For such a long time, Annette spent nights envisioning what it would look like to stride into City 17, banners waving, the citizenry looking upon her and the others with a mix of envy and hope. The Breen screens would come crashing down in their wake as the metrocops cast down their weapons and begged for salvation, whilst in the fire-kissed horizon the Citadel smoldered in ruin.

Of course, while Point A and Point C in the plan made sense and were quite clear, the middle bit always seemed so foggy. Really, it was a miracle that there could be any resistance at all, given that the knew the exact scope of their foe; an all-encompassing, faceless entity that already smothered several universes beneath itself, heedless as they slowly stopped struggling. First we resist. Then … something. Then the Citadels will burn.

The Elders gave her the Point B Annette had always wanted, if never quite envisioned. She sat there on the train, dreaming, clutching a briefcase full of lies and thunder, body bathed in a freshly decontaminated (and then promptly re-dirtied) jumpsuit. The Combine's scanners revealed nothing. They still did not quite realize how quickly their methods could be scoped out and their reactions anticipated. They were just not quite alive enough to react as a thinking sapient would. They simply possessed rote response; mandated protocols for any given situation. Adaptation would come slowly. Slow enough for the Elders to tip the scales just enough. Annette's grip around the briefcase tightened. The train's brakes began to scream.

One man waited at the door, swaying gently with exhaustion, a suitcase stuffed with fading photos of dead loved ones. He stank of sweat and cheap whiskey. Annette reached out and felt the embers of hope, long cool. He did not have enough fight in him to seek out the Resistance, and not even enough energy to seek oblivion in Civil Protection. He just waited, wearily, for the moment a bullet would catch him in the back of the head, or an electric truncheon knocked him down before he awoke, blinking, on the last train he would ever take.

Nova Prospekt. As the train pulled into the station, ill-maintained wheels protesting the roughness of the rusted rails, the two words came into bleary focus within Annette's mind. It felt as subtle yet all-encompassing as the body's pulse – listen closely enough and you could hear it, but it had been present all along. A threat. A promise. Even Civil Protection stood with their backs to that train, and only the Overwatch could bear to see it off. To the citizenry … well.

They never take people from City 14 there. The furtive thoughts of the single dirtied individual lingering at the other end of the train, torn bag held to his chest. They always said this was where they send the prospective stalkers. Oh God. Oh God. The bag began to rise and fall quickly as the man began to hyperventilate. Annette wished she could reach out, physically or otherwise, let the man know all would be well. But she could only sit there, a small smile playing at her lips. Perhaps he would be lucky. If not, perhaps she would be quick enough. Regardless, few enough trains left City 17 unscathed these days. My prayers go with you … Roger Dabrowski.

The train stopped and Annette rose. The gentleman at the door (Arthur Freeman) gave her a bleary-eyed look before stumbling out of the opening doors and down the steps. City scanners drifted by, cameras flashing as the three of them stumbled, blinking, into the wide-open station. From above, Dr. Breen smiled down at them all as they entered the city he was so proud to call his home. Annette's lips twitched. The hatred had metamorphosed to scorn. He did not know what he was up against – he could barely grasp the scope of his own ignorance. Yet it was that ignorance that would buy the Elders the time they needed.

Annette walked through the terminal in a daze, her eyes only half-focused. City Protection watched the citizenry scuttle past them with the eyes of predatory birds, intensely aware of each movement, calculating the precise time to dive. One looked her way, his freshly implanted false memories click-click-clicking as they skidded across Annette's face. He remembers someone like me, a loved-one kept safe by the Combine. Family cohesion preserved. The machine met the heart and rebounded. Enough remained of the officer to understand sentimentality. He looked away from Annette, because she reminded him of a woman who never existed.

Chains and irons. A vortigaunt pushed a broom across the filthy floor of the station, his neck and hands chained by heavy metal. His head felt swollen and his vision felt distinctly blurry, as if afflicted by the mother of all colds. The Vortessence could not touch this one – all that remained could be described as a fond but distant and painful memory. The vortigaunt pushed the discarded Chinese food packages stiffly, eyes downcast, his mind directed to memories of green lightning and great rocks floating in an improbable void. Annette walked on, through the turnstile, past a woman who clung to the metal wire and called out if anyone had seen her husband on the train. She's been here too long. Annette tallied another atrocity for the Combine to answer for.

"Don't drink the water," said an older man waiting on a table covered with bottles. "They put something in it, to make you forget." But part of us remembers, even through the dull haze of drugs. She brushed past him, one sleeve skirting his. He gasped as the memories came flooding back, forehead slamming into the table as the electricity flooded his brain. Annette smiled at first, until she heard the sobs. He forgot he drank it deliberately. When she looked back, he was limping towards the trains, reaching for the machine for Breen's Private Reserve.

A cage of twisted wire stood before her. To the left, interrogation and Nova Prospekt. Straight ahead, "freedom," such as it was. Dr. Breen leered down at her here as well, teeth flashing in the brightness of the screen. Her companions from the train groped at the chain link, stomachs churning, wondering if this was the end. Annette glanced behind her, at the list of arrivals and departures. Delayed. Delayed. Delayed. The entire shutter screen covered up and down with red. Their doing. She was ready.

The cage wound round and round. The line before her shrunk with every footstep. A man directed left, face pinching. No one stopped him for interrogation. He simply proceeded, heart hammering, through the second chain link exit, breath catching in his throat, never to be seen again. A lady, hair drawn up in a greasy bun. She trudged straight onward, barely cognizant or caring of CP's disinterest. Annette followed her.

A flash of attention. Annette lowered her head and smiled as the CP officer, bereft of false memories to stop him, lifted his stun baton, preparing to jerk it towards Nova Prospekt … only to stop dead, hand trembling. Annette held it in place without even turning around, her mind snaking around his, coiling tighter and tighter. With a cry he stumbled backwards. The vomit came up bloody, spraying against the inside of his gas mask. Annette carried on, grinning, as his fellow officer began barking to Overwatch, heedless of the true cause of his fellow's distress. Annette paused at the top of the steps, waiting. The flatline came suddenly, like the song of angels. She continued forward.

The short hallway gave way to the entrance to the depot. Ahead, another office, chest thrust forward like some bird showing off its plumage, a scene from some old movie about state troopers in the U.S. playing in his head. He saw her approach. No false memories crowded his mind. He was still human enough to feel boredom. He reached out with his arm, baton laid straight against a can lying precariously atop a rubbish bin. He swept it forward. The can fell with a clatter. Annette looked up now, giving the CP her widest grin.

"Pick up that can." Her voice came low, and yet somehow it still echoed. The metrocop stiffened, his own mouth agape beneath his mask, yet the words did not come. Mind reeling yet still somehow complying, he reached down awkwardly, like a puppet trying to bow. His glove scraped against the dirtied floor as he scooped up the tin can.

"Now, put it, in the trash can," said Annette quietly.

The metrocop stood bolt upright. His hand jerked over to the lid of the rubbish bin like a malfunctioning sprinkler. With a gasp, he released his grip. The can fell straight down into the bin, with a muffled crinkle of metal on plastic.

"All right," whispered Annette, "you can go."

The metrocop chuckled wheezily before slumping against the bin, disoriented and nauseated. Annette brushed past the shuddering police officer, weighing whether to give the final push or not and switch him off like one would a light when leaving the room. No. Too much that's still human. The memory would linger. If he was smart, he would not call it in. As it stood, he was not in much condition to do anything for the moment.

Further away from the train station, the promise and threat turned from Nova Prospekt to hunger. Freedom, such as it was, came with it certain expectations. Namely, the ability to withstand suffering and discomfort. Citizens waited for the dispenser to provide the latest in grain and beans, knowing all too well that metrocops were routinely rationed chocolate and sausage. Once upon a time, humanity would not have been able to put a price on its own memories. Now they could be weighed out in ounces of imitation meat.

Annette did not have time to linger. She remained uncertain just what kind of food currently curdled in her own belly, only that it was plentiful and good, as the Elders had promised. She rounded the corner without any of that hollow rumbling. The double doors waited. She resisted the urge to open them with something other than her hands.

The Citadel dwarfed everything around it. Wires ran up to it from the city like massive feeding lines. She still did not know whether it pulled power from what was left of the Bulgarian power grid or delivered it via those lines. Perhaps it was best not to dwell on what would be lost once the Combine were gone. Elerium would almost certainly be good enough to replace whatever energy might be lost with their absence.

Dr. Breen flashed another smile from his own, smaller tower at the center of the screen. Yet his eyes looked more crinkled than Annette remembered, either from age or worry. She wished she could hear his thoughts, understand his justifications. Instead, all she could feel was static. All she could hear was bluster.

"…that occasionally we require reminders of how far we have come as a species, climbing out of that dark pit of ignorance," said Dr. Breen, all white teeth and unwrinkled clothing. "It is tempting to look upwards at those peaks of knowledge and plenty and succumb to that yearning hollowness we all feel when we realize our own incompletion. We convince ourselves that sliding backwards into the familiar darkness is the only thing that will bring us comfort, knowing that even if we cannot see, at least it is familiar and warm."

I look around and I do not see progress. A metrocop guarded the half-open door to some kind of store. He shifted towards the entrance to obscure the kneeling figures within, the gun barrel pointed at the back of their necks. Up ahead, one of the blue steel walls barred the path down the street, a buzzing blue field barring progress. A technological marvel, truly. The ground trembled. For the first time, Annette reached out in tremulous curiosity for a strider.

Ponderous. Aloof. Cantankerous. Whatever trace of the creature that made up the strider could no longer be discerned from what Annette felt. Each step came deliberately, each sweep of its nose gun meant both for effect and surveillance. It loved the way the citizens looked up at it, before their eyes inevitably swept downwards to the spikes at its feet. It loved the way the crowds parted. Its brain, rewired and crosswired and haywire, itched for day it could unleash its warp cannon again. Feels more like a bladder than a brain. Merde. It longs for a release.

So, that was to be the fate of humanity. Elongated and stretched thin until only the vaguest sense of authority and bloodlust remained. If anything, the current Overwatch felt too dignified and grounded if the strider was the Combine's premier synth. Perhaps the hunters and gunships … no, too much to hope for.

Annette glanced behind her. Scanners flitted across the plaza, quietly taking their count. Airwatch is going to report a miscount soon. She needed to get to an apartment complex. To her right, an alley, fenced off … but a ladder leading up to a small catwalk occupied the building's wall, just atop a dumpster. Annette climbed it with one hand while the briefcase occupied her other. She mounted the catwalk and dropped down, quickly. The Combine were always slow to rouse, but they were already on alert for people like her. People that looked like her. Citizens who are not citizens.

Annette rounded the corner. A gaggle of citizens waited to her right, anxiously watching the apartment down the lane from them, past the long derelict playground.

"This is how it always starts," said one, voice hushed, "first the building, then the whole block."

"They have no reason to come to our place," replied the other, shrugging.

"Don't worry; they'll find one!"

Annette brushed past them. Perfect. No one will get in trouble that isn't already … doomed. Perhaps her actions could save them. They had to know it was time to run.

Up ahead, two metrocops guarded the main entrance, watching this strange woman eye them without fear. Tempting as it was to make a scene, she needed to access the building quietly, without their compatriots on the alert. A single door on the left provided the opening she needed. Annette strolled inside, heart picking up the pace. She heard the CP call in to Dispatch as she entered.

"Overwatch, possible 10-70 at my 10-20."

"Confirmed. Airwatch is reporting possible miscount. Recalibrate socio-scanners and hold."

Not much time. Annette hurried up the steps of the tenements, trying not to inhale the dust and mold. As the wood creaked and groaned under her wait, she heard banging from up ahead. As her head crested the stairwell to the first floor, she arrived just in time to see a metrocop kick out the hinges, pistol in hand. The CPs disappeared inside the room in a chorus of crashing wood and breaking glass, but mercifully no gunshots.

To her right, the door had already been kicked in, the sounds of a Breencast emanating from within. And there it is. Annette ducked inside, wrinkling her nose from the fumes of alcohol. A single gentleman, thoughts languid from drink, glanced up from his bottle at the table.

"Was that you knocking?" he mumbled before turning back to his home brew. "Didn't know we still had a door." Annette glanced back at the conspicuous absence of door behind her. Poor man. Poor everyone. The television waited on the tabletop, hooked up to a wall socket. And of course, the wall socket ran to the nearest power station, which ran to the Nexus, which ran … to the Citadel. Centralization. The Combine's strength. And also their vulnerability.

Annette reached back with her mind. The metrocops were occupied with their beatings, the blood glistening on the barrels of their guns. She opened her briefcase without hurry, reaching back for the small data packet. She placed it gingerly on the back of the television, where it attached with the slight sound of suction. Time for a pirate broadcast.

But first, there came the matter of guaranteeing the stay of sentence for humanity. A battleship showing up over a city? It would end in either the destruction of the battleship or the sudden annihilation of the Earth courtesy of a superportal. But … if it were preceded by a spectacle, one showcasing the best of humanity showcasing her new talents…?

"It must be you, child," the Elders had intoned, fingers damp with holy oils as they brushed her temple, "only you can deliver your species from this fate. We must escalate, but first we must show these Harvesters – let them see you as we see you."

Ascend.

Annette reached out and felt the fear and heartbreak, as well as the mistrust and sadism. Humanity, all bound together and stomped down by one massive boot. A single system, perpetuated for God knew why. And today, the system would receive a shock. Annette marched down the hallway without fear, towards the stairs. She stormed up them, the hair raising on her arms and neck.

"Attention residents: miscount detected in your block. Cooperation with your Civil Protection team permits full ration reward."

Boots pounded from downstairs, shadows visible on the landings. The snap of stun batons filled Annette's ears. They were coming. Annette began to run. Citizens gaped as she passed, some pointing, others beginning to yell, covering their ears and waiting for the end.

"Head for the roof!" shouted one woman, but Annette had no idea if it was meant for her or not. Her mind was filled with light, with anticipation. She reached the final set of stairs, coming face to face with a trio of metrocops. With a twitch, his stun baton came to life. Annette flashed him a smile and bolted up the final flight, emerging at long last in the broken attic.

"Individual – you are charged with socio-endangerment level: One," droned Overwatch dispatch. "Please confirm social status with local protection team immediately."

Annette vaulted nimbly over the broken section of the attic wall. Now she stood under open skies, the roofs beneath her, the sun warming her face. She took a few steps backward, arms wide, the tile clicking beneath her sneakers. She waited, hands empty, mind brimming. This is it. Am I what they wanted? A New One?

Across the way, on the other rooftops, shadowy figures watched from behind chimneys, hidden weapons clutched to their chests. They, too, awaited the display the Elders had spoken of, the manifestation of their salvation's arrival. Annette waited, smile splayed across her sun-browned face. From the stairs below, metrocop after metrocop sprinted up the steps, kneeling with their weapons at the ready, none yet daring to fire. From above, a single scanner descended, clicking. Annette did not even blink as the camera flashed.

"Attention ground units: Airwatch has verified miscount. Behavior consistent with anti-citizenry. Administer final verdict."

The team leader lifted his hand and pointed. Annette clenched her hands into fists, purple energy flashing. The muzzles flashed, and the air distorted with hidden energy. So, this is what it feels like. The bullets whizzed by her, their marks true, but their paths sent haywire by the telekinetic field. She could not quite catch and send them back, but she could certainly make them a menace to passing pigeons.

Tile shattered and bullets flew. Annette stood there, teeth gritted, holding the field, knowing this would not be the hard bit. More city scanners emerged from behind chimneys and further down the street, drawn to the spectacle. Almost as one, the CP's guns went click.

"Overwatch, anomalous energies detected. Suspect is uh, antibiotic resistant, repeat, resistant."

Annette, a single drop of blood falling from her nose, smiled wide. The magazines clattered to the floor. This is the moment. She reached out, to the team leader, to the team, to every bloody metrocop in the building, then the block. She screamed, feeling as if every muscle in her body were told to power clean a freight train … yet still she pushed.

The telekinetic field faded away … something else took its place.

"Overwatch, we've got-"

A chorus of screams. Blood ran from noses and ears and mouths and eyes. Hearts shuddered and stopped within chests. Metrocops danced like drunken wretches before collapsing, spasming as their brains smoldered. Annette screamed loudest, a scream which rent the air in twain. A chimney burst in a shower of bricks as it hit resonance, sending shards of mortar in all directions. Birds fell from the sky. The scanners burst as one, their feeds abruptly cut. Then, finally, as Annette fell to her knees, gasping, the air fell heavy and silent. Then, as one, every single metrocop in a mile's square radius let out one, lengthy flatline. Annette looked up at the sun, wiping the tears of blood from her own eyes.

Mon dieu. It is done. Elders, it is done.

"Oh my God." Annette did not have the energy to turn around, nor to even read a single mind. She just knelt there, waiting for her friends across the rooftop. Footsteps echoed across the broken tiles. A warm hand grabbed her shoulder.

"Are you okay?" Annette looked up. She knew that face. Alyx Vance, face pinched with concern. She gave a little gasp when she saw Annette's face. "No, you're not okay. What the hell was that?"

Annette stood unsteadily, the blood now smeared across her lip and brow. She grabbed Alyx's shoulder.

"You should leave," she rasped. "Your teleporter. You should leave." Is it ready? I didn't know, I didn't know their lab was so close…

"I'm not going anywhere without…" Alyx stopped, glancing past Annette. She drew a pistol from her jacket, lightning fast, trained on what Annette knew were her friends.

"They're with me," said Annette, raising a shaky hand.

"They're not human," replied Alyx, gun not moving from where she pointed it.

"Neither are vortigants. Both want to help." Annette shrugged. "But only they could help me do … this."

Klaxons sounded, and not just in the distance. Far off in the horizon, the plates of the Citadel started to shift. Artillery no longer cut it. They needed surveillance, and quickly. Annette could not help but laugh, openly, until it turned to coughing. A gob of bloody phlegm splattered against the roof.

"We must leave, New One," hissed a friend. "What are we to do with this?"

"Leave her." Annette turned to the trio of thin men, their own plasma rifles pointed squarely at Ms. Vance's face. "We have done our part in this fight." She looked back curiously at Alyx. Will you do yours, Ms. Vance? Alyx blanched as she realized Annette's lips had not moved.

"How…"

Tell them what you saw. What you saw me do. And then … Annette giggled. Tune in. You'll see a familiar face.

A thin man wrapped his arms around her. She fell into his embrace without reserve, muscles sagging. They lifted her up and up, while Ms. Vance became small and insignificant yet again, left alone to her own doubts.

From rooftop to rooftop they leapt, all turning into a blur of concrete and far-off streets flashing by. From above, the Citadel exposed its ribs. Scanners emptied from its depths. But they were too late, too late. The thin men set her down at the city's walls. A green light beamed from above. Annette laughed at the weightlessness, as they sucked her up and up, home to the Elder's loving arms.

He floated there, all four arms exposed, two pressed at his masked temple, the other two outstretched to Annette. After a moment's hesitation, she embraced his bony form, felt the curious strength of his limbs.

"Child, my child," murmured the Elder, his tone proud and hungry. "For so long we have looked. For so long we have lingered. For so long we have lost. And now you are here. Transcendent. Magnificent."

Annette stepped back, knees shaking. The Elder gestured to the sectoid helmsmen, who were already maneuvering the UFO away at great speed.

"It is time. Let the New One gaze upon the fruits of her labors, at our formal declaration of war."

"If only I stood in the plaza," said Annette, voice hoarse. The Elder chuckled.

"Ah, child. When next you return there, I promise you, it will be as a conqueror. Now…"

The ship computer head's up display enlarged, shifted to the center of the UFO. Dr. Breen stared down at them, all smiles and reassurance. Then the image flickered once, twice. The ADVENT logo flared amidst the static. Across City 17, even as far as she was, Annette felt the surge of panic … and of elation.

"Attention City 17," said Speaker Odessa Cubbage, stepping into view with the ADVENT logo at his back, mustache freshly trimmed, blue eyes alive with cheeky energy. "The ADVENT administration regrets to interrupt your usual broadcast. We are here to announce our presence on this planet. Your liberation is nigh. Stay tuned for further announcements. We will be in touch."

Odessa smiled, head turning off-camera. Then he looked up, as if addressing God.

"As for the gentlemen in the City 17 Citadel, I would direct your attention to recent footage. Your path for progress for our people is, to put it politely, piss-poor, and passing over the potential we possess. Be aware that we will be coming for you soon. And we have so much more to show you, as we try our own hand at nation-building."

Odessa smiled, spreading his own arms wide.

"The ADVENT administration officially announces its presence here on planet Earth. This is now contested ground. Look for our Elders – their struggle is our struggle. Their wisdom is our wisdom. Their power is our power. They are our new benefactors … but I think this exchange is more than fair."

"Be ready, gentlemen. We are coming. No…" Odessa leaned into the camera, brow furrowing.

"…we are already here."

The atmosphere rippled. The first of the ADVENT's transports began its shaky journey towards the unsuspecting City 14, its payload full of hate. Part of Annette felt a stab of pity.

The rest rejoiced in their coming, for this was to be the time of the ADVENT.

The end was nigh. Then, the beginning.