procedure Fectorian had performed to enhance her capabilities, which seemed to be becoming more pronounced.

She never tried pushing it before, keeping to a routine. If now was going to be the time to break it…why not? "No," she said. "I'm…not." She frowned. "Odd."

He did not, in fact, seem too surprised, only just nodding. "Wish Fectorian had given me the ability to go without sleep."

"This will probably have some side effects later," she'd muttered. "But I'm close now. There's a final connection here, I know it."

She zoned out briefly. When she refocused, she saw him slumped against the wall, his battle with sleep lost. She briefly cursed herself for becoming inattentive, and picked him up and carried him to the corner of the room. He'd begun sleeping in that corner when they started spending their nights here. He'd said he didn't want to distract her by constantly going in and out, so he had already brought and set up a small kit of essentials that would let him sleep more comfortably compared to just the floor or wall.

He was sweet. He knew she could tune him out, so that wouldn't be a problem, but he'd done it anyway, which she liked. Simultaneously, she felt somewhat bad that she was so driven by this. It was just tempting to take a break, spend some more time with him. When they talked, it seemed like things were more…normal.

It felt like the more time she had to herself, the more detached she became.

She hadn't decided if that was good or bad, and she was slowly realizing that he was becoming something like an anchor for her. More and more, she'd been thinking that there was something beginning to manifest in her which was fundamentally wrong. Fectorian had, admittedly, never done this mind-transfer procedure before, and there were perhaps some long-term side effects that were now rearing their heads.

At the same time, it wasn't as though this was a true negative. She was still very much herself, or who she had accepted herself to be. For better or worse, she was Abigail Gertrude, as much as Abigail Gertrude could be without her memories. She only had the stories from Liam, the emotions she felt, and the information she had, all of which merged into...her.

An imperfect copy, but an individual nonetheless.

Not the time to reminisce. Find the solution. Then break.

She looked at the strewn holodeck filled with projected lines, dots, data points, models of individuals, images, and videos. This would not do at all. It was far too disorganized - incapable of conveying what she was thinking in a coherent manner. With a wave, she deleted all of it. However many hours of work it had been, it would be made better.

From the top.

Central point – the Battlemaster. She was now absolutely certain that he was up to something. She couldn't say if it was something like a coup, but, contrary to what Fectorian assumed, there were signs that pointed to it. The most potent of these were times where the Battlemaster was either missing for a short time or somewhere other than where he was supposed to be.

Normally, that would not be especially interesting – were it not for the fact that she'd thought to cross-check with other Collective officials, and lo and behold, several Andromedon Union leaders had also been absent during the exact same times that the Battlemaster was. There wasn't a confirmed overlap for each one – but it had almost always involved V'Zarrah.

All of this had happened after the Battlemaster had gone to supposedly "deal with" a purported Andromedon plot. He'd reported that the plot was no longer an issue. Clearly, there was more going on. Data around his military decisions had also been illuminating. It involved a lot of math, cross-referencing with old Ethereal Empire records, his actions during the Conquest of Desolan, and the early Earth invasion, but, put simply – the Battlemaster was not fighting the way he normally did. This was not because he'd lost his skill or was being beaten – it was because he was deliberately allowing himself to perform suboptimally. It was subtle enough that no one – not even herself – would have been able to guess at it.

She'd had to pore over terabytes of data before the pattern had emerged, which seemingly no one else had done before now. Why would they? Why would anyone suspect the Battlemaster? However, that definitively answered the question of whether or not the Battlemaster was doing things secretly – clearly, something was happening.

The big question mark, the big unknown, was to what ends.

The closest thing she had been able to determine, based on what he'd said, done, and written, was that he was opposed to the leadership of the Imperator, both for reasons he'd stated and others she could infer. She believed Fectorian had been right when he'd said the Battlemaster would never betray the Collective – in the Battlemaster's eyes, any action he took would not be betraying it, but saving it.

Fectorian was not going to like this.

If he didn't just ignore what she said, though she didn't think he would. For reasons she was growing more uncertain of, he seemed to be relying on her. He'd entered the room several times, not saying anything, but observing what she was working on, before leaving, not having said anything. The first time, she hadn't noticed, Liam had told her. The other times, she had, aware that he might do it again.

"Wow."

She turned around to see Liam standing, looking almost incredulously at what she had put together. Refocusing herself, she stepped back to observe what she had spent the last hours – or longer – putting together. Seeing the full picture of what she had done, she was similarly surprised.

It was a display that took up almost the entire holodeck. Dozens of notations, all neatly arranged, hundreds of data points, clustered in an understandable manner, annotated images and videos when appropriate, and the only thing that was missing was a conclusive motivational determination. She was surprised she'd been able to put it together without losing track of what she was doing.

"Well then," Liam said slowly. "I think Fectorian will be happy with this."

"I hope so," Abigail said.

He smiled. "Oh, he will be. It's safe to say that you're much better at this than I ever was. This is the kind of thing a team would put together, and you did it mostly on your own."

"Oh, stop." She lightly punched his shoulder, rolling her eyes. "You helped too, and this was mostly me rearranging everything so it made more sense."

"Abigail, if I hadn't been helping you this entire time, I would have no idea what most of this is," he chuckled. "Are you still going to work on it some more?"

"No, break." Abigail sat down, and motioned him to sit next to her. "With you, if you don't mind."

"Never," he said, coming to sit down beside her. "Also have a game, if you want to also unwind a bit more gradually instead of just stopping. The last time you did this…"

"I remember," she smirked. She'd promptly fallen asleep, and that wasn't quite what she wanted to do now, at least not right away. "Which one this time?"

"Risk," he said, setting it on the table. "You've played it?"

"At one point I probably did," she said. "Though since…" she motioned at her head.

"Ok, it's pretty simple," he said, before explaining the rules as he set up the world map and distributed her pieces. A game of war. Topical. Still, it didn't seem too complicated. Higher number good, lower number bad. After her pieces had been allocated, she began placing them strategically around the world – as much as she could with her limited military.

Each of them got three dice, which they'd use depending on how many armies they had or were attacking with. Although she felt there was something off about her dice, it didn't matter much. She got to go first, so after drawing her pieces, she decided to attack one of his North American holdings.

Two of her pieces against his three. A gamble, but she could move more if she got good rolls. The higher the number, the better. She rolled, flicking her wrist and the dice settled on a five and six – winning numbers. She smiled, and despite Liam's grumbling, soon won the next roll too. A clear victory.

"Cheater," Liam muttered.

"Sorry," she said unapologetically. "Roll your dice better."

"Not how that works," he said dryly. "My turn now."

Unfortunately, his attack against hers wasn't as successful.

As the game went on though, she noticed that her luck was continuing to hold. More and more of his holdings were falling to her, and she only lost a handful of times – and only because he rolled sixes as a defender – an impossible number to beat. Yet she somehow won victory after victory.

"Alright, we're switching dice," Liam finally said, holding out his hand. "Hand them over."

"If you insist," she dropped them in his hand. "Not fair to not give you a fighting chance."

Yes, these dice definitely felt more normal, if that was even a thing, maybe just different. Either way, she rolled as she had, adjusting her wrist flicks slightly to account for the differences. Unfortunately for Liam, his rolls were worse, if anything. He was rolling ones or threes, with barely any higher numbers.

It wasn't long before she beat him entirely – with only a handful of pieces lost.

"Well," he said, looking at the aftermath of the game. "I think I can say that was the shortest game of Risk I've ever played, and the worst defeat I've experienced." He peered at her. "You sure you haven't played this before?"

"Not since waking up," she said, though noting that she probably shouldn't have done this well. "Then again, it's mostly a luck-based game."

He grunted. "True, true. Good game."

There was a short period of silence as he began putting the game away. "You know how you've been talking about your…trances?"

"Yes?"

"I think you should check in with Fectorian about them," he said, an odd expression in his voice. "I think he knows what they are."

She cocked her head. "You think he's been deliberately not telling me something? That he knows about this?"

"I think he had a theory, but didn't want to share yet unless he knew," Liam said. "I think he has enough to know now, since they haven't stopped. Maybe mention it to him when you give your analysis of the Battlemaster's activities."

She considered that for a short moment before nodding. "I'll do it then. Hopefully he also has a solution."

"Hopefully," Liam said, again that odd note in his voice. "And if not, that he is able to find one."

---

Joseph Ray Shannon

8/3/2017 - 7:38 AM

It had been almost a day since the first tower had fallen. The occupants, upon learning that Purifiers would be deployed against them, surrendered.

He didn't blame them. ClF3 was probably one of the most horrific chemicals ever concocted by mankind. Had they not surrendered, the whole tower would have been melted into a boiling mass of slag, glass and molten rock.

The fall of the tower provided free access to the islet it guarded, as well as a forward staging area. Engineers had even managed to restore some power to the tower's weaponry. Once the power was restored, they were able to turn the SAS's own guns against them, helping to protect the beachhead and nearby vessels from aerial attack.

They would still fight back, but if they were going to dislodge him, it would cost them dearly.

Thankfully, both groups of combat divers had been relieved fairly quickly after the first tower fell, though the fighting on Churchill Street had been fierce, and just about every member of that force was severely wounded, the few who hadn't died. They had held against constant attacks from the SAS for over two hours and bought his forces the time they needed to land.

He had already put forward a request for those men to receive several commendations. Because of the complex system by which awards were given in the ADVENT military right now, each soldier would be reviewed by their respective country first and given awards as was deemed appropriate.

For now, there weren't many ADVENT-exclusive medals or decorations. Instead, there was an entire bureaucracy devoted to determining which countries had jurisdiction over the soldier in question. This was determined mainly by citizenship, but awards from other nations were occasionally handed out in addition to those of their home country, often for fighting in that country or beside soldiers from it.

As it was, he had recommended the Americans in those teams for several awards. Most were Purple Hearts, but there were also some Bronze Stars for those who had fought on Churchill Street. Those men had lost nearly a third of their number, and many were still in critical condition. As for the other team, they had seen minimal combat, with most of the attackers coming from the islet behind them, which the flak tower had guarded.

The destruction of the bridges, coupled with the attack on said tower and the burning of the nearby oil refineries, had made it difficult for the SAS to send units to dislodge them. By the time relief had arrived, most of them were unharmed or lightly wounded and had been reluctant to leave their station, saying they'd barely had a chance to fight. He'd had to order them to take a break at the beachhead and get what medical treatment they had needed. Those deemed fit for duty had been allowed to rejoin the battle.

Unfortunately, it couldn't all be so simple. As it turned out, the SAS still had a trick up their sleeve - psions.

He'd read the reports on the SAS psion program, and that, alone, in his opinion, was probably enough reason to invade the SAS. It was openly discussed among the military leadership that this conflict the Collective was waging was ultimately a resource war, the only difference being that the resources being fought over were people. The Collective wanted Humans for several purposes, but one of the biggest was their psionic aptitude.

While it still wasn't entirely clear how common psions actually were, there were already tens of thousands in the PRIEST division, and ADVENT was being fairly picky who they accepted. With a population of over 7 billion, even the most conservative estimates placed the total number of potential psions in the tens of millions.

The SAS psion program was fairly similar to ADVENT's in several respects. It wasn't known exactly how widely the population was tested, and for the moment there didn't seem to be too many psions, as the program was younger than ADVENT's, but the training was greatly accelerated thanks to the knowledge being telepathically shared with recruits. The process was apparently not especially pleasant, and the psions produced were not the most imaginative, at least at first, but they were able to move them from training to the field in record time.

The first indicator that something was amiss was when multiple squads - and even some of the crew on forward deployed ships - began acting erratically. Weapons would be turned on friends, grenades had their pins pulled while still on the soldiers' person, men pulled out knives and slit their own throats, shocked expressions frozen on their faces. It had not taken long for the PRIESTs to confirm what he already knew.

There were hostile psions in the city.

Human psions.

This was further confirmed when reports came in of other psionic disciplines being used. Cars were hurled at buildings within which his forces were taking cover, shields manifested around enemies as they moved from cover to cover and vehicles were obliterated by bolts of psionic energy. He'd expected some psions to be present, of course, but mostly just Sectoids.

There was always the possibility of an Ethereal or Avatar being dispatched, but he found that unlikely, given how hazardous this particular battlefield would prove to them. He had not anticipated the SAS committing any significant number of psions to this battle, since they were arguably needed inland to keep the main thrust of Scipio at bay.

Their numbers thankfully appeared to be relatively few, but the number of incidents continued to climb, implying more were continuing to arrive. His PRIESTs did what they could and had overpowered several of these enemy psions, but his forces were not all ashore and he needed to keep a substantial portion of his PRIESTs with the fleet as a precaution. As a result, his troops were becoming bogged down and having difficulty breaking out from the beachhead areas.

"Sir, we've lost contact with another squad," a crewman reported grimly.

It was the third one in the last hour. Normally at least one person would survive, and since every soldier had a radio, it was rare for an entire squad to go silent unless they were doing so intentionally or something was jamming comms. The fact so many squads were seemingly being wiped out or at least incapacitated to a man was extraordinarily frustrating. While soldiers were technically replaceable, that did not mean they were entirely expendable. The fact he was losing this many soldiers, whole platoons occasionally, and gaining very little ground was unacceptable.

Something needed to be done, and quick.

The longer this stalemate dragged on, the greater the likelihood of the Collective launching a counterattack. He was mildly surprised they hadn't just thrown a few dozen Cleanser Ships at him, but they seemed wary after the previous engagements, and probably wanted to make sure he didn't have any more surprises in store for them.

Unfortunately for him, he did not. This was a fairly straightforward battle, without too much subtlety, beyond sending special forces ahead in the night to blow the bridges and perform delaying actions.

If he didn't manage to take the city before they got wind of that, there was a chance they would opt to just swarm him and accept whatever losses in ships it incurred if it meant being rid of him. He needed to get things moving again, but unfortunately there weren't many simple ways to deal with hostile psions. He'd heard rumors that ADVENT was looking into creating anti-psion specialists, but didn't know any details or even if it was true. In any case, he would need to deal with this on his own.

"Sir?" one of the comms officers asked, waiting for his response.

"Yes? What is it?" he answered somewhat curtly.

"Um, one of the Protopriests is requesting to speak with you," he explained. "She says she may have a way to deal with the SAS psions."

Did she? Well, he was willing to take any suggestion at this point. "Well, patch them in. Let's hear it."

"Yes, sir."

An accented voice came through the radio."Admiral Grady? This is Protopriest Gwan Eun-Kyung. I apologize if I am interrupting, but I have a plan that may prove useful for the current situation."

"If you have a way to deal with these psions, I'm all ears," Grady replied.

"Thank you, Admiral." He could easily imagine a curt nod as she spoke. It was oddly easy to predict how people would move based on the tone of their voice. "Before being assigned to serve in this campaign, I spent some time with a PRIEST who fought in Korea. Do you know anything about the first battle of Busan?"

"Busan?" There were a few noteworthy things about that particular battle, but Grady was confident he knew what she was referring to. "That's the battle where the Hunter went rogue and started shooting everyone, correct? Collective and ADVENT alike?"

"That is correct, sir," she confirmed. "It was extremely difficult to stop him, as it was unknown where he was firing from. Eventually, it was realized he was firing from a position within the city, but they didn't know where exactly."

"I see, and what does this have to do with the current situation?" he asked, curious where she was going with this.

"I was getting to that, sir. See, the Hunter is a psion, and is skilled at using psionics to conceal his presence from others, so finding his precise location would not be easy. But ADVENT opted to assemble a group of PRIESTs to try locating him using Psionics." There were some noises in the background, before she continued. "They were eventually successful, and were able to relay his approximate location to command, who then ordered an artillery bombardment of the building he was in."

"Ha! I think I see where you are going with this." Grady said, his mood brightening with his tone. "You think you can do the same here and act as psionic spotters for the fleet, letting us find where they are hiding and taking them out with long range fire?"

He had to admit, it was quite the plan. They would essentially act almost like psionic sonar of a sort, providing grid coordinates for his warships or even mortar teams already in the city if need be. They would be helpless unless they had a large number of powerful defensive psions gathered together, and even then he was confident he could eventually exhaust them if he just kept firing.

"Exactly, sir," she said. "They likely aren't nearly as skilled at hiding themselves as the Hunter, so it should be much easier. I just need you to reassign a few telepaths to focus on this task."

"Consider it done. This could give our ground forces the opening they need to push in further." He paused a moment as another thought struck him. "Tell me, could you do the same but extend it to non-psions?"

There was a pause before answering. "In theory, we could, sir. However, that is much more difficult than against psions. A psionic mind is easier to pinpoint, and it would be difficult to locate specific minds without directly penetrating them. At best, we could focus on one general area, which would be the most effective. Why do you ask, sir?"

"Because once we've dealt with enough psions, I want you to shift your attention to finding enemy squads lying in ambush or hiding behind cover," Grady answered. "That way we can flush them out a bit faster."

"Understood, sir, I'll start coordinating with other telepaths." And with that she signed off.

This was exactly what he needed. No longer would his PRIESTs need to spread themselves thin trying to protect everyone or be put at risk hunting psions in an urban environment. Now, he could just leverage his superior firepower and eliminate them as soon as they were detected. He would need to put that Protopriest down for a commendation, as she had likely just saved a lot of time and countless of her fellow soldiers' lives with that idea.

Hopefully this would be what it took to break this stalemate, as the Collective was undoubtedly preparing a counterattack.

---

Phobos Facility, London – United Kingdom

8/4/2017 – 9:00 A.M.

The facility was actually pretty nice, though that was expected at this point. Duri found he was more surprised if facilities didn't have nice accommodations – within reason, obviously. He wasn't going to hold a base on the front lines in Vietnam to the same standard as those in Seoul or the United Kingdom.

ADVENT was a lot of things, but no one could call them cheap. They took care of their people, and, in return, their people supported them. It was something they understood, and which he was grateful for. It remained surprising that so many had never come to that same conclusion, always finding different excuses.

Not the time for musing right now.

Today was, more or less, the first 'real' day.

Dr. Shodon had explained that Phobos would be a gradual process. It was going to start slow, with small groups of candidates getting together, talking about what they'd experienced. Then it would move to more intensive scenarios. She'd declined to explain the specifics at the start, but said more would be revealed as the training progressed.

The room they were gathered in was small, but not claustrophobic. The air was kept at a comfortably cool temperature. Chairs were arranged in a circle, and five individuals were present - a good sized group, by Duri's estimation. Four of them, and one psychologist, all of them in regular clothes, no ranks or designations, though he suspected they would be learning everyone's backgrounds soon enough.

Kurt Collier was the name of the psychologist. A British native, as he'd introduced himself. Middle-aged, with hair still fully brown and combed back, and a rather disorganized beard on his face. He struck Duri as a more laid-back individual, but not at the expense of doing his job.

It was likely an act of some kind, to put his patients at ease. He hadn't revealed exactly what branch of psychology he was from, but given the context of Phobos, likely something to do with trauma or working with…unique individuals. "Now that we're all comfortable," he began, his accent clearly more Scottish. "Let's get started. You'll notice that you don't know the others beside you. Intentional. No prior knowledge, no judgements."

"Keeping tabs on us, sir?" the Japanese woman present asked dryly.

"Every moment," Kurt smiled, tapping the end of the pen on his clipboard. "Though it was less difficult. The beauty of these setups is that they only need people. Who each person is? Not important. Don't worry, ADVENT is very good at compiling psych reports on each of you, but we're not quite at the level of judging compatibility from strangers. You all may get along brilliantly – or you may not. The dynamics are impossible to predict – and ultimately are not the point."

He leaned back, crossing one leg over the other. "However, I do know enough to say a few things. Each of you are going to talk. This is a voluntary assignment, but we expect you to contribute. You won't be getting any sympathy passes from me - I call on you, I expect you to participate. The circumstances of your presence are unique, but this is an assignment. It is expected you work to complete it. And if you feel this is something you cannot do, then let us know as soon as possible."

He looked around them. "Is that understood?"

Nods and 'yes sirs' around the group. Kurt nodded, and turned to his immediate right. "Let's start with you." The first one to introduce themselves was a big Hispanic woman, nearly his own size. The hex-patterns of her Iron Skin glinted in the light, indicating that she was almost certainly special forces of some kind. Lancer?

"Michele de Assis," she inclined her head, black hair cut short. "Lancer Division. Originally in the Brazilian Army, mostly been fighting in South America." She pursed her lips, seeming to internally decide what next to say. "Seen my fair share of traumatic events, or things which should be. I guess I'm different from most people here. I don't have a traumatic event. More…the opposite."

"In what way?" Kurt asked.

"I was deployed to assist in Beijing during Isomnum's attack," she said, waving a hand idly. "I don't know how many of you took part in that. But I…wasn't affected by anything. At all. The whole time I was just calm. Focused. None of the fear everyone else reported. Things became odder when my team had a Sectoid encounter. One of their Vanguards. They somehow found us, and I was still calm when it went to hell. Killed all of them, only afterward I realized my squadmates had been frozen from mind control."

Duri cocked his head. "You resisted it?"

She hesitated. "I…suppose so. It didn't even try. It was just something that…happened. ADVENT ran some tests on me. Psionics have a weird effect on me. Everytime they're used on me, I become…well, better. I just focus, and that seems to block whatever effect is put on me. So that's why I'm here, I suppose."

"A very good place for you," Kurt made a note. "Thank you for sharing. Now, your turn."

He was up now. "Duri Eun-Jung," he began in a plain voice. "Officer. South Korean Legion. Served in Japan, Korea, Vietnam, Cambodia…" he shook his head. "Enough places. I…my wife and daughters were victims in the Seoul Massacre."

That got some reactions, sympathetic nods, and the woman beside him patted his shoulder. "I'm sorry for your loss," Kurt said with a nod. "It's admirable that you've kept going."

"I don't have anything else."

"ADVENT? The military?"

"Hate."

Kurt raised an eyebrow, making a note. "Hate?"

"There is only one purpose in my life that I have now," Duri said in a low voice. "To make sure that the aliens cannot carry out another massacre. And that will only come when the last alien soldier is executed, and Paradise Station reduced to atoms." He closed his eyes. "Senorium tried to warp my mind into serving that thing it worships, amd he showed me what was taken during the attempt. It…almost took me…" he shook his head. "No, it did take me. Eventually. Only luck saved my mind, no matter how long I held out."

"I wouldn't discount that," Kurt reminded him. "You were the only one who was able to resist the direct influence of one of the most powerful psions alive. For minutes. That is no minor feat."

"I suppose."

"Well, thank you for sharing this," Kurt said, and looked to the woman beside him. "Do you want to continue?"

"Sure," the woman nodded, voice accented. Definitely Japanese, and fairly young for that matter. "Kochiyo Isobe. Just a soldier, probably outranked by everyone here." A pause. "Sole survivor of my squad. Or I guess most of my battalion. Served in Japan, most of us died fighting Caelior."

Kurt nodded, as she continued. "Lost a lot of friends that day. Lost family even before the battle. Mother, my brother. The guy I was seeing at the time had been on a training exercise in Australia before this started." A sad smile briefly flashed on her face. "Bad luck, but no worse than a lot of people in this war."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Kurt nodded. "Please, continue."

"I guess Beijing is what got the attention of someone here," Kochiyo sighed. "The squad I was with was stalled. We were cut off by the alien forces, and the mind-controlled people. The PRIEST protecting us died. We were without protection." Her voice was calm, deliberately controlled, Duri could tell. "I won't bother describing it. It's impossible to. Imagine every nightmare come to life, before you, reality fluctuating between horror and more horror. By some miracle, I sometimes actually had glimpses of what was happening. I almost shot some of my squadmates but retained just enough sanity to realize it wasn't real."

A long pause. "It was only a few minutes, then another PRIEST protected us again. Afterwards I was told that I'd somehow resisted it, or at least mitigated its effects all on my own. Others around weren't so lucky." She declined to elaborate further. Kurt nodded thoughtfully.

"Thank you," he said, before looking at the last man. "Now, last to go."

The man was easily the oldest one here. His face was hard, and his skin weathered. Probably European, maybe Russian, Duri couldn't tell. His hair was grey, in a buzz cut. He sat straight in his chair, more than any of them. Something seemed different about him, he reminded Duri of a few of his superiors.

"Kirill Zakrevsky," the man said with a clear Russian accent. "General of the Second Russian Legion."

Duri resisted the urge to salute at hearing that there was a general in the same room as them. For some reason, he'd assumed that this was only going to include people in the field. Or just soldiers. It hadn't occurred to him that…others of higher ranks would be involved. At least as participants. Even if no one saluted, all of them straightened.

Kirill seemed amused. "What, do you think only the soldiers and special forces have unique experiences with psionics?" He waved a hand. "No. I am not General here. Just one of you."

"Phobos has a very broad spectrum," Kurt added onto that. "While it is true that the majority of recruits to the program are soldiers, it also includes civilians – and the higher ranks of the military. However, as he said, rank is irrelevant here. Please, continue."

"Hmph," Kirill was silent for a moment. "Shortly after Australia, the aliens attempted to abduct me. I suspect they mistook me for a civilian, otherwise they would have avoided where I lived. They used their Sectoids to force the people onto their ships. Sleepwalking, almost." He waved a hand. "Or so I imagined. I remembered doing it. I realized it was wrong. And so I stopped."

Duri cocked his head, waiting for the story to continue. "The Sectoids had not disarmed me. I don't know how I managed to grab a pistol, but I did, and killed one of the Sectoids. That broke the hold over some of them, and chaos broke out. The aliens opened fire. Many people I knew died. Civilians. Family. A bad situation."

He trailed off for a moment. "I thought little of it, at the time. I did my job, ADVENT was formed, and I continued leading. Several months ago, there was a coordinated attempt to adversely influence ADVENT High Command. Russia was targeted, as it is not an active front. Vanguards placed near the homes of ranking officers. Some harvesting information. Others influencing them. I was one of them."

His fingers laced together. "It is a difficult sensation to describe, being under the influence of an alien, or having one read your mind. You are aware of it, but not aware of it at the same time. Or perhaps that is only for me. I cannot tell you why I decided to break out of it, but I appear to always notice these machinations, and simply break them. Curiously enough, the manipulator seems to be unaware of this until it is too late." A thin smile crossed his lips. "Or at least the Vanguard I killed reacted that way."

"Thank you, and all of you for starting this discussion," Kurt said approvingly. "It is a good beginning for all of us. We have a lot to start working through, from each of you. Now that the ice is broken, let's move onto some broader topics I'd like you to give your opinions on."

Duri settled in, anticipating this was going to go on for a while yet. However, he did feel a bit more comfortable now that everyone at least had shared some of themselves. It was an interesting group for sure, and one he felt he would be getting to know better in the coming days.

---

Joseph Ray Shannon

8/9/2017 - 11:45 AM

The last days had been filled with constant activity as telepaths were reassigned and lines of communication reorganized. It had taken several hours for the psions to get the hang of how to translate what they were detecting telepathically into proper coordinates for artillery bombardment. This resulted in a fair number of near misses at first, which unfortunately served to tip off the SAS psions that something was up.

Fortunately, it took little time to overcome that particular hurdle, and the coordinates became more and more precise. After three hours, the number of misses had already dropped substantially, and most of them could be attributed more to error on the artillery's part, rather than incorrect coordinates.

Of course, there were still point defences within the city, so missiles were only employed against those closest to the frontline, which had less protection, and where the increased accuracy was needed to help prevent friendly fire. The PRIESTs reported that the number of enemy psions had begun to rapidly decline just a few hours into the bombardment, with most of the remaining ones being focused around fortified positions or having to stay further within the city where they were at least somewhat protected. Sure enough, this had allowed the amphibious assault forces to begin making steady progress once again. They had pushed deeper into the city, establishing additional landing areas nearer to the other two coastal flak towers.

Said towers had now become the fallback points for many of the remaining SAS psions, and, as a result, they were even better protected than before. His troops could barely even approach them, and, thanks to the Aegii psions within adding their own barriers, to those already installed within the flak towers, it was proving frustratingly difficult to take them down. In solving one problem, he had inadvertently created another.

He'd tried throwing several missiles at the towers, in addition to the usual artillery bombardment, but it was little use. Any time a breach was made, it would promptly be filled in by a psionic barrier until it recovered.

He'd tried sending the armed supply ship with the laser to help with the problem, but it had suffered a severe blow, causing it to sink and block the waterway leading to the western flak tower, which created yet another problem. Thankfully, the water wasn't that deep, so the ship wasn't fully submerged and most of the crew had no trouble getting off. Even so, it was still a tremendous setback. Unfortunately, he couldn't even begin to try and float or otherwise relocate the vessel while the flak tower remained online. This was quickly turning into another stalemate.

While his ground forces were still advancing in other parts of the city, they could not make much headway on the flanks unless the flak towers came down. He didn't want to send in aircraft yet either, since it would largely be futile unless more flak towers could be brought down. The Collective and SAS air forces, for their part, were sticking close to their AA defenses and doing what they could to slow down his ground forces.

Things had settled into a fairly predictable routine - ground forces would push ahead, take out ground-based AA defenses, then call in precision fire support to chase off the remaining ground forces while the enemy aircraft fell back.

He would need to bring down at least one more flak tower if he wanted to give his aircraft a fighting chance, and he was pretty much at his wit's end. With nothing else for it, he decided to conduct an experiment. How much punishment could a psionically defended flak tower withstand, and for how long?

He'd held off on using too many surface to surface missiles in this campaign, since the Collective had proven capable of reliably intercepting them, and replacing them was more difficult than simply ordering more shells for his guns. The thing about modern navies was that guns were really more of a secondary weapon; missiles were the main armament, and his ships carried a truly absurd number of them. He could easily throw away several hundred and still have plenty left over.

He'd already called for his submarines to get in missile range, in case they were needed. Even attack submarines could fire torpedo launched missiles if need be, and he'd made sure every sub that could carry them did. If the SAS wanted to hunker down, that was fine by him, he'd just have to throw everything and the kitchen sink at them until they broke.

He was running out of time, reports were coming in that showed Collective aircraft massing in nearby cities. They were getting ready for an attack - a big one - and if he didn't have his birds in the air when they arrived, he wasn't sure he could fight them off without losing a good chunk of his fleet.

"Sir, PRIEST teams are in position," a comms officer reported.

"And what about the mortars and light artillery?" He'd ordered more mortars and land based artillery be landed ashore to provide more firepower. He would need every bit of it for this.

"They are finished setting up and sighting their guns. They have plenty of ammo too."

"And the ground forces?"

"As close as they can get right now. They've brought every tank, IFV, tracked amphibious assault craft and vehicle they can spare and trained every gun on the tower. They've also brought along plenty of heavy weapons and machine guns."

Good. He didn't expect bullets to do much, but they only needed to help bring down the barriers and tire out the psions. The plan was to start things off with conventional artillery and heavy weapons, keeping up a constant deluge of sustained fire until the psions were exhausted. PRIEST teams would contribute their own firepower, with Dynamos and Telekines hitting the tower with long-ranged attacks, while Aegii did what they could to mitigate any fire coming from the target.

He wished he had enough Aegii to move them closer to use their barriers to break the tower - since that was apparently something they could do, but the limited number he possessed now required that they protect instead of attack.

During all this, the telepaths would be protecting the soldiers and biding their time. Eventually, the psions inside would begin to tire, and, since there weren't any gateways in the towers, they couldn't rotate new personnel in. Once that happened, the telepaths would strike, assaulting the weakened enemy psions, and, if they could, disable the defensive barrier from within, though this was a longshot.

Once that was done, he would finally be able to let loose with everything at his disposal save aircraft. If that wasn't enough to bring the tower down, then the only option left to him was to request help from XCOM, but he didn't think they were needed here, not anymore than they were elsewhere, anyway.

Aside from that, he didn't want to become too reliant on them, and he certainly didn't want to be seen constantly asking them for help. He'd do it if he had to, but he felt he had all the tools he needed at his disposal to handle this.

A part of him felt like this was just him being stubborn, but he wasn't sure what a single XCOM squad could do here that his own forces couldn't. He supposed they could teleport inside the tower and disable it from the inside, but that felt like an extremely risky gambit.

In any case, the time was drawing near. He'd spent the last several hours getting his forces into position and making sure they were all properly supplied and ready for the attack. Once it began, it would be important to maintain as much fire as possible for as long as possible, so there were entire cargo containers lying on the beaches or in the streets filled with ammunition, which had been shipped over by landing craft and driven to their destinations by the artillery teams.

He wasn't sure when the last time this much firepower had been brought to bear against a single target was. Even the first flak tower hadn't necessitated this much. If not for the hostile psions, he would consider this overkill, but his own PRIESTs informed him there were at least a dozen or so of them inside that tower, possibly more, and he wasn't going to underestimate them.

Every soldier in that tower was going to die. There could be no other outcome.

"Sir? Should I give the order?" Francetti asked.

He paused for a moment, feeling somewhat excited at the prospect of simply unloading on this one target, like he was using this as a way to vent all of his frustrations upon the tower and the unfortunate enemy soldiers within.

He wondered if they knew what was coming. It probably just looked like a ground assault to them. He'd not told anyone on the shore too much about his plans. He didn't want to risk the SAS getting wind of it and having the Collective rush fighters to try and stop him. The anticipation was palpable, the catharsis of destroying this obstacle that had so frustrated him would be spectacular.

"Yes, open fire," he ordered, bringing up multiple feeds from different angles, all looking at the flak tower that was about to be ravaged.

For this phase, the fleet would hold fire. They still had a fair number of shells for the guns, but he didn't want to use them up while the tower was still psionically protected. He'd wait until they stopped seeing enemy psionic barriers. The order given, the light artillery, mortar teams, and ground forces on the shore all opened up.

Hundreds of machine guns, dozens of cannons, autocannons and howitzers, RPGs, recoilless rifles, and several dozen mortars all began firing and didn't stop. He'd given orders for those forces within visual range of the tower to aim for any psionic barriers they spotted, figuring they would indicate weak points, and, as such the enemy would be forced to maintain them until the barrier could regenerate.

So they fired, and fired, and continued to fire. They did this for five minutes, then ten, then thirty. After almost an hour of the constant barrage, he finally got what he wanted to hear.

"Sir, PRIESTs are reporting that the enemy psions, the Aegii at least, are worn out. The last enemy psionic barrier went down over seven minutes ago. We are getting sporadic reports of the occasional bullet or shell hitting the tower itself, though it doesn't seem to have sustained much damage."

"About time, tell the men they can lay off the gunfire," Grady ordered. "Artillery and mortars only for now. Don't want to burn through all of our ammo. Also, order the telepaths to start going in for the kill, see if they can deactivate the barrier from the inside. If they don't have any luck, we will move to the final phase. Order the fleet to prep cruise missiles, no target yet, set them to loiter just outside the range of SAS and Collective AA and missile defenses."

"Acknowledged, how many cruise missiles sir?" The comms officer asked.

This was tricky, since, once he launched them, they would need to target something eventually. However, if he wanted to maximize his chances of taking out the flak tower, he needed to have as many as possible ready. That being said, cruise missiles were both expensive and time-consuming to produce and reload, so, if he used too many, he might find himself short on munitions in upcoming battles, depending on what the supply situation was like.

He'd heard ADVENT was investing in new missile designs and that this could potentially complicate the supply chain. ADVENT was ostensibly looking to begin standardizing their armaments to simplify logistics down the line, but for now that meant some assembly lines were being shut down and modified.

Truth be told, the main reason ADVENT hadn't already expended most of their advanced munitions was likely because Collective countermeasures made deploying them difficult. This war was not being waged quite so aggressively as previous conflicts in some ways. Normally, there would be constant missile strikes and bombing runs on enemy positions to degrade their capabilities, but that required air superiority, Something that ADVENT could only attain locally, or for a limited time period.

As such, ADVENT had to pick their battles carefully. Thus far, they had done a remarkably effective job of conserving their strength and only striking when they were suitably prepared and committed. Something he hoped they would continue to do.

"Launch fifty for now," he said calmly.

The comms officer was stunned for a moment, and even felt the need to confirm the figure. "Fifty cruise missiles, sir? For one target?"

"Correct. We can expect at least a third of those to be intercepted, and it's debatable as to whether those that remain could break down the barrier and still damage the tower. We have to hit them hard or we may as well not hit them at all."

"Affirmative sir, relaying orders."

Good. He would potentially have more launched to join the loitering missile swarm later. For now, his ships would join in the bombardment with their guns and do their best to keep the pressure on. If his telepaths couldn't find an opening before the cruise missiles ran out of time, then he'd just have to make do. He'd likely throw in some ballistic missiles to back them up if it came to that. For now, he could afford to shift his attention elsewhere while the PRIESTs did their work.

"Francetti, what's the status of the eastern tower?" Grady asked. She had been helping him manage the various fronts in the city while he focused on the psion problem.

"Holding, sir. The Collective have managed to set up heavy plasma emplacements along the Okpoka river, which are preventing our ships from getting in close. As such, our ground forces are having to clear a path to let them through."

Not ideal. The Trans Amadi flak tower could easily turn into another siege, one he could ill afford.

"Admiral, don't you think it's time to call in air support? My planes can be here within the hour, to say nothing of yours," Wing Major Rowsdower suggested.

"Your offer is appreciated, but the air defenses are still substantial. I am confident we could get it done, but I don't want to lose too many planes this early."

"I appreciate the concern for my men, but the longer we wait, the more likely the Collective are to send a relief force. If not now, then when?" Rowsdower countered.

"I was hoping to hold off until we had neutralized three Flak Towers. With them gone, and the smaller AA sites scattered throughout the city being cleared out one by one, I believe the AA fire would be manageable." Truthfully, Grady was getting to the point where he might send them once the next tower went down, as this had dragged on long enough, but he was holding back for the moment.

"If that's all that is holding you back, then maybe I can provide a solution. As I said before, I have some B2 stealth bombers on standby. They aren't quite as hard for the Collective to detect as Night Witches, but it's close as long as the bomb bay doors are sealed. I could load one of them with a bunker buster and have them fly high."

"I don't think a bunker buster is getting through that barrier, but I appreciate the offer."

"What if I wasn't aiming at the tower?"

"Pardon?"

"The tower is protected, but the ground nearby is not, and it doesn't look like the foundations are very deep," Rowsdower turned to Anye, who had been simply observing the battle in silence. "Forgive me if I'm wrong, Marshal Anye, but I am guessing these were thrown up pretty quickly, and aren't really built with long term viability in mind. Am I incorrect?"

It took a moment for Anye to respond. "I would not say that they are shoddily constructed, but it's true the Collective has been building defensive structures with the idea that they need not last more than a year or so. My discussions with their military commanders were limited, but many of them still seemed to believe the war would not last much longer, even at this late stage."

He considered it a bit more. "It was deemed more important to rapidly fortify our positions in the short term rather than waste time and resources building more permanent fortifications that would no longer be necessary after a year. I attempted to argue that this conflict had already gone on far longer than anyone had anticipated, and that they should plan for an extended conflict. The Collective did not seem to take my suggestions seriously."

"I wouldn't be so sure, Anye. I've been tracking some of the other fronts, and the Collective do seem to have erected some fairly permanent looking fortifications elsewhere, but only those locations they deem important," Grady mused. "Additionally, Operation Whirlwind would certainly have been a wake up call for the Collective and the SAS, and probably put them in the mindset that it was better to throw something together quickly than be caught flat footed again."

Anye snorted at that, but opted not to respond.

"To bring things back to the matter at hand, that suggests the foundations aren't especially deep, and the ground is wet, soft, and swampy here," Rowsdower continued. "If a bomber could drop a massive ordnance penetrator near the flak tower, but just outside the barrier, it would likely burrow down several dozen meters before detonating, and create a camouflet."

"A what?" Grady asked.

"Essentially, it would create a void underground, which would cause the ground above it to collapse and take the tower with it." Rowdsower was visibly grinning.

"Aren't these things designed to punch through concrete? What if it goes too deep?" Grady asked, frowning.

"Not an issue, these can be fused to go off at a certain depth. Aside from that, I am pretty sure the camouflet will be large enough to bring down the tower, even if it's a hundred or two feet below."

A brilliant idea, he had to admit. The barrier could be impenetrable, but it wouldn't be enough to keep the tower standing when the ground it stood on collapsed.

"How on earth did you come up with something this sneaky?" Grady asked.

Rowsdower laughed and replied. "I was coordinating our bombers during the battle for Florida. We began experimenting with using bunker busters as earthquake bombs there to deal with entrenched enemies. Worked like a charm. Whole buildings just disappeared, swallowed up by the ground. The sinkholes are still there."

"I'll have to check them out next time I'm in the area. In any case, I like it." Grady rubbed his chin. "If you're confident the B2 can pull this off and get away, then I will authorize it. Have it fueled up, you may launch when ready."

"Sir, I'm getting a report from the PRIESTs," a comms officer informed him. "They think they might have found an opening to bring down the barrier from inside the tower on Kidney Island. What should I tell them?"

"Tell them to go for it," Grady ordered. "We'll coordinate so the instant it goes down, the cruise missiles will target the tower, we just need to know when exactly it will happen."

"Affirmative sir, one moment...they're saying it should go down in a few minutes. They will let us know when it is about to go down," the comms officer reported.

"Excellent. If they lose those two flak towers, the battle may as well be over. Any movement from the Collective air force, Major?"

"I'm seeing reports of increased activity in lunar orbit," Rowsdower responded. "They seem to be getting ready for something. I'd suggest wrapping this up, and fast."

"The city won't be fully pacified for a few days yet, possibly weeks, but I can secure the airspace and make any relief attempt pointless," Grady said.

"That should be enough. We can send fighters out to intercept any Collective and SAS aircraft moving to mass themselves for an attack, keeping them from consolidating. That should delay them."

"Sir! PRIESTs report the barrier will be coming down in the next minute!" the excited comms officer exclaimed.

"Perfect," Grady smiled. "Be ready to send the targeting information to those missiles. As soon as the barrier falls, send them all in. Launch a few land attack missiles as well, just to be sure."

"Yes sir."

Sure enough, the UAV feed showed the barrier briefly flicker, before shutting down. Artillery strikes were now directly hitting the tower, and soon the first of the cruise missiles streaked into the frame, followed by more, alongside at least a dozen ballistic missiles he had just launched. Had the barrier been up, the tower likely would have survived, but now it was suffering multiple direct hits.

Even alloy plating and reinforced concrete couldn't handle that forever. Soon, a large crack was visible in the side, and at least a quarter of the top half of the flak tower seemed to collapse. Artillery and mortar fire was shifted to target the exposed interior areas. The barrier seemed to come back online for a moment, but it didn't have enough time to fully form before it was swiftly brought down by superior firepower. Further missile strikes at the unprotected sides of the tower finally took down the projectors.

An offer of surrender was extended, which they swiftly accepted, and what remained of the Tower was now under ADVENT control.

During all this, Rowsdower had been putting his scheme in motion.

The B2 stealth bomber would be supposedly dropping its payload soon. Grady had asked if there was a chance the Collective could shoot down the bomb before it hit the ground, but Rowsdowser had assured him that heavy duty bunker busters were too sturdy to be taken out by most point defense weaponry while falling, and the lack of an engine made tracking them difficult.

"I have confirmation of the bomb bay doors opening...and it's out," Rowsdower smirked. "This should be good."

They were all watching the feed on the Trans Amadi Tower when something suddenly punched into the ground near it. Seconds later, the ground shook and began to crumble. The Tower started to lean, then fell into the rapidly flooding sinkhole that had just formed beneath it. Amusingly, the barrier continued to operate for a few moments, before it too collapsed.

It was done.

The Tower was buried in mud, rendered completely useless.

It would probably take months to dig it out, and those inside had been buried alive. He oversaw the launch of a few more missiles to take out more AA clusters and knock out the airbase, but with only two flak towers left, and those being on the wrong side of the city, the fight had essentially been won.

The SAS would continue to fight, and it would take at least another week or two to fully pacify the city - perhaps longer - but with his aircraft being launched and the city's air defenses crippled, the Collective had lost their chance to relieve them.

The city would fall. It was only a matter of time.

---

XCOM Medical Bay, the Praesidium – Classified Location

9/1/2017 – 10:25 A.M.

The awakening was groggy and dizzying.

Nonetheless, when Sierra awoke, it was relatively fast.

She heard people speaking around her, voices of doctors she didn't focus on right now. She spent the initial moments doing a quick assessment and running through her most recent memories before being driven unconscious. Ankara, Patricia, her limbs getting-

No, she definitely had her limbs back. She lifted one hand up, the bare metal reflecting the light. A sense of relief filled her, and she relaxed ever so slightly, as much as her mechanical body could, at least. It was unclear to her how she was still alive. The Lion was likely dead, though there had been the portals.

"So, you're finally awake."

She turned her head to see – to her mild surprise - the Commander standing beside her. He must have ordered the doctors out, because he was the only one in the room. She pushed herself up, her bearings coming back to her more and more with each passing second.

"Commander," she greeted, performing the simple salute, which he instinctively returned.

"The doctors are unnecessary now," the Commander waved a hand. "According to them and Mercado, your body is fully healed. Cybernetics are easy to replace, all that can be done is wait for you to adjust." He appraised her wryly. "I expect by the end of our conversation, you'll likely be back to normal."

"I hope so," she swung her legs over the side of the bed, instinctively running through her internal checks. "I'm alive, which is…surprising. What happened? Patricia? Ankara?"

"A lot," he said, in a tone that implied that there had definitely been a lot. "You were forcefully evacuated from the city, along with everyone else still alive at the time. The Chronicler intervened shortly after and fought Patricia. The city was leveled, but Patricia was almost killed."

Well, that was good news, even if it wasn't definitive. "Almost?"

"Almost," the Commander nodded. "Unfortunately there is limited footage, but the debrief the Chronicler shared was quite detailed. It involved sandstorms, copious amounts of psionics, and opening a portal to the Sun. We believe that Patricia is going to be out of commission for a while."

Huh. She wished she had been awake to see that, though from what it sounded like, it was probably for the best that she'd been away. It sounded like it had been a devastating affair – no, it had been devastating, if the Commander was describing the city as razed. She wondered what it looked like when two powerful psions fought each other, no holds barred.

Apparently, it had turned out more or less how she thought it would.

"How did everyone get evacuated?" She asked, finishing her initial checks, and everything seemed in order. She stood with no difficulty, noting that she felt effectively normal. "We only have Kunio. ADVENT? The Agents?"

"I will be having a more…in-depth talk with the Chronicler soon," the Commander said, beginning to pace. "It was not us. It was not ADVENT. I don't think it was the Agents either. If I were to suspect, I believe it was T'Leth himself."

"He can do that?"

"He is a Sovereign One. They are capable of such feats. I'm not surprised he is capable of something like this, I am curious why he did it at all."

She crossed her arms. "Not out of the goodness of his heart?"

She'd meant that as a slight jest, but the Commander's tone remained serious. "Perhaps. I don't know, and that I need to judge. I am not surprised you were saved, nor the ADVENT soldiers. The rest…" he paused. "Atypical. Especially from a Sovereign who is self-declared as apathetic to the concerns of proxy species."

"He is allied to us," Sierra remembered.

"He is," the Commander nodded. "However, such an alliance is already…" he waved a hand. "Atypical. Not something for you to be concerned about, more of a personal musing of mine."

She nodded, knowing it meant she should drop the subject. She wasn't in the loop as far as the relationship between T'Leth and the Internal Council went, and that was context she wasn't getting. "What about the Lion?"

"Alive," the Commander revealed. "In poor condition. But alive."

Sierra was actually glad to hear that – if shocked to hear the news. "How?" She couldn't resist asking. "I saw what Patricia did to him. How could he possibly still be alive?"

"He is a resilient man, and being placed into a Sovereign medical facility can save almost anyone," the Commander said dryly. "A facility that I was unaware T'Leth possessed, but which I suppose should not be surprising. He is there now, and I will be going there soon. I expect he will live, and considering who he is, I sincerely doubt the experience will affect him overmuch when he recovers."

He appraised her. "I understand you've become friendly with him. You and Ted?"

This was a shift in the conversation she hadn't planned for. "Yes, Commander. We've been working with him closely over the past month." She suddenly paused. "Is that…an issue?"

"No. The Lion has been cleared for service by ADVENT. They wouldn't do that unless he was considered reliable," the Commander answered neutrally. "Are you feeling recovered?"

"Effectively back to normal, sir," she knew what he was asking. "I can debrief now, if you want."

"I don't have many questions," the Commander said, his expression unreadable. "What is your impression of him?"

"The Lion?"

"Yes."

It hadn't occurred to her that the Commander hadn't really been aware of the Lion's existence. Granted, he was a pretty major individual in ADVENT – along with at least a few dozen other major figures. The Commander likely had an overview at most, without knowing the specifics.

Specifics such as the fact that a former Caliphate general was playing a significant role in ADVENT, which had formed in no small part due to the Commander himself. It wasn't helped by the Commander's own…history.

It was common knowledge that the Commander had been a subordinate to the Commander of the War on Terror. Beyond that, there had been ongoing rumors that he wasn't just a subordinate, rather, he was the same man. Sierra didn't know exactly how true that was – and honestly didn't care too much – but he was a man who had an extremely negative reaction to anything related to the Caliphate.

It probably shouldn't have been surprising that he wanted more details now that said man was interacting with his soldiers, and had been brought effectively to his doorstep. "He's…different," she said, not knowing how best to start. "He has a charisma around him. He's driven, extremely intelligent, and someone who will jump into the firing line with you. Hands-on." She paused. "Similar to you in some ways, honestly."

The Commander raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. "I think he's reliable," she said. "He could have evacuated with everyone else. Instead, he knew that Patricia was there for him, and he tried to distract her. He knew he would die, and he did it anyway." She sighed. "I know what he was a part of, and he's mentioned sometimes his own perspective during the War on Terror. Not sure you'd find it as convincing, but I think he's changed for the better."

A nod from him. "He is very good at inspiring loyalty. I found that one of his more admirable traits."

"You know him?"

"Of him." The Commander's voice turned introspective. "I'm not surprised he's alive. He proved notoriously difficult to kill during the War on Terror, and was the reason the Caliphate managed to hold onto their territory despite the continued decapitations of their military leadership. His decentralized preference ensured the war continued long after another country would have collapsed from logistical failures, mutinies, and miscommunication."

She supposed that was fair. "I…suppose that's true."

"I'm not condemning you," the Commander sat down. "I am not one to judge the actions of the past. I am skeptical that he has reformed himself, and I would caution believing his attempts to justify his actions. He is very good at convincing others of what he wants them to think. He is a liar." He lifted a hand. "I do not mean this as an insult, but as a necessity of his life. Only sycophants and liars could have survived being in the Caliph's inner circle. He was one of the best liars, and I suspect that this skill has not deteriorated. There are very, very few who could go from a general of a terror state to commanding authority within ADVENT."

"Maybe," Sierra wondered, feeling comfortable enough to push back somewhat. "Or he could be telling the truth. Maybe there isn't anything objectionable."

"Very possible," the Commander agreed with a nod. "I won't know until I have an opportunity to speak to him. Your insight was helpful, thank you." He inclined his head. "I am also not overlooking your own actions. You knew you would die in delaying Patricia, but you did it anyway. I dislike soldiers who throw their lives away for the sake of bravery, but your bravery deserves to be commended, and I will not forget it – nor will the people who were saved."

He saluted her, and smiled. "I'll leave you now. I believe Anna and Ted will come and visit shortly, if you don't go to them first."

"Thank you, Commander," she returned the smile. "Although, may I ask a question?"

"Of course."

"When you speak to the Lion…does he know who you are?"

The Commander considered that for a moment. "If he does not, I do not believe it will take him long to figure it out. I suspect it will be an enlightening conversation." He nodded. "Ask me again later. Or perhaps he will tell you when he recovers. You will have a period in between assignments."

"And where will I be going next?"

"To be determined," the Commander said, an unreadable glint in his eyes. "But I believe it will be somewhere more…unconventional."

---

Zar'Chon's Office, Mars Observation Station – Mars Orbit

8/18/2017 – 1:09 P.M.

"The Nulorian?" Nemo asked, intended to be more of a rhetorical question.

"Yes," Ravarian confirmed.

Nemo accepted the information, and felt a certain curiosity come over it. "Earth is no longer a priority? I have no issue with a change of operation, but I believed that the Humans were the priority."

Ravarian unexpectedly smiled. "You are aware of the Aui'Vitakar bombing?"

"I am." A pause. "They did not do it then? Curious?"

"The moderating influence of XCOM, I suspect," Ravarian mused as he paced. "Ironic, coming from the Commander, though perhaps not unexpected. The Commander, even at his most violent, never advocated for the genocide of races. There is a line even he has, it seems. The Nulorian is a reliable puppet who cannot achieve anything without direct support."

Nemo considered that briefly. "A false flag you orchestrated?"

"In conjunction with the Speaker," Ravarian said. "Miridian has a flair for the dramatic, and he has been successful in building a public profile based around highly violent and impactful operations. Whatever he intended to do with the Aui'Vitakar, it fell within the anticipated parameters of what the public expected."

"Curious that he has not responded," Nemo wondered. "Or XCOM, for that matter."

"They likely assess it would worsen their perception," Ravarian said. "Few will believe them, and for good reason. Miridian's reputation, and that of the Nulorian, has proven useful. However, it will be more difficult to pull this off again."

As it would be. Nemo wondered if it should have felt something on hearing the casual state-sanctioned murder of thousands of Vitakara, perhaps horror or outrage - that would likely be what a normal individual would feel. Though right now, the only feeling it could muster was indifference; of more interest was the calculus, method, and ramification of such actions.

The lives were as meaningless as words on a page. It continually confused Nemo why people pretended to care about those who suffered tragedy, despite knowing little, if anything about them. It was not a phenomenon exclusive to Humans – it was common in the Vitakara as well, and it was puzzling.

Empathy was the term used.

It was a truly alien feeling. Caring for something for the sake of caring.

That anyone would willingly subject themselves to unnecessary pain, stress, and hardship was… Nemo couldn't decide if it was admirable, or laughable. Empathy seemed to it like a mass delusion of those who had been tricked into thinking the lives of random people mattered. One life, ten, a thousand, who did it truly matter to beyond the coroners and those directly related?

There was a state argument to make, of course. The death of citizens was a failure, but it made sense in Nemo's estimation why a government or a head of state would care. There were reasons divorced from emotion that justified it. For a simple, ordinary person, it mattered only because others told them to care.

Be happy for those whose success is displayed before them.

Be sad when bad things happen to others.

Feel this way, do this thing.

Media and emotion were powerful tools, to those who controlled them.

Nemo wondered if, perhaps, it should care about that. It was tempting to care.

But at the end of the day, it did not.

It was an actor in this galaxy of scripts and plays – and Nemo suspected that Ravarian had a particularly unique role for him. "You don't need a spy for this," Nemo said slowly. "If that was the case, one of your agents would suffice. Your plan does not revolve around infiltrating the Nulorian. Not for me."

Ravarian lifted his mechanical hand, and projected an image of a male Vitakarian. "This is Miridian. We have his face now."

Nemo made the corners of its lips extend, in an approximation of a smile. Yes, it had a good idea of where this was going now. "I believe you may see what I intend," Ravarian continued. "You like playing roles and wearing faces. This will be your new one. You will be Miridian."

"A role I look forward to," Nemo said, looking at the face, imagining what it was going to be like to shape its face into this new, different shape. Back to a Vitakarian. Less exciting than a Human, but nonetheless a challenge, and what would be savored was playing the role of such a figure. "I suspect that Miridian will take issue with this."

"Without a doubt," Ravarian shut off the hologram. "Miridian is no longer important. He is in possession of an artificial intelligence of indeterminate power. Steps are being taken to deal with this."

"How, if you may indulge me?"

"A project the Andromedon Federation has been working on," Ravarian said. "The Andromedon Defense Intelligence. ANDI. The Chief has approved the interfacing of ANDI with Vitakaran systems. Whatever intelligence the Nulorian have, it will prove a sufficient field test for the Andromedons."

Nemo cocked his head. "Knowing the historical aversion to artificial intelligence the Ethereals have, I find that interesting."

"There are larger concerns than their discomfort with artificial intelligence," Ravarian said neutrally. "The point being that we are taking steps to mitigate Miridian's reach. However, 'Miridian' will always be able to find a clear way to spread his message."

A nod. "My objective is what?"

"Play the role of Miridian," Ravarian instructed. "Recruit and attract dissidents to your cause. Carry out attacks. There is a method the Speaker wishes to follow – dedicated campaigns against each race to generate specific outcomes. The goal is the formation of a species-wide identity. ADVENT has demonstrated that a single, cohesive ideology is superior to a collection of disparate ones."

He paused. "The racial governments have served their purpose. Times have changed. It is time for the Vitakara to move beyond their tribal inclinations and racial preferences into a species-wide unity. Their racial identities must be shattered and remade into a new image. You are the hammer which will smash them apart. The Speaker will play the role of piecing it back together."

A wise idea, or at least a justifiable one. "Understood," Nemo said. "So I am to ignore Miridian."

"Not ignore, just don't acknowledge," Ravarian corrected. "If you have an opportunity to discredit or disavow the real Miridian – take it. You may find opportunities – if he is being shackled by XCOM, it will be simple to portray him as a fake Human puppet. I leave the specifics to you – if you can appropriate him outright, then all the better."

"And the length of this operation?"

"Until the Vitakara have been successfully united," Ravarian said. "The Nulorian – and yourself – are the tools to accomplish this."

"What is the acceptable degree of collateral?"

"Officially, do what is necessary," Ravarian narrowed his eyes. "But I would prefer the damage center on the actual troublemakers. I know this identity will be forged through blood, pain, and terror, but, do remember the end goal – and prepare for XCOM and ADVENT to come after you."

"Of course," Nemo inclined its head. "It will be done."

"I expect nothing less," Ravarian said. "Everything we have on Miridian and the Nulorian will be provided to you. Dismissed. Prepare yourself, you will deploy within the month."

---

Tomb of the Venatores – Unknown Location

9/3/2017 – 12:01 P.M.

The place where Fiona had brought him was not what he expected.

He had expected something smaller and more focused. He'd gotten the implication of a medical center, and, while the Commander believed that there was likely a medical wing, that was not what greeted him. What struck him first was how…medieval it appeared. It reminded him of a mixture of a castle and a cathedral.

In fact, medieval was exactly what it was. It was a place where there was no civilization discernable from anywhere. He found himself on what was effectively a small island, one with a stone tower that rose in the middle of a lake, under a sky which was currently cloudless. The sounds of wildlife were present, though the lake itself was still, the deep blue obscuring anything within.

The tower itself was about the size of a two-story building, a keep that seemed to be from a different era. Moss and greenery covered the walls, though it seemed like the keep was in relatively good condition. The overcast skies added to the atmosphere of this place that was untainted by anything else.

Before the entrance were two statues of wolves that seemed to be looking at him. "I've always liked this place," Fiona said, staring at the keep with a hint of nostalgia in her eyes. "Reminds me of home."

The Commander glanced at her. "You lived in a castle?" he asked dryly, half-seriously.

Fiona smirked. "What a silly idea."

The Commander lifted an eyebrow, finding it a bit interesting she didn't say more. Unimportant, and he walked with Fiona, who went to the entrance, passing the wolves, and removed a stone near the door, which revealed a very modern control system. After inputting a code, the door slid open, revealing that the 'wood' doors were disguised metal bulkheads that slid apart.

The Chronicler seemed to enjoy hiding things in plain sight. Far more conniving than he would have ever guessed, the first time they'd met.

"And here I thought this was a castle," the Commander said, entering the keep.

"Oh, it was – still is, really," Fiona said. "He's made some upgrades over the years. It definitely wasn't always like this."

Sun shone from the top of the keep, which the Commander realized wasn't covered. In fact, it was almost hollow, with only a guarded walkway that descended down into the tower. Statues were erected along windows and openings, some of which let in sunlight, others functioned as little waterfalls.

They began descending.

It was a quiet, contemplative walk down. It was a rather pretty place, and the trickling sounds of falling water were pleasant to the ears. It was notably cleaner here, despite exposure to the elements. No indication of decay or corrosion, which meant that it was definitely being maintained somehow.

"I see you took me on the scenic route," the Commander commented. "Protocol?"

"Protocol, and I thought you'd like it," Fiona said. "It's peaceful here. Then again, I suppose most crypts are."

They finally reached the bottom, where the water coalesced into a small, clear pool that the Commander assumed was connected to an irrigation system that pumped back into the lake. There was only one path forward, a continuation of the stone walls and floor. They walked forward until they entered a large sanctuary-like room.

Electric light shone down from the high, rock-hewn ceiling, onto the stone walls and pillars. There was a cool dampness to the air, and the stones were laid in simple patterns on the ground, partially covered by a long rug of grey and blue going from the entrance behind him to the elevated platform.

The door to the room closed behind them, another mechanical bulkhead, definitely one that was automated and could be locked. No easy way to get into here. As he and Fiona began walking forward, he saw that, lining the path were tombs along the sides. Stone coffins with the replications of the faces of those presumably laid to rest.

There was an unknown symbol affixed to all of them. A familiar cross, as well as a wolf – or so he assumed. Some kind of religious sect that the Chronicler had claimed dominion over? What seemed to be the most ornate tomb was at the end of the room, on an elevated platform. Small stone steps led to it.

One of the most notable parts about all of this was that none of coffins had headstones. No way to identify who was laid to rest within. Perhaps they were kept secret, or he was simply not looking in the right place. "How many times have you come here before?" He asked Fiona.

"Truthfully? Not a lot," she shrugged. "This is…not where I'm supposed to be. One of the Chronicler's secrets. Something important to him. I'm not the one to ask about this place. I think it has something to do with his past – but you'll have to ask him that."

"Welcome, Commander, to where ancient heroes were laid to rest," the voice of the Chronicler said as he entered the room.

The Commander turned to him. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, but the Chronicler seemed somewhat…different than before. There was a new energy to him that hadn't been there before. He wore simple clothing that reminded the Commander of the Catholic Cardinals, with a blue shoulder cloth that covered his upper chest and shoulders, with the rest of his attire in white. The symbol he'd seen engraved in this place was similarly emblazoned in silver on the shoulders. He had also likely just washed his hands, as he was wiping them with a cloth.

"It is a striking place," the Commander looked to the tomb. "One lost to time, it seems - or turned into something new, from the looks of it."

"In certain ways, yes," the Chronicler turned to Fiona with a smile. "Thank you, I'll take it from here."

She threw off a slight salute, and vanished in a blaze of white-green. The Commander indicated the tombs. "Heroes, you say?"

"What is heroism, if not sacrifice for something greater? Yes, they were heroes." There was an almost wistful tone to the Chronicler's voice. "Do you believe in evil, Commander?"

"Yes." A pause. "Trite a word as it is, there are some actions, individuals, and ideologies that have no better word." He cocked his head. "An interesting question. Why?"

"Because you stand at a memorial to the defeat of evil," the Chronicler waved at the graves. "Each and every face upon these stones died fighting a psion with nothing but swords, primitive rifles, and ancient armor. "

The Chronicler's eyes locked on one of the graves, one of a woman in armor. "Each and every one went in, knowing there was no fate but death."

The Commander turned to him directly, picking up on the buried lede. "Psionics."

A bitter smile was on the Chronicler's face. "Patricia was not the first."

"And she wasn't the second either, if I am understanding this right. Perhaps not even the third."

"He called himself the Black Executor," the Chronicler said, still looking on the grave. "And I will never forget the lesson he taught me. What I saw that day, I still dream of it at times."

"The Black Executor?" The Commander raised an eyebrow. "Ominous. And rather dramatic."

"Words scarcely explain what that creature was. 'Evil' is an insult to how hideous it was. And his ilk will be our worst enemies, in time," the Chronicler replied. "A black horde to make what I killed seem petty. To make Patricia seem petty."

The Commander appraised the Chronicler closely, seeing that the man was deathly serious, as memories flashed behind his eyes. "What was he? Human? Alien? And why is there no historical record of this?"

"A servant of the Leviathan, come to subjugate us," the Chronicler answered. "And I am the reason there are no more records. What little I left was just enough to be regarded as mere superstition. How quickly those who call themselves 'enlightened' reject what does not fit their preconceptions."

The Leviathan. T'Leth's mortal enemy. That this Sovereign had apparently achieved influence on Earth was...concerning. And perhaps explained how the Chronicler came to be. One empowered to destroy T'Leth's greatest threat.

"When little evidence remains, that is hardly a surprising outcome," the Commander answered. "Belief with no foundation is incapable of lasting. Still, I can understand why you would do it, even why you would hide it, but it makes me wonder - why are you sharing this now?"

The Chronicler brushed aside dust from a plaque. "Can you read Latin?"

The Commander presumed he was referring to the words on the plaque before him. Venari ad Mortem. He shook his head. "No."

"Hunt to death," the Chronicler said. "It was an oath we took. To hunt things that were so beyond us, they were monstrous to behold. To face evil, and die fighting."

"And just who were they?"

"Do you recognize this symbol?" The Chronicler pointed at it, hanging from a black and red banner.

He looked at it. He could make a few guesses, but it was never one he had seen. "A Christian sect, I would presume. Not Inquisition, but perhaps tied to the Catholic Church. No, I don't recognize it."

"They were-" the Chronicler stopped. "We were the Venatores. The wolves of the Inquisition. Hunters of psions, ancient artifacts, and alien weapons. We were the witch hunters, and I suppose demon hunters too, in a sense."

The Commander frowned. "Not necessarily an institution with the most accurate track record. Though...it seems there was more to them than any history book says." Assuming this was accurate, the Commander doubted the Chronicler was going to speak of the times where they were wrong and burned towns at the stake for no reason.

He appeared to have an interesting origin nonetheless.

"I assure you, our procedure was more complicated than using hairpins to poke feet," the Chronicler said. "True magic - psionics, as it were - has a way of clarifying priorities, and cementing said clarity in our minds. To stoop to such depths as burning the innocent would have been repugnant to us."

It was impossible to tell if he was being sincere or not, though he was inclined to the former. There was no reason for him to lie, although he kept raising questions. "Good to hear, if true. A shame the Inquisition itself didn't hold to your strict code of conduct."

"They always did dislike us," the Chronicler said. "They never got their way with us around, and we received too much favor from the Holy See. We were seen as puppets of the Pope. Servants to entrench the Papal agenda."

"I do wonder," the Commander mused, a thought coming to him. "Was this before or after you became an Agent of T'Leth? If after, did T'Leth utilize the Church or…" he paused. "Was he still resting?"

The Chronicler cleaned his dusty hand with a handkerchief. "You seem to think of me, Commander, as a mere servant of T'Leth, that my agenda is to serve T'Leth. It is not."

"Not in the way you are thinking, no," the Commander said slowly. "I have little doubt that you act on your own. Your actions, mindset, and ideology happen to align with his. That is not an accident, even if you would prefer to think otherwise."

"It is an accident, and that is why I'm finally free to act," the Chronicler smiled at him. "I've waited hundreds of years, fought relentlessly for many of those years. I acted in the shadows so long, I almost forgot what it means to be in the light. To not be alone anymore."

"Entities like T'Leth do not make such decisions by accident," the Commander shook his head. "Their followers may even change themselves to reflect the goals of these entities, and subsequently become willing. You are not Patricia, but the principle is similar. Do tell me, what you mean by being 'free to act'?"

Realization blinked in the Chronicler's eyes. "You don't understand him, do you? You haven't even realized it."

"Understand who? T'Leth?"

"Yes," the Chronicler turned to face him. "You can't quite see him. None do, yet. You see an image of T'Leth, but not quite what he really is."

"Perhaps." It was a non-committal answer, and the implication by the Chronicler was one that he found...both troubling, and curious. Now though, it was perhaps best to drop it. He was here for other reasons. "I presume you didn't ask me here to just show me the tombs. There's a patient to see, I believe."

"Follow me," was the reply.

The halls were largely bare, though they finally reached a room that looked significantly more modern. It was a medical suite of equipment the Commander had not seen before, but instinctively knew was highly advanced. Far beyond anything ADVENT had, and still beyond XCOM by a fair degree.

The body of the Lion was encased within an almost coffin-like pod as threaded wires penetrated large portions of his body, machines hovering around him. IV tubes transferred fluids and blood into his body, or so the Commander assumed. He certainly looked different.

The Lion, the enigmatic general of the Caliphate. The man who had escaped death many times. The Commander had assumed him dead, but, in retrospect, he should have known better than to believe that until he saw the body. If he had failed to kill the Lion, he found it unlikely that he would have perished in the aftermath.

Unsurprising he'd laid low, though he hadn't withdrawn, if what ADVENT had to say was accurate.

A loose end he'd never tied up.

One he never would now. ADVENT had found a use for him, and so he would continue to be useful. The Commander knew that the Lion absolutely had his own agenda, and he was smart enough to give ADVENT what they wanted, while moving towards his goals. He sincerely hoped that ADVENT was aware of that.

Men like the Lion were poor subordinates. Ironically, he felt that Sierra's comparison of the both of them was closer than he liked to admit. The difference was that the Lion had been unable to break the shackles of loyalty, while he had cast off the leash held on him when it became a hindrance.

He noticed something placed on a nearby table. The Holy Grail, which had been borrowed quite abruptly by the Chronicler. Although "borrowed" was a nicer term for "appropriated by Fiona without telling the Commander until well afterwards", not that he'd have refused it anyway. "Did you end up using it?" he asked, nodding to the Grail.

"Nothing else would have kept him alive," the Chronicler said. "It was fortunate that he was unconscious, otherwise it would have been agonizing. He has impressive pain tolerance, but there is nothing quite like your cells being ripped apart and put back together."

"Speaking from experience?"

"The popular legend of the Grail is...confused at best. It can save lives, and very few things can kill one who drinks from it," the Chronicler paused for a moment. "It is also a judgmental piece of technology. It will kill the weak, and its liquid can become the most virulent toxin I have ever known."

The Commander raised an eyebrow. "What kind of toxin?"

"The kind that kills super soldiers in moments," the Chronicler mused. "I'm not sure I know of anything that can survive it without immediate amputation of the infected area."

"Useful," the Commander nodded. "Something I presume was utilized by the Venatores?"

"Wood covered in the fluid," the Chronicler stated. "Once burnt, the fumes spread the poison downwind. Very few things survived that."

"A chemical weapon, centuries before World War I, yet with no records that I am aware of," the Commander mused, glancing at him. "Erased as well? I find it difficult to believe this wasn't abused - especially in that period."

"It was believed that the Grail would kill the unworthy," a faint smile graced the Chronicler's lips. "Not a lie, as it turned out. A security protocol, though, nothing more than technology fulfilling its purpose. Its makers did not want the wrong people to use it, for what little that was worth, in the end."

The Commander nodded, and there was a brief silence between them as the air blew quietly and the machines blinked and beeped.

"You don't like him, do you?" the Chronicler commented, not looking at him.

"No."

"Many dislike you with equal fervor and equally good reasons."

"Reasons I am well aware of," the Commander glanced back at him. "You have him to thank for the Caliphate holding on longer than they otherwise would have. Up until the very end he held on, possessed of the delusional hope that he could save the Caliphate, unable to realize it was irreparably tainted."

"I am well aware of his record, and I know enough to say that he attempted to do what he thought was right," the Chronicler said.

"I'm sure he did," the Commander said neutrally. "Everyone always does."

"I wouldn't say you're one to judge."

"I don't judge. You asked if I don't like him. I don't."

"Your sense of humor comes out at the least expected times," the Chronicler replied. "Though I would propose you come to understand and consider that which you may not like."

"Mmm," the Commander said nothing for a moment. "Understanding is not difficult. Motivations are usually simple when it comes down to it. Understanding does not mean reevaluation. You forget that I was well aware of who he - and the others of the Caliphate were. It would have been impossible to wage war otherwise."

"I am old, Commander," the Chronicler nodded slowly. "Old enough to see most people as a parent would see a child. I am old enough that I can see that you do not wish to admit - that your enemy, right here, right before you, may not be the scornful, hideous thing you think he is."

The Commander sighed, feeling the weight of his years of fighting upon him. "Perhaps. I don't know where you were during that period, but I had a firsthand account of what happened. What the Caliphate carried out, and what he enabled. I don't absolve myself of what I took to stop it, but I cannot forget that, through his actions and inactions, he enabled atrocity. He had his reasons, I am sure. Perhaps they were good ones. But intentions mean little when the reality is on display."

The Chronicler laid a hand on the pod. "I have been fighting, Commander, fighting for this day, this war, for everyone. Fighting so that tomorrow can be a little brighter. I have fought things far worse than the Caliphate. It is why I do not judge you. For all your flaws and abhorrent sins, there's something noble enough in you to be worthy of respect."

"And how flawed you are," he looked into the pod. "How flawed most of us are."

He felt the statement was directed to him, though not just at him. "And you see him the same way." A statement, not a question.

"I've spent lifetimes turning men into leaders, scientists, heroes," the Chronicler said. "I've spent years moving monstrous men onto better paths. I know what the best and worst of mankind is. I know, beyond doubt, those who deserve a chance to be better. I gave you a chance, will you not give your enemies a chance?"

Would he?

Could he?

He knew that there was a time where the answer would have been a simple, unequivocal, no. Those who were his enemies couldn't be trusted or allowed to act under any circumstances. Enemies could not change, they could only persist or be removed. It had worked, or maybe it hadn't. The world hadn't really changed despite one of his enemies surviving.

And times were different now.

He looked upon his enemy, and the thought of just ending just struck him as...almost pointless. A guilty man he might be, but, objectively, he was far from innocent too. And these old hashes, grudges, and rivalries...they needed to move past them. As people, as a species. Dead and buried in the old world. ADVENT was a fresh start.

Maybe in more ways than one.

"I met you before, in your cell. I wanted to know if you could be redeemed, if you should live or die, like so many others I had dealt with." The Chronicler let out a soft laugh. "You surprised me, pleasantly."

On one hand, he felt he should be surprised by this. On the other, perhaps so much had happened, especially with the revelations of EXALT, that there was little that surprised him anymore. He was tempted to ask 'how' and 'when', but considering what he could do...he likely had it expunged from his memory, or he had appeared while he was sleeping.

Redemption. He didn't necessarily agree with the phrasing, but perhaps it fit. He was not the same person he had been, even back in the cell. "Out of curiosity...what was the deciding factor?"

"I asked you questions and released every inhibition your body had. There was nothing you could hide from me," the Chronicler said. "You spoke with pain as you told me of your wife, of the things you had done, of what you had wished you'd done. That was enough for me."

It was almost regrettable that he had no memory of that conversation. He didn't blame the Chronicler for that, were the positions reversed, he would have done the same. Objectively, there were few reasons to give someone like him another chance. That the Chronicler had decided he should be was...notable. Almost surprising.

And it struck him that he hadn't said because he was useful, that he would be needed to fight a future threat, but because he decided - as a person - that he deserved it. It was a rare thing to see. He looked to the Chronicler and gave a short nod. "Thank you."

The Chronicler smiled kindly. "You seem surprised."

"I am. Little surprises me these days, but that is…" he paused as he thought of what to say next. "It is a decision made in a way that I have not seen used often, if ever these days. It is, arguably, against logic, morality, what have you, but made it all the same. I am under no illusions as to who I am, Chronicler. That is why it is surprising."

"Then allow me to have the illusion of who you could be," the Chronicler replied.

The silence persisted for a few minutes before he finally spoke. "Does he know I'm alive?"

"I think he suspects. He will know should you speak."

"Noted. Why are you interested in him?"

"You assume I am interested?"

"You could have intervened sooner in Ankara," the Commander crossed his arms. "Your suit – one which you neglected to share the existence of – did not take that long to put on. You delayed, and conveniently waited until the last moment. Why?"

The Chronicler paused for a moment. "I met him in a very different cell than yours. I met him in a slice of hell, made to destroy men. To ruin them. I found him there, and asked him to ask one thing from me, and I would do it. What would you have requested in his place?"

The Breaker Wing. He'd known of it, the location of the Caliph's cells of torture, reserved not for mere dissidents, but for those who had failed, betrayed, or were disloyal to him. A special punishment, one which had ensured the Caliph's iron grip on his subordinates. He was not surprised the Lion had been put there. There would have needed to be some means of keeping him in line.

In his place...in such a situation, in that time of the war, what would he ask? He personally doubted he could objectively answer this, as their upbringings and histories were so different. But the Chronicler was waiting for an answer, and so he gave one. "To end the war." He paused. "If that's too broad, to kill the Caliph. Likely the same outcome."

"'Stop him,' he said as he looked me in the eye," the Chronicler answered. "'Stop the Caliph's plan', he said. I told him I would not save him, he could only ask one thing. 'Then save them. Save the innocents. Save my people.' Was his final answer."

The Commander raised an eyebrow. There'd been rumors always of plots of dissent against the Caliph, coups in the making. The Ikhwan had been purged because of one of these. And obviously...one did not get put in the Breaker Cells unless they were untrustworthy. That the Lion would ask this during that ordeal was not necessarily surprising...though what was surprising was that he'd retained enough of himself to ask for something other than to be let out.

"It seems the Wing beat him in the end," the Commander said. "Was it the same here? You wanted to see what he'd do."

"He was half mad, one foot in a place of no return, and a slipping foot in sanity," the Chronicler said. "I needed to know who he was in a place of sanity. What his worth was. He was the same man I met in that cell. Refusing to be defeated by his betters, defiant to the end."

"I see." The Commander appraised him, thinking of the angle he was pursuing. There was a reason he'd gone to this trouble. The possibilities were limited. "You want him to be an Agent."

"No, as a matter of fact," the Chronicler disputed. "He is not the right type of person to be an Agent. I have a role in mind for him, but for that, I want him to do one more thing, for which I will need your cooperation."

"Am I going to like this?" The Commander asked dryly.

"No, you won't, but I believe doing things you dislike is good for you," the Chronicler said. "But for that, he must awaken."

That didn't leave much room for the imagination. Given his talents, the Commander suspected he had an idea of where the Chronicler wanted the Lion to go.

"I've read his file," the Commander said. "I know why you think he'd be ideal. I also don't think it is entirely wise to put a former general of the Caliphate – and one who, I remind you, was planning to attack ADVENT with jihadist remnants-"

"Not just the Lion. The surviving Ikhwan as well. I believe they complement each other."

"Even better," the Commander said dryly. "That strikes me as a bad combination. Even if the Lion is not a traditional jihadist, the Ikhwan are fanatical in their beliefs. That is not a good idea."

"I'm familiar with their order. I met their original founder, a rather simple and honest man. They've done quite well for themselves, following his code as they have," the Chronicler said. "Better than I anticipated, even. Their final actions were commendable."

Not words he would have ever associated with that order. "That they endured speaks to their skill and willpower. I'm familiar with how they operate, their skills are not in question."

"Then what is your concern?" The Chronicler asked. "Do you expect them to backstab us? Deal with us in bad faith? To start a second Caliphate in space?"

"They are driven, not stupid. No…" the Commander focused on the face of the Lion being healed. "No, that's not what he wants. Nor what they would want. Nor how he works. He wants to create a shift in ADVENT, use ADVENT as a vessel for the change he wants to see." A thin smile formed. "Hakeem."

"It certainly took you a while to notice," the Chronicler commented wryly.

"In my defense," the Commander said. "There have been a number of...other, more pressing matters. The Middle East was not something I'd turned to until recently. And what I've seen is certainly interesting."

"I am certainly tempted to make a rude jest at your expense," the Chronicler said, a hint of a grin on his lips. "But I believe that would be improper of me."

"I'm sure I would have heard worse," the Commander muttered, though more to himself. "ADVENT doesn't know how to handle men like him," the Commander mused. "Assuming he has no agenda is incorrect. If not dangerous."

"His agenda is a clever ploy to turn ADVENT into something he finds palatable," the Chronicler said. "A ploy he's won, it seems. Or will win, soon, as I see it."

"Changing ADVENT?" A smile formed on the Commander's lips. "A challenge easier said than done. If he does, then either it will make it better, or something has gone terribly wrong. ADVENT is a ratchet, I designed it that way. It can only refine itself further. So long as the gear holds...well, we shall see."

"Yet will you like what you see? Would you even be willing to accept it?" the Chronicler mused. "Or will you find your own flaws revealed by your own magnum opus? I think you will not. Few men such as you like looking into a clear mirror."

It seemed like the Chronicler was referencing something only he knew, almost prophetic in tone. "I've looked into that mirror many times before," the Commander said. "Should it happen one more time, it will not change it. Men like me cannot persist if we do not see who and what we are clearly."

"Not this mirror," the Chronicler glanced at him. "This one, you will find difficult to stare into. But you'll be better for it. We all will, and even he would be better for it," the Chronicler gestured at the Lion. "All the skill, intelligence, and resolve to survive the War on Terror, against you, Van Doorn, and the Caliph, of all people. And, even defeated, he gets one last ploy in."

"Well," the Commander said as he smiled thinly. "That remains to be seen, does it not?"

It was an answer that the Chronicler seemed to find more amusing than anything, though his conversational tone had taken on a strange tense, as if something were going to happen that he was sure of. The Commander didn't feel it was ominous, but it was...interesting. Very interesting.

He would need to think on this entire conversation, but that would happen later.

A few moments passed with no noise beyond the beeping and hissing of machines. The conversation had made him wonder about how much autonomy the Chronicler had. The Commander doubted T'Leth would care about him, or the Lion, or anyone, but the Chronicler had said he was missing something.

He had assumed that T'Leth didn't care. Which meant one of two things - much of what the Chronicler had done had been of his own volition, implying more autonomy than assumed, or T'Leth did care, which was a significant shift from how he'd believed the Sovereign thought. A shift the Commander wasn't sure was a good thing.

Perhaps somewhere in the middle. Only one way to find out. "Who evacuated the people?"

"T'Leth."

The answer was given without hesitation or a shift in tone. Merely a statement of fact. The Commander nodded. "Curious."

"Is it?"

"T'Leth is a Sovereign One," he answered. "The lives of other species are…unimportant, with a few exceptions. This alliance is one of convenience, or pity." The Commander paused. "I suppose I am just…surprised. It is not what I expected from him."

"For most of my life, T'Leth has been a fixture," the Chronicler said. "Always there, weighing, judging. Thinking. He does not hide it, he wants me to know. Even our very conversations are judged. Weighed by his scales. At times, I feel him watching families, ordinary lives, hundreds of them."

For the first time, the Chronicler seemed uneasy. His brow furrowed before he answered. "He has ceased, he has come to some answer. There is nothing now, I feel nothing. He is quiet. Reserved. Contemplative."

That was not the answer he had been expecting. "He has never done that before?"

"No," the Chronicler replied. "No matter when, or what, or how, not even in the glimpses of memories I catch from him, has he ever been like this. I had, at one point, thought I understood him. No longer."

The Chronicler was a good liar, one had to be to play the role he had for hundreds of years. Right now, the Commander was sure he was not lying. He had enough telepathic skill to sense that - and the Chronicler was not blocking him. Intentional? Quite likely.

Which was disturbing.

If the individual that was purportedly an avatar of the Sovereign power did not understand his benefactor...how exactly could he? And this...this struck him as, if not ominous, dangerous. "Then make the guess," the Commander said. "It's important."

"A favor for my services," the Chronicler paused. "He knows I dislike innocents caught in the crossfire. And the Warmaster is not one to deny his favored servants rewards."

"If he didn't do it before," the Commander crossed his arms. "Why now?"

"That is the best I have," the Chronicler admitted. "T'Leth is not an individual who cares. He is the Warmaster; his kin dread and fear him, armies that dwarf comprehension fall before him. Where other Sovereigns wage a contest, he wages annihilation."

"Annihilation was on display when you fought Patricia. More than I've seen from you before."

"She peeves me with her cowardice, ignorance, and weakness," he said. "And T'Leth never was one to tolerate those like her, those too weak to be more than puppets and too ignorant to be more than pawns."

He looked at his hands. "Quiet, simmering hate. Cold, focused, contempt. I've never felt it so focused before. Never had T'Leth been so razor-honed before. And there was something else. Something akin to surrender, resignation, acceptance."

Confusion was what the Commander felt now, even more than concern. That T'Leth was growing more awake, more powerful, more honed was a potentially concerning sign. Yet it was juxtaposed with the final sentence. The hate of a Sovereign was a powerful, destructive thing.

He wondered to what scale it would grow.

The Commander didn't know what T'Leth was moving towards, but everyone had an agenda, and the signs were concerning. That T'Leth becoming so withdrawn that his closest Agent was unsure of what he was thinking was troubling. Something to keep in mind, though he knew there was little he could actually do. Yet they needed T'Leth, and needed him more than ever.

"T'Leth is stirring from the deep, Commander, faster as every day passes," the Chronicler muttered. "I can hear his hearts beat like drums, louder with every moment, as if they were my own. Bellowing in my ears."

It was a disturbing revelation. He didn't know what T'Leth was thinking and planning right now. The mental model he had formed was, if not useless, certainly less reliable. The Chronicler didn't know, which meant that the only one who understood T'Leth was...T'Leth.

And the mind of a Sovereign, a true mind, no one could comprehend.

A few minutes passed in silence. "And what does it mean?" the Commander finally asked, though he felt like he knew the answer.

"It means, Commander, that T'Leth will declare war."

---

The Vatican – Vatican City, Italian Special Administrative Region

9/4/2017 – 11:16 A.M.

The Vatican once again. Saudia had to admit that she found it a visually pleasing place. The opulence of centuries of gathered wealth was a testament to the staying power of the Catholic Church. Their ability to retain both power and wealth was something that was almost impressive. Nevertheless, such days would come to an end shortly.

For now, the Catholics could maintain their Vatican. She felt that one day it would be turned into a museum, one where people would learn of what Humans once were, what they once believed, and what they allowed.

However, that day was far off yet.

At present, she had a meeting to attend with the Pope himself. She admittedly hadn't expected to meet again with anything of substance, but from her conversation with Marcellus, it was clear that the Church may be in possession of information it unwittingly possessed. The implication that the Chronicler had some connection was also something she was curious about.

"Chancellor," a red-robed attendant said, approaching her. "This way, please."

With a nod, she followed wordlessly. The Vatican was empty right now, and while she knew her protective detail was passively observing, there was a curious feeling of isolation. No one knew she was here right now – she didn't really have a desire to explain why she was meeting with the Pope at this time.

Truthfully, she didn't have a good answer.

Curiosity, more than anything.

As she walked, she did take some time to observe the finer details of the Vatican she hadn't really noticed the first time. She had to admit that the collection here, the paintings, architecture, and sculptures were quite nice. In the hands of the Catholic Church it may be, but it was certainly a cultural icon that would need to be preserved.

A place where so many had contributed, all in pursuit of appeasing, glorifying, and worshipping a higher power.

A shame such prayers had little effect. This was a time where a little divine intervention would be appreciated.

Until then, T'Leth would have to suffice.

As she was led deeper into the Vatican, she noticed something interesting. Instead of going up the stairs, into the higher floors of the Vatican, they were instead going deeper. It made sense, as that was likely where the libraries and vaults were. Her curiosity was admittedly piqued now, for reasons unrelated to the purpose of her visit.

The Vatican vaults had always been suspected to hold vast quantities of wealth. There were also records and histories that were largely unimportant. Saudia was aware of the vast conspiracies around the Vatican (some of which EXALT had spread), but the truth was more mundane. All that was here were myths, legends, and unimportant records.

Or so she – and EXALT – had believed. She found the prospect that they had missed something somewhat troubling.

"His Holiness is inside," the escort said, stepping away in front of one door. "A blessed day, Chancellor Vyandar."

With a farewell nod, she entered a well-lit library, which had rows of old bookshelves lined with various texts, papers, and books. An old table was also placed in the middle, beneath a dusty chandelier hanging from the high ceiling. Pope Marcellus was standing, reviewing an old book in-hand. He was wearing simple white robes together with his frock.

"Chancellor Vyandar," he greeted, closing the book in his hand. "I'm pleased you've come. You did not have to wait too long, I hope?"

"No," she said, walking over and shaking his hand – a traditional gesture he appeared to be slightly taken off-guard by. "Your people were efficient."

"A compliment I will accept from you," Marcellus said with a smile. "I suspect there will be few other times you will visit. Have you visited the Vatican, Chancellor? Truly spent time here?"

"Not properly, no," Saudia said. "It is an impressive, and culturally important, place to millions around the world."

"And they say you are not a politician," Marcellus gently set the book on a nearby table. "No need to be politically correct, Chancellor. I assure you, I have heard far more critiques of the Church. One cannot be in this position and be debilitated by criticism."

"Fair criticism, I would say."

"Sadly so," Marcellus admitted. "Though for that, odd as it may seem, I owe you a belated thanks. You've made my task easier."

She raised an eyebrow. "In what way?"

"The Church is not always what it seems," Marcellus smiled thinly. "For all the glamour and glory, it is run by flawed Humans, with all the politics, obstructions, tempers, and stubbornness that implies. The last few months have been a much needed change."

Saudia wasn't quite sure if he was leading to a greater point. "Good. That is all we want."

Marcellus seemed amused by that. "I'm sure, Chancellor, I'm sure. The coming days will make that clear."

There were several things he could mean by that statement, though she suspected it had to do with what the future of religion would be under ADVENT. It would either adapt, or it would be reduced to impotency. In her view, the latter was impossible to avoid. The more educated, knowledgeable, and logical a society, the less Humans would rely on the illusory comforts of religion.

But to say that would likely be rude. She simply returned his smile. "What either of us would prefer is inconsequential. Progress marches on, regardless of opinion."

"We shall see, Chancellor," the Pope said, turning to the table. "But you came here for a reason today, as I did want to speak to you about something specific."

"Indeed," Saudia clasped her hands behind her back. "The Chronicler. Or 'Seraphim', as you call him."

"Chronicler?" Marcellus raised an eyebrow. "You know him?"

"Clearly not as well as I thought," Saudia inclined her head. "But you know something I don't."

"Yes…" Marcellus bade her to a wall, one that had a large map of Europe on it – though one that was several hundred years out of date. "Do you believe in evil, Chancellor?"

She hesitated momentarily. "Evil is a relative term, as is good."

"Respectfully, Chancellor, that was not my question." He met her eyes. "Do you believe in evil?"

Evil had always struck her as an arbitrary term. One which was used by those throughout history to justify the hatred of enemies, while simultaneously ignoring their own crimes that were just as bad or greater. Evil was a tool of manipulation, one which was used by religions to control their people, and to keep populations in states of fear.

Evil as a word she did not believe in.

Evil was a concept…as something real…

There were some actions that were so depraved, so unjustifiable, that she could not write them off as anything other than…wrong. Evil was a word that had lost meaning, evil was something so specific, and so rare, that she felt uncomfortable voicing it. Evil was a word the child would use to describe horrors in the world.

Though in such rare instances, was there a better word?

"I find evil to be an unhelpful description in most cases," Saudia finally said. "I prefer more absolute terms. Unjustifiable. Illogical. Those are meaningful descriptions, 'evil' is…" she waved a hand. "Vapid. I believe I understand what you are saying, and I do not deny such actions exist, but I find it difficult to ascribe that word in a serious context."

"I suppose that is unsurprising," Marcellus didn't seem offended. "Though do forgive me, as I do not hold that same belief, and I can find no other word to say, than that there was a time where the Church faced a great evil in this world." He lifted a hand, forestalling her response. "No, no, I do not speak of witches, protestants, Muslims, or the historical enemies of the Church. Did you know, Chancellor, that there was once an enemy so great that Europe itself almost fell to it?"

"The entirety of Europe? Only the Khan."

"If only it was something as mundane," Marcellus shook his head. "Few records remain, but it spoke of an evil that threatened to bring the continent under its sway. A cult led by a demon, whose tongue charmed all who came in contact with him. A preacher of a powerful, dangerous ideology steeped in nihilism and the futility of life itself." A pause. "Four groups came together to oppose this evil. The Catholic Church, the Order of the Venatores, the al-Hashashin of the Ottoman Empire, and the Illuminati."

It was only a split-second, but Saudia betrayed the surprise she felt, though thankfully he did not notice. "The Illuminati?" she asked carefully.

"Well, it is believed that is what they originally became," Marcellus corrected. "Truthfully, we know frightfully little. Yet records point to a group of individuals, some wealthy businessmen, some enlightened scholars, some associated with royalty – and others associated with the legacy of the defunct Knights Templar, who aided behind the scenes."

That was definitely something that Saudia had not known – and she was tempted to wonder if he was making this up, though…she had not gone through in detail on the origins of EXALT, or the Illuminati, as they were once known. She was going to have to look into this more.

"Now I am curious," Marcellus said. "What could bring together Christians, Muslims, Deists, royalty, and the proto-oligarchs, if not something that was so utterly, irreconcilably evil?" He rested a finger on the map. "Details are scarce, but there was a battle in this city. One that you will see today is nothing but a patch of land. These forces together marched against this evil, and slew it – at great cost." He sighed. "A fanciful description, I know. A legend, of course. A story I once believed, yet, in it, the one man who emerged who was the one who slew the demon. An unassuming figure, yet one to whom power had been granted. The only warlock of the Venatores."

"Your Seraphim."

Steel rang on stone. "Such a lofty name, so laced in meaning. So bittersweet, and so grandiose. Indicative, I suppose, of how others saw me, but I did not see myself. Not until now."

Saudia and Marcellus stiffened and visibly jumped.

They turned to see a familiar figure. The Chronicler, his hair groomed, his beard trimmed, and wearing garments of silver and white. Not armor, but there was a metallic quality to them. An unassuming old man, if one ignored the sheathed sword on his hip. The same sword she recognized from the videos of the Chronicler fighting Patricia.

"Saudia, Pope Marcellus," the Chronicler inclined his head. "How is your day?"

"Full of questions, Chronicler," Saudia answered dryly, turning to face him. "I see you're enjoying appearing in places where you're not expected." She paused briefly, then raised an eyebrow. "Just as well you are here. You have some things to explain."

The Chronicler laughed gently, he patted the sword by his side. "Do you remember when you were six, Saudia, and you caught me in the vault? Organizing the long forgotten relics within?"

Now that was an old, long-dormant memory. She did, in fact, remember it, though. It had been a cold day in the Bastion, as the days there always were. There were places that were off-limits, but, of course, she was a big, smart girl. Shouldn't she know everything about where she lived?

As it turned out, all she'd done was get lost, and she had stumbled - by accident - into the Vaults where the Chronicler had been working. "I do," she mused. "I'd gotten lost. I remember we talked, and then you took me back." A small smile graced her lips. "My father was not happy. Not surprising, given I could have killed myself with some of the defenses. Luckily, that didn't happen."

"And then you made it a habit," the Chronicler mused, steps soft. "Always coming to me, asking me what that was, and where this came from, so full of questions. And the stories, you loved the stories."

And he'd loved telling them in turn. No matter what he was doing, he'd always stop and entertain her. He had quite a lot of patience for her younger self. "That I did, though I think you derived some enjoyment from it too."

"For all your intelligence, Chancellor, and all your logical ability," he said. "You never did learn the lessons I wanted to teach you. You always did miss the point of the stories, the ways and beliefs of your heritage too imprinted in you."

She cocked her head. "I'm sorry you saw it that way. What you told me was valuable. It was the stories of the world, the good and the bad - and what must be changed."

She left unspoken that it had crystalised the flaws of the world, and had solidified the solutions pursued. No doubt he wasn't happy with everything she'd done, but nonetheless she appreciated the time he'd taken. And he almost certainly knew what she left unsaid, as there were things that she wouldn't say in front of an outsider.

"Or so I thought," he smiled at her. "You did learn. Not enough to avert the mistakes and spare yourself the hurt...but enough to move past them. I hope the stories will serve you, now, that you can learn from them. You'll need them, sooner than you think. I've written them all down for you and left them on your desk."

She wondered which ones he'd specifically chosen. He had no shortage of them. "Appreciated, Chronicler. I'll be sure to review them."

It was a simple gesture, though there was something almost...ominous about it that she couldn't nail down. Likely nothing important.

"There was one question, Saudia, that I never answered," the Chronicler took the sheathed sword off of his hip. "Pope Marcellus, I apologize for never meeting you. I've met your predecessors, and aided them at times. When I could, and when I should."

"An apology is not necessary," Marcellus coughed. "It is clear you only make yourself known in times of great strife and danger. I will not question the judgement of the Seraphim."

A smile appeared on the Chronicler's lips, a thin one. "A more restrained reaction than most." He looked to the map. "You've dug up the old records. Did you not consider, Pope Marcellus, that some demons were buried for a reason?"

"As I am learning, that appears to be more and more true," he answered. "Though it is difficult to set apart the truth from the deception. Yet some are...worryingly clear, in retrospect."

"Demons?" Saudia raised an eyebrow, half-serious. "What do you mean by that?"

"A moment," the Pope walked to the wall, and pulled out several sheets of parchment. He handed her one of them, which she took delicately, unsure how much would be enough to crumble it. "A replica," Marcellus said, noticing her delicacy. "The original is stored away. Do not fear it will crumble to dust."

With a wordless nod, she focused on what was on the paper. It took a moment to discern what she was looking at. A recreation of a man, an autopsy...no, not a man. A humanoid…one with similar outward physiological features, but with half of the body opened showing irregular organs. The head was also different, layered slits for noses, four eyes, sharp teeth, if somewhat exaggerated. Large crania with no hair.

Gooseflesh manifested where she still had skin, as she realized what she was looking at. Could this really be true?

She looked up at them. "Is this what I think it is?"

"It is," the Chronicler confirmed. "One of two."

"Yes, the second," the Pope handed her more papers. These depicted a much different entity; a larger creature, one that was less humanoid, and honestly reminded her of a minotaur with its bovine characteristics, yet one that was built strong and dangerous.

"How many of these do you have?" She demanded.

"Only these two, thankfully, or at least of this detail," Marcellus confirmed. "I suspect that we dismissed these as mere legends, the fanciful imaginings of what demons would look like. Propaganda for the masses, as such would not be irregular in our history. I confess to being aware of these particular pictures, and they always struck me as rather…genuine." He smiled. "Though of course, all of it could be easily dismissed. After all, many people have always taken demons to be a spiritual threat, certainly not a physical one."

"Who was this alien?" Saudia asked.

The Chronicler placed a hand on the hilt of his sword, readying to draw it. "I will show you the answer. Do you remember when you were young, Saudia? There was only one question I never did answer, no matter how much you pried."

She inclined her head. "You never told me about the sword. Always said it was unimportant," she smiled. "And, while I was young, I had a feeling that particular weapon had something more to it."

He drew the sword, translucent circuitry lighting up across its flat surface. The room shook, tiles moving aside, forming a path, and a wall slid apart, a thin slit at its core. Saudia realized that the Chronicler had likely done at least some of this telekinetically.

"Do you know what this room originally was, Pope Marcellus?" the Chronicler asked, placing the sheath down.

"I assumed it was merely a vault, an assumption I can see now was in error." Marcellus' brow furrowed. "I had believed we found all of the old strongholds of the Venatores. It appears the Vatican retains some secrets yet."

The Chronicler thrust the sword into the slit. The whole room trembled, dust falling from the ceiling, as mechanisms whirred. The wall unravelled, and an alloy entrance revealed itself. He snapped a finger, and lights ignited across it. A palm-scanner appeared by its side.

"Saudia, can you please place your hand on the scanner?" the Chronicler asked, withdrawing the sword, sheathe flying back to cover it.

"Will that work?" Saudia asked, lifting her very metallic hands. Hands which, noticeably, did not have artificial skin.

"It does not test for prints, it tests for nervous connection," he explained, offering the sword. "Hold it, place your hand on the scanner, and say your name."

She looked at the scanner dubiously, wondering what it actually was. "Nervous connection" was not something she was familiar with. It still didn't seem like a hand scanner. Or if it was, it wouldn't work on her since she lacked anything that could define a hand or fingerprint. Still, she was curious enough to go along with it.

She grabbed the sword, noting that it seemed...well, lighter than she was expecting. It fit her well, though made her feel a bit odd. Perhaps some kind of psionic effect. Sword in hand, she placed her palm on the scanner. "Saudia Vyandar." The scanner at least appeared to work, though who knew if it did anything. When the light faded, she pulled it away and returned the sword.

A loud, blaring microphone replied. "SECURITY PERMISSION ADDED: SAUDIA VYANDAR."

The doorway opened, revealing a stairway behind it.

"This is more than just a hidden sanctuary." Marcellus seemed more unnerved than he had been before. "There should be nothing under here. This is the lowest place in the Vatican." He looked to the Chronicler. "And the Venatores did not have the technology to construct such an elaborate security apparatus."

"No, which likely means that other parties have made...improvements," she raised an eyebrow at the Chronicler. "Like you, for example?"

"Ever since the Outsider Incident, I knew this war would come eventually; hence I have reactivated this outpost. While this place is old, it is still one of the most secure places on Earth. Allow me to lead you in," the Chronicler said. "Though first, Marcellus, we need to add you to the approved individuals. It would hardly do for my security systems to act against you."

While Marcellus did that, and the speaker confirmed his access, the Chronicler began leading them down into an open entrance room filled with display pieces. The centerpiece was a corpse she recognized, clad in semi-destroyed armor.

At first she wondered if it was something else, but it was clear. Skin brown, the nostrils, eyes, teeth, physiology was all what she had seen in the drawing - only it was real. Or maybe not. "Assuming this is what I think it is," she began. "I'm surprised it hasn't rotted. Taxidermy? A unique property of this alien?"

"Genetic enhancements render it resilient to decay. The rest was a simple application of preservatives," he waved for her to follow. They entered a room dominated by armors, weapons, and a large, central computer. Screens all around it.

Text scrawled across a monitor, piquing her attention. Without bothering to ask, she walked towards it, one word catching her eye - Leviathan. The text that was associated with it was no less ominous.

The individual is one who wanders their worlds, seeking mortal and simple pleasures, for a void is what calls to all the living, from the lowest worm to the highest animal, a void which whispers the simple, unceasing, and destructive truth that life itself lies. Happiness is fleeting, all that is material crumbles to dust, and that legacies are condemned to the forgotten pages of histories destroyed and rewritten.

To be alive without purpose is to perpetuate a vapid, pointless existence. The mortal is an illusion, a fleeting speck of dust in the cosmic winds. Those who live for themselves will die alone, abandoned, and forgotten. Those who live for others will delude themselves into believing their impacts will be permanent. Actions are dust, legacies are frail.

Life is a lie, yet purpose is true.

To attain purpose, one must reject the lie of life itself. There is no life, there is only illusion. There is no freedom, only servitude. There is no afterlife, only cycles. There is no reward, only duty. There is no meaning, only service. There are no gods, only the Sovereign. And there is only one who gives the blind and soulless mortals something more, who can give more.

For he is the Leviathan, and Life is His Illusion.

The Chronicler stood beside her, noticing her interest. "The Book of the Leviathan. Section One, on the Illusion of Life. Certainly an opening. It is…a troubling philosophy. I pity whichever poor species is trapped in following it. A more nihilistic belief system I cannot imagine. It is that it is quite persuasive and well-written. You would not give that book to someone unless you wanted to induce suicides." He paused. "I suspect that is the role of the Priests. To keep its adherents from taking their lives. Quite ghastly."

"I believe that there is a copy of that book," Marcellus said. "One I have not read, though it appears you are familiar with it."

"The Vatican has one of only two copies left," the Chronicler nodded. "The other I kept for myself."

Saudia was silent for a short time. "Then there is another alien species out there. Two, in fact."

"At least," the Chronicler nodded. "I do not know how they ended up here, but this was hundreds of years ago. If they haven't come now, I believe they won't be coming. Still…" he trailed off.

Saudia appraised him. "Why are you here, Chronicler? Just to speak with us?"

"To lay all cards on the table, and to prepare for the worst case scenario," the Chronicler replied. "You now have access to the single most fortifiable location on this entire planet. It would take days of orbital bombardment to dig here, and they'd have to trawl through every last trap, chokepoint, and psionic defense to strike this place."

She wondered in what circumstances any of this would be necessary. Was he expecting the Imperator himself to come down and try and fight? This place certainly seemed like it could take it, and she could only imagine there were many more traps and defenses she wasn't seeing.

He gestured at the computer. "That system is ready to be linked to all relevant ADVENT and XCOM networks, and there is a Gateway leading to a secondary location. All of it is now under your access."

"That is useful," Saudia didn't really know the best way to respond, as there were still parts of this she did not know. One stronghold wasn't enough to warrant all of this ceremony. "A question then - what is this place? A stronghold? A museum?" She nodded towards the screens, and back to where the alien had been. "A lab? It's good that we can link to this - but what are we getting from it?"

"All of them," the Chronicler replied. "I built this place to be a headquarters, a place where even the most obscene of eventualities were secured against. With time, I expanded it to take care of needs I had."

Saudia looked around the room. "Ones beyond the affairs of Old World politics, I assume. Otherwise I presume you would have intervened in…" she flicked a wrist. "Well, certain major world events."

"Sometimes, Chancellor," the Chronicler said. "The most difficult thing is not acting, and letting events play out. To try and hold onto an illusion of control is nothing but hubris. History needed to move, Humanity needed to grow. All I had to do was keep watch, and nudge when needed. No more."

Not unlike how EXALT had operated, though in a more subtle way. No doubt EXALT had been...part of his plan, even if it seemed that his interference had been minor. There were things she wanted to say, to express, though certainly not in front of the Pope. "Fair. It is a difficult proposition for one person. Even someone like you. Easier when there are others to maintain a burden like that."

Marcellus pursed his lips. "You're not showing me all of this out of sheer pleasantry."

"No, your role in the coming days will be paramount," the Chronicler said. "The Church wields more soft power than most, and your reluctance to use it needs to end. There is no room for half-measures, for hesitation, or for needless antagonism."

"We have been cooperating with ADVENT," Marcellus replied. "The Church declared our own crusade against the Ethereal Collective."

The Chronicler locked eyes with Marcellus. "I understand your contentions against ADVENT, but you and I know, even if Saudia may not have noticed, you have not done a tenth of what you can. What you should."

Marcellus met his gaze. "My hands are tied, Seraphim. I can only do so much under current circumstances." Marcellus glanced at Saudia.

She crossed her arms, looking at the Chronicler. "I'll need some elaboration on this, both what he can supposedly do, and what ADVENT is supposedly preventing."

"There's a storm brewing, Chancellor," the Chronicler replied. "You can't see it, but I've long learned to recognize the signs. Ideas and beliefs are starting to clash. When the time comes, everyone will be forced to give an answer. And you, Marcellus, are vital for this."

Marcellus raised an eyebrow. "I am uncertain I would ascribe that to myself, these days."

"Do not dare to downplay yourself before me," the Chronicler said, voice low. "I have not just allowed you here to tell you, I have allowed you here to show you a hint of what ADVENT has not shown you."

He snapped his fingers. The screens turned on, and showed the image of a Sovereign One, and the approximate Trask measurements. Images kept on flashing, worlds torn apart, simulations of total fleet numbers, total warship numbers, total count of infantry, thermonuclear armaments, psionic soldiery, factories, ammunition, weaponry, citizenry.

Then a glyph, and a word. 'Absolute'.

Marcellus paled, and crossed himself with a slightly wavering hand. "Lord have mercy."

"What are you doing?" Saudia hissed, alarmed as she grabbed the Chronicler's arm, the steel digits tightening around his flesh, as a cold anger filled her. "He is not to be informed of this." Her eyes burned into his calm ones, as she wondered how she was going to be able to contain this.

There were many, many people who were to be told this before the Pope of all people. He may not have been a bad man, but that did not matter at all. "Consider very carefully what you are going to share next, Chronicler. You may maintain your autonomy, but this is dangerous to share. Especially to civilians."

"I…" Marcellus stuttered, eyes wide. "This? This is what's waiting for us? All of...that?"

Marcellus's eyes went wider, as all the screens displayed one more sentence.

'Conjecture concluded.'

"Do you now understand, Marcellus, the cost of even a minute of delay?" the Chronicler said. "This friction between the Catholic Church and ADVENT is pointless, and you have billions of people who listen to your voice, who hear your words, who need foundations laid for what is to come."

Saudia was not going to let him keep ignoring her, and pulled him away. "A moment, Chronicler. We need to talk now." She was tempted to demand he shut down the images, but it was a bit late for that now.

The Chronicler turned to her, standing firmly in place, likely anchoring himself with telekinetics. She silently fumed, though was careful to keep it hidden. "You have my undivided attention, Chancellor. Speak."

Fine. She let go of his arm, and looked to the Pope. "Leave us for the moment, your Holiness. If you please. This is a matter of state security. This is also an order."

"There's a fridge with refreshments in the next room," the Chronicler said. "Get some, and bring a pair with you when you're done. Go."

Marcellus glanced between them. "I understand," he said as he walked out.

"Now," Saudia said, turning fully to him. "Please explain what you are doing?" She motioned to the display. "There are a number of people who have a need to know about this. He-" she jabbed a thumb behind her. "Is not one of them. He doesn't even possess the most basic clearances." She took a breath. "There are limits I have, Chronicler. Sharing information that less than a dozen people know is one of those limits. Explain yourself."

"One point four billion people owe religious devotion to the Catholic Church," the Chronicler answered, unperturbed. "One point four billion people, underutilized and underprepared for what is to come. Humans, Chancellor, feel before they think, and no one has better access to their hearts than Pope Marcellus. The foundations must be laid now, and time lost is time we do not have anymore, Saudia."

"Even if you are right," she said. "There are several steps we take before you tell him the existence of the Sovereigns. At minimum I would have liked you to at least tell me you wanted to share this."

"I know you too well, Saudia," the Chronicler shook his head. "I know this system you've created too well. I do not simply act out of haste, I act to force things into motion. They must be moved this way, else they would not succeed."

"Succeed in what way?" Saudia wondered. "Because we are succeeding where it matters. There is no more legitimate challenge to ADVENT. For the first time in the history of our species, we are almost completely united. If there is one thing I am unconcerned of, it is whether we will succeed."

"Long divided, the house must unite," he started. "Long united, the house must divide, an idiom as old as time. The problem with foresight, Chancellor, is what one sees, he cannot simply show to another."

She smiled. "At one point that idiom may have served relevance, but we are long past that now. We are the future of Humanity, one which will only grow stronger with time. The Commander began it, I implemented it, and whoever succeeds me will see it to completion." She released a sigh.

The Chronicler smiled. "You've grown so far, Saudia, but it is at times like these, when I hear you speak as such, that I am made more certain of these steps I now take. You have more to learn, but you will not learn this lesson, unless forced into it."

Saudia shook her head, more to clear it than anything else. "What is done is done. You have your reasons, and I doubt you're going to remove the memories from his mind. Fine. What is your ultimate purpose in all of this?"

He snapped his fingers, sets of armor were lowered from the roof. Mangled, damaged, and ancient. They had been jury rigged across the ages, and clearly had seen combat. Their metal shone a strange gold-blue.

"The armor showing up had made me realize, Chancellor, that I've been waiting for far too long now," the Chronicler waved at the sets. "And now that I can act, I will. I will act with the preparation of hundreds of years."

He pointed at the set. "Each and every one of these, Chancellor, is a reminder that haunts me. These broken relics of friends lost and bloodshed forgotten, of a war so minute compared to this one, the one where I learned everything that made me who I am. It is time the secrets are let out."

The suits were old, dented, and broken, but there was something almost familiar about them. She'd seen them before. "We found these before. The French did, technically. We took them back, since we believed they were alien technology. And very little came out of it…" she paused, as another realization came to her. "The suit with XCOM. It's one of those, isn't it?"

She was not surprised she'd forgotten the suits - it was very likely that the Chronicler had...deprioritized them in EXALT. It probably hadn't been the first time.

"The armor of a mythological figure called the King of Swords," the Chronicler said. "The sword by my side was his, my armor was based upon these, and my worst enemy - a psion that makes Patricia Trask seem petty in comparison - feared that name utterly. And now we have it, and all the technology therin."

"Assuming XCOM gets it open," Saudia muttered. "They've been having trouble."

"Temporary delays," the Chronicler said. "They'll need the sword for the final override. All the systems from this species that I have run into work on a similar principle. But first, it must be repaired."

She nodded to the sword at his waist. "I assume the 'King of Swords' referred to that? The swords of his conquered enemies?" She said it half-seriously, but was curious.

"It refers to the graveyard of armies he left," the Chronicler said. "He used their swords to make graveyards the span of farms. Thousands dead, and every last enemy he ever had, killed with not a shred of remorse. I found records of entire tribes exterminated."

He made a motion, and the image of a grave appeared over a screen. "I found a supposed grave of his, made of Hallows metal, in a Welsh forest. The inscription was 'no pity, no remorse, no fear, no mercy. No king rules except by the sword'. By all definitions, the King of Swords was an oppressive tyrant so powerful that even my worst enemy feared him utterly."

"Mmm," Saudia looked to the sword again. "A shame he failed to kill him. Curious - I have not heard of this legend before. A man that infamous should not be hidden in history, especially if true."

"Some tyrants are better left forgotten," the Chronicler breathed out. "And the weapons they unleashed, better kept out of the hands of those who would seek them. For the betterment of all, that part of history was left to die."

"Still…" she pursed her lips. "This is interesting. When all of this is done...well, there are some secrets the world should perhaps know. Put your knowledge in the realm of the buried to good use. One day, we as a species should know the truth of our past. All of it. I believe we will reach a point where we understand why secrets had to be hidden, but they should, perhaps, not be hidden forever. Not when they can no longer change things…"

She trailed off, not really sure where to take that tangent. "We've strayed from the topic. You want the Pope involved to some degree. It is best we get this over with. Bring him back in, and explain what you intend."

Chronicler nodded, and tapped his foot. "I've informed him to rejoin us. I do not think it will be long."

A minute or so later the Pope walked in, recomposed. "How did you find your refreshments?" the Chronicler asked.

"Quite good, thank you," Marcellus answered. "I...presume you have finished your discussion?"

"Yes, and I presume you understand the gravity of what was shown," she pursed her lips. "You should not have been shown it, but there is little point in rehashing it. Understand you are not to share any of what you have seen or discussed today."

"I assure you," Marcellus nodded. "I have no intention of sharing this further."

"Good," Saudia looked to the Chronicler. "Now, you showed him for a reason. What do you have in mind?"

"The Catholic Church is in a position to influence vast swathes of people to a better psychological state, and to further communities and their cooperation," the Chronicler waved at his computer. Statistics showed up.

"The war has reached a state of grinding stalemates, and the odds continually drain with our sense of hope," the Chronicler paused for a breath. "This must change, and the Catholic Church is positioned to be a fulcrum in this. A renewed sense of tomorrow, and of faith in the greater cause, must be given to the people. As it is now, the people will start to realize how hopeless this war is."

Marcellus raised a finger, gesturing slowly with it. "I have not been silent on this matter, not since I declared this most recent Crusade. However, even I cannot give hope to a people that cannot hear my words. I cannot reach the masses when I and the Catholic Church have been so limited by ADVENT."

Saudia raised an eyebrow. "Limited how, exactly?"

Marcellus stared at her, dully. "Chancellor, you are not unintelligent. You are aware of ADVENT's ownership of the major news networks, its reach and influence through social media. You control and create the narratives you want, and influence people the way you want. You have effectively pushed us to the side, and minimized us utterly, without any direct force used."

"Impressive, isn't it?" the Chronicler asked.

"Not the word I'd use," Marcellus muttered.

She considered how to answer. "I would contend that the only limitations are imagined ones. No one is stopping people from listening to your stations if they wish, nor are you disallowed from going on outlets, social media, or other places to share your message."

"You see?" Marcellus gestured at the Chancellor with an almost derisive laugh. "An entire government, of her and people like her, who are so sure of their logic and its infallibility. That I should be frustrated and dismayed with these games played at the expense of the Church and its masses, only for ADVENT to see it as merely a petulant old fool clinging to power…it is almost too much to bear."

The Chronicler raised an eyebrow. "One should not throw rocks in a glass house."

"No, your Holiness, I suspect you can see it, and you of all people know that this has been a long time coming for this mindset that has persisted throughout all of history," Saudia lifted a hand to forestall a response. "With that said, I do not want to give the impression that I am rigid. You name a problem. Propose a solution. One with details. What exactly do you want? I can tell you if you can get it."

"It would help, Chancellor, if I could be looked at as a figure of respect, and not some fool playing make-believe. ADVENT does not engender respect for those it sees as unnecessary, and it has not been subtle in its belief of religion's irrelevance. " Marcellus sternly replied. "As for the matter at hand…What I need, Chancellor, is help. I will need experts from ADVENT to help me make sense of all this. Contrary to what many believe, I do not act without due consideration, and there is much here to be considered."

"That sounds fair to me, Chancellor," the Chronicler said. "Is it not?"

Saudia ignored the jab about respect; as irritated as the Pope was right now, he couldn't really say he wasn't being taken with some degree of seriousness. The rest sounded reasonable enough. "Which experts? That is a broad topic."

"And I have been given a very broad problem to solve, Chancellor. If I am to inspire more than a billion souls to help wage a war that will surely haunt us for a very, very long time, against an enemy such as the Collective, to say nothing of this demon and its ilk," Marcellus replied, jabbing a hand at one of the still images of a Sovereign One. "I will need to know a great deal about these things if I am to properly inspire the Catholic masses."

She considered it. "Fine. You'll have them, presuming they are not so specialized we cannot spare them. For the rest, we shall see. Beyond the experts, what else…" she sighed, likely going to regret this, but might as well ask. "Your comment on 'respect'. Is that truly what you want, or do you want to be seen as you once were? The ones who judged and knew all over the unenlightened unbelievers."

"I am aware of the failings of some of my predecessors, Chancellor," Marcellus said with a note of regret. "As such, I am sure it would surprise you to know that, for a man with such humble origins as mine, I do not care for the material, nor for power. Nor do I enjoy enforcing enlightenment under the threat of the sword, as many within ADVENT seem to. I want to make the world a better place, and however much I might disagree with certain parts, I find what you've done a welcome change of the global status quo."

"But?" Saudia continued, knowing that was clearly not all of it.

"But with all due disrespect, ADVENT makes the French seem positively welcoming to those of religious persuasion," Marcellus said. "I have never been treated with such implicit contempt even when I was a homeless beggar in the streets. As if I was the very embodiment of ignorance, misinformation, and idiocy. How am I supposed to respond? How can you expect your citizens to see me as worthy of respect when your officials all but spit at my feet? "

The Chronicler's lips curled up. A humored smile.

She thought for a moment. On one hand, she could understand where he was coming from, and not be especially sympathetic. Considering the influence and power a man like him had once been accustomed to, the active mitigation of religion would be...disquieting. At the same time, she didn't disbelieve him when he said that he didn't care about the material wealth and power.

"A question, your Holiness," she finally said. "Why did ADVENT have to be the one to intervene and expose the crimes of your Church? How many decades did that persist with no action being taken?" She flicked a wrist. "Expand that question to other groups. The abuses of the LDS. The farce of Scientology. I do not need to speak about what the Caliphate was turned into."

She lifted her chin. "Over the past decades, there has been one singular, persistent force which has stood in the way of social, political, and personal progress." She paused. "I understand you feel it is unfair to be cast down as you are. But give me one reason why I should view your institution with more than the bare amount of respect due from one Human to another. Your institutions have reaped what you sowed. It will take time for that to change."

Marcellus opened his mouth to speak, however the Chronicler interrupted him.

"Because the Church is a horribly corrupt institution, and typically creates its own problems," the Chronicler said flatly. "And His Holiness Pope Marcellus, for his lofty title, is ultimately beholden to those below him. Which forces him to play politics in this esteemed house of God."

Marcellus glared at the Chronicler. "I am beginning to understand why my predecessors never spoke about you."

"Similarly," the Chronicler smiled. "You've not untethered him from playing politics, despite the fact that he is, for the first time, in a long time, surrounded by those who are like minded. A rare state for a Pope, which means that he can focus on his job, instead of running from one fire to another,"

Marcellus let out an exhausted sigh. "This is absolutely the reason why my predecessors never called you, if they could avoid it, isn't it?"

"Someone needs to remind the Catholic Church of all their flaws," the Chronicler turned to Saudia. "And all the immense work they do to better the world. Billions worth of dollars, spent on charity. Far more than any other institutions besides them. Hosting diplomatic talks. Speaking out against apartheid, against crimes, against injustice. It is far easier to see the negatives, Saudia, when you look for them."

"Unfortunately," Saudia said. "One need not look very far. Your Holiness, sincerely, had I not interfered, if ADVENT had not acted, would you ever have changed? Answer honestly."

The Pope was silent for several moments before sighing wearily. "You must understand, Chancellor, it is my duty to the Church to see to its safety. And some problems, no matter how deplorable, need time to be solved if one is to avoid doing more harm than good, a lesson I think ADVENT could-"

"He was planning on a hail mary," the Chronicler again interrupted. "They can't punish him, if he's already on the way out. Marcellus always was a politician at heart. Unlike most, he plays it naturally."

"You're reading my mind," Marcellus muttered in disbelief. "By the Lord, I am disliking you faster than I ever thought possible."

"I leave politics to those who play it, Marcellus," the Chronicler said. "Does that satisfy you, Saudia?"

She raised her eyebrow. "A hail mary?

"A polite discussion on why they should move on, pursue their duties in other, more well watched, and less politically volatile sections of the Church," The Pope said, with a remarkable degree of composure. "I've had preparations ready for when it was time for evidence I'd gathered to come to light internally. I would lose my position, but so would they, and my successor would handle the rest. Discrediting them and removing them would be trivial for said successor, given the...nature of said evidence."

Saudia looked at him closely, carefully. It sounds like something someone would say, thinking that was what she wanted to hear. Yet it had been prompted, and revealed, by the Chronicler. She did not think he would lie, and he had no reason to. If that had been something that was intended to happen…

It was easy to say, and it still didn't excuse the lack of action earlier. Yet, the Chronicler wasn't wrong about politics, much as she disliked that reasoning. It occurred to her that in nearly her entire life, she had been...unbound by the restrictions that held the others of the world. ADVENT was merely a transition to a more regulated expression of power.

Yet it was still power, and she had never shied from using it. The chains that bound the others of the world had never been placed on her. Simpler to act in smaller ways, or not act at all. The stakes were higher. One could lose their job, livelihood, or even life. Institutions were persistent and powerful, which was why she'd been liberal in authorizing their cleansing and rebuilding.

The Catholic Church may have been a corrupt institution, but perhaps she couldn't put the blame solely on him. Some, for sure, but he had likely done what most would when constrained by high stakes and fear. He had never been empowered, or been loath to embrace it. Now, though…

A glimmer of an idea came to her. She did not fully know how far he should be trusted - he was the Pope, after all - nor how much influence he really deserved. There was, perhaps, an opportunity to prove her wrong.

She rubbed her chin. "I believe you."

Marcellus groaned. "And all it took was this mind-warping mess. I'll need to pray for days for the world to make sense again."

"I'm not finished," Saudia said. "You are no longer constrained by the bad actors that once dominated your internal affairs, but despite this, and despite your cooperation, I can't help but notice that little has changed internally. You are free of the rot that gripped you - but there has been little systemic change beyond the cosmetic." She cocked her head in his direction. "Why are you holding back? What do you fear from making the change you seem to genuinely want to do?"

"Chancellor, with ADVENT's agents watching our meetings and activities for even the slightest sign of wrong-doing or further corruption, you'll forgive me if I did not decide to make any large systemic changes," Marcellus retorted, with perhaps a faint edge to his voice as he spoke. "ADVENT has made it too clear that any religious organizations must conform to their exact designs or perish. As the head of the Catholic Church, charged with overseeing millions of churches and related organizations, I have not had the opportunity to do much beyond address these demands and see to any complications that arise from it."

She nodded. "Fair. But consider this...permission, if you want to make the changes you see fit." She clasped her hands behind her back. "You will have what you need, in regards to what we discussed earlier. But if you want to actually begin changing my mind, and the minds of those like me, it starts with actions. I will never take offense at someone who tears down and rebuilds institutions for the better."

A smile formed. "I destroyed and rebuilt the supposedly immortal and immutable systems of the world. There are many who hated me, and I endured 'volatility,' to put it lightly. I can hardly blame another for taking a similar path - so long as the result is an improvement."

"Chancellor, I mean no disrespect, but you have a military millions large, a complete lack of compassion, and an impressive history of killing any and all opposition, regardless of if you should or not," Marcellus replied. "Forgive me if I am not eager to imitate your leadership. It is not one, I think, is well-suited for the Church."

Saudia might have been somewhat offended, though at the same time...he had learned quite a lot today, and it was a lot to process. He was not fully at his best, so she ignored some of his comments. "A fair perspective, I suppose."

"One I am not alone in holding," he said, looking at the Chronicler. "I do not suppose there are any more revelations you wish to bestow upon me?"

The Chronicler smiled. "Not today, unless the Chancellor has something to add?"

Saudia shook her head. "I believe you've covered quite enough. I suspect we will be in contact sooner than later."

"And Marcellus?" the Chronicler asked.

"Yes?"

"Do not steal vacation homes," the Chronicler smiled softly and manifested a portal to a higher place in the Vatican, which Marcellus departed through. "Now, Chancellor, there is one more thing you should know."

"Oh?"

"I'm going to solve the problem in Korea," the Chronicler said. "You should feel free to prioritize other regions. I'll also need a letter sent to the Collective."

Saudia smiled at that. "I'll take care of that. Good luck - though I don't think you'll need it."

"You may feel the need to schedule a speech, and get a few camera drones," the Chronicler said. "I'm going to make sure they fully understand and comprehend my letter."

"Of course. I'll have something ready, you can be sure of it."

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To be continued in Chapter 73

Precipice

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A/N: You may have noticed that the chapter name is not the one you expected, and that is because this was originally one chapter, which I split into two parts. As such, the next chapter is written and will be posted very soon. Apologies for the delay between chapters, but I think these are some of my best ones, and I think you'll enjoy them.