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Chapter Text

The Chosen Assassin was unused to silk. Dhay-Rai stared at her reflection, wrapped in red and gold and extensively embroidered cloth like a robe of blossoms. In all the days of her admittedly short existence, she hadn't imagined herself out of her armor. Especially not in a kimono. The metal beads around her neck were more familiar to her, just not in the form of adornment. She brought a hand up to them, rubbing each bead in-between her shaking fingers. Her claw-like nails, usually hidden by gloves, were chipped and cracked. One good hit would likely snap them. She'd been decaying since her last regeneration. She hadn't had the time to deal justice to those that deserted her masters since…

The door behind her slid open, allowing a Priest to enter. "My Chosen?" One of her brother's. Dhay-Rai's own attendants were in the habit of calling her by her title. "They are ready."

"I will be with them in a moment," she said, turning back to her reflection. The Priest, not one to argue, bowed and left the room in relative silence, if not for Dhay-Rai's ears picking up every last footstep. She trailed a finger over her face in the mirror. Fortunately, the rot had yet to reach it. She practiced a grin, one with her teeth showing. In her design, her teeth were sharp and bright, befitting a predator such as herself. Now they were yellowed and dulled. She hurriedly closed her mouth. She would have to take care to keep her teeth from showing. She grinned again, mouth remaining shut. It would have to do.

She followed her brother's priest out of her quarters, and soon she was flanked on all sides. Her protection was of utmost importance. She was to be crowned queen today.

They led her to the doors and took one last moment to straighten her kimono. She wished for her sword, its familiar weight. She felt as if she were missing a limb. If not her blade, then at least the Arashi. It was a weapon she held dear, as little as she used it. Crafted for her, not by the Elders-

The massive doors swung open at a glacial pace. Dhay-Rai took a deep breath and relaxed her shoulders. The entire planet had its eyes on her now. Their new queen.

The dingy hotel room was dimly lit, the flickering screen of the old television the only light as Ava half-heartedly looked through her things once again. She watched the screen far more closely. The sound system attached to the television was poor quality, on top of being old, but she heard loud and clear through the static. The coronation of Earth's new queen. It was why she'd put down the money for this hotel room, after all. Didn't want to risk getting identified as the Brown Recluse watching the proceedings on a public screen, as good as she was at feigning innocence. As of right now, there was only meaningless chatter. Anything the Speaker said was meaningless, for the most part.

Ava yawned, gently tossing an empty vial labeled "Bite" in her pale hands, ungloved, for once. It was easily the second most incriminating thing on her person, the first being the pistol concealed in her ill-fitting winter coat. She looked back at her other equipment for just a moment before the gong rang, and she looked up. 

There she was, the Chosen Assassin. Soon-to-be queen of the world. In a way, Ava had to admit, she was beautiful. Odd thing to think of one of the monsters that stalked those outside the city centers. She'd never been unfortunate enough to actually see them, but she wasn't dumb enough to think they hadn't seen her. The other two, at least. The Assassin wasn't known to operate in the Rocky Mountains.

Her back was straight and her eyes were fixed on something ahead of her off-screen as she made her way down the walkway. Priests and Peacekeepers lined the aisle, and behind them were the ADVENT officials who were lucky enough to see her in person.

Ava looked at the clock. Somewhere in this city, there was a body tainted by what was aptly called Recluse's Bite. She hoped he'd be asleep when it took effect. Even if he was a security risk to her "employers," it would be better if he just fell asleep and stayed that way. Shut down of the respiratory system wasn't the most comfortable way to go. She didn't exactly want to kill him in the first place. Especially not painfully.

The scene shifted to capture the Chosen's face and the entire world had a perfect picture of what only a few were fortunate enough to survive seeing in the past. Honestly, Ava didn't know what she expected. She'd heard that the Chosen toed the line between human and monstrosity, but she hadn't expected one to look so… regal. Her head seemed to be shaped like a skull and her glowing eyes seemed to see into her soul through the camera, but… Her expression was resolute, queenly, even. Funny thing to think about an alien warrior who wouldn't hesitate to kill her. You didn't hold the title of Assassin without blood on your hands. Ava went back to packing her things. The Peacekeepers would be looking for her soon enough. She needed to be gone when it happened.

It had been an absolutely horrible month for Cássia.

First was getting shot during the attack on the Avenger. She wasn't a soldier, she was a diplomat. A diplomat with a gun and a ton of valuable intel, but a diplomat all the same. From there it was a blur, but waking up in prison again hadn't been exactly pleasant. 

Interrogation wasn't as bad as she remembered it. She didn't lose her other eye, so that was good. Luckily for her, the Skirmishers found her sooner rather than later. Not so luckily, the Commander was gone.

Even worse, the Chosen Assassin was being crowned queen of planet Earth.

Cássia stared at the jury-rigged screen, somewhere between rage and overwhelming worry. This monster that killed so many of her friends in the Skirmishers' ranks and the human side of the Resistance would be ruling the world. She tried to stand, hissing both in anger and pain as her wounds protested the sudden change in position.

"What did Doctor Lindbeck say about standing?" Cássia turned her head to meet Betos's tired gaze. 

"I'm not standing." Cássia retorted. "I have one leg on the bed."

"And the other on the floor. Get back in bed, please." Cássia wasn't one to go against the hybrid's wishes, carefully pulling herself back under the thin blanket. Betos sat next to her, watching the coronation with a grave expression.

"Maybe she'll be too busy with ruling the world to come find us." Watching the brave leader of the Skirmishers look at the scene before her like she was watching a funeral didn't inspire confidence.

"Perhaps. It is more likely that she will take the resources meant for hunting the other Factions and set them on our trail." She sighed. "We will have to move camp again."

"Again? But we just did." On the screen, the Speaker was making some grand speech. One of the better things about living all the way out here was that his words never came through clearly.

"Because XCOM knew where we were, and now XCOM is no more." Betos stood, still watching as the crowd gave that porco ladrão applause. Cássia moved to follow before being gently pushed back down.

"I should be helping," she protested.

"You should be resting. The doctor doesn't want you walking around. He said you could start bleeding again." Cássia huffed, but stayed under her blanket. Betos watched for a few seconds more, then left, leaving Cássia to watch the coronation. The applause died down as the Assassin knelt before some form of altar as a more elaborately armored Priest than Cássia had ever seen before approached, a circlet of silver with a single, eye-catching ruby held delicately in their hands.

The Chosen Assassin. Being crowned queen of the world. The priest pressed the circlet onto her brow, and the red jewel shone in the waning orange light like a flame. Cássia turned off the TV. She'd seen enough of the future for one day.

Dhay-Rai traced over the jewel on her forehead, over the cold metal on her brow. It was almost weightless, seemingly melting into her very skin. But with it was the weight of the entire world.

"You look lovely, my Chosen." The Priest from before stood in the doorway with a datapad in hand.

"Shadowblade will suffice," said Dhay-Rai, turning to face them rather than the reflection. She gave her practiced smile. It must have been discomforting, to be answering to her rather than Fal-Hur. "Is the datapad for me?"

"Yes, my Cho- I mean, Shadowblade." The Priest handed it to her stiffly, then clasped their hands in front of them. "It is a list of the Priests in the service of the Warlock at the time of…" Their voice dwindled away into a whisper as they looked away. Dhay-Rai glanced at the list and stared at the names beside the serial numbers. Names?

"You have a name?" she asked, a touch bewildered. Her brother, who called the gun forged for him the Disruption Rifle, who controlled hundreds of nameless souls, had named his Priests?

"Y-Yes, Shadowblade." The Priest seemed uncomfortable, as if caught in wrongdoing. "As all of the Warlock's closest disciples do. I can forget it, if you wish." The expression that accompanied the notion was closest she had seen to panicking in the usually composed Priests. The idea of causing one of her new attendants to panic over something so small did not sit well with her.

"I am certain that he chose well," she said gently. "What is yours?" The Priest hesitated a moment.

"M...Melpomene," the Priest said. Dhay-Rai consulted the datapad.

"You are female?" She nodded. "Why did my brother name you after the muse of sorrow and wailing?" She wasn't the most versed in mythology of any kind, but the Muses were referenced often enough to be remembered.

"It was auspicious to invoke Melpomene, the humans said." She seemed to shrink under the queen's scrutiny.

Dhay-Rai let that sink in. "...Perhaps such promise is what this planet needs, then. Very well, Melpomene. What else do you need me for?" The Priest seemed relieved, noticeably relaxing.

"Nothing else, Shadowblade. Only the datapad." Dhay-Rai nodded.

"You may go." Melpomene bowed to her, then left. Dhay-Rai turned back to the mirror. The ruby gleamed on her forehead like a third eye, the eye of her world on her actions. So many lives in her hands…

She took a breath before turning away from its gaze. Scrolling through the names she had been given, she caught snippets of notes. Her brother's notes, on each and every one of the names.

Allergic to sagebrush, avoid sending to Southwest U.S. region.

A touch shy, do not pressure.

She's just as haunted as you are. Give her space.

Dhay-Rai set down the pad and pushed it away. She hadn't guessed her brother to be so… invested. He seemed so… cold. Aloof as he was devoted. She sighed. A bit late to discover that. 

She stood, looking for her armor. The ceremony was over, it was time to put the silk away. It was time to begin her duties, starting with fulfilling the ones she was created for. The decaying flesh of her arms was freed from the sleeves. She had delayed in dispensing justice too long. Either the Skirmishers would fall this day or she would.

Her ghosts were, mercifully, silent for the moment. Hel sat in the dark, dusty storage room in the less used portion of the Assassin's Stronghold, occasionally channeling into her psi amp to briefly illuminate the room and send shadows up the walls. It had been three weeks since her Chosen died. Now, she served his sister, pretending nothing was wrong.

"It's not your fault." The wispy, barely visible form of a human flickered on the edge of her vision as she channelled.

"I know that, Veronica." Hel tried to dismiss the ghost to no avail. The misty, purple outline remained, taking a seat on a nearby crate. Hel crossed her arms, glaring at her behind her helmet. "My Warlock is dead," she hissed. "Let me grieve in peace." Veronica rested her chin in her hands, sighing.

"Let me help. Please."

"There's nothing to help with," she snapped. "I will process my feelings, then I will serve my new Chosen with the same devotion I gave to the Lightbringer." An expression of sympathy formed on Veronica's face before dissolving again.

"You know feelings don't work like that, right?"

"Perhaps for humans."

"You're more human than you think." 

Hel scoffed. "I'm not human. Maybe you were, but you're me now." She stood, closing the gap between them. "It's been seventeen years. You know this by now." The ghost recoiled.

"Fine," Veronica hissed. "If you're so sure you can deal with it yourself, I'll leave you to it." She turned her back to her living counterpart and dissolved her form, wisps of psionics rising like smoke. Hel watched them collect around her psi amp. The Warlock had taught her how to give form to her ghosts, back when it was just Veronica and a few others. Her phantom counterpart was clever, learning Hel's tricks for herself and using them when she wanted.

In life, she would've been just as sensitive to spirits as Hel was now. Instead, she was a spirit. The ghosts began murmuring again as Veronica rejoined them. So much for peaceful mourning. Muttering to herself, Hel left the storage room. Perhaps the Shadowblade would have some task to busy herself with.

Chapter Text

It wasn't usual of the Skirmishers to go this far north. The Reapers would never stand for it. Dhay-Rai didn't usually have any reason to be up here either, the territory belonging to her brothers. It was her territory now. No amount of trekking into the tundra could save them.

She silently sprinted after the footprints in the snow, a flurry beginning to fall. It was oddly beautiful. Dhay-Rai wouldn't have thought a blank landscape of white could be considered such. It felt wrong not to stop to admire it, but she had duties to fulfill.

Certainly she could slow her pace for a moment? 

"Slow down and you will lose them." The voice in her head reminded her much of her Father's condescending tone, His constant insistence on efficiency and speed. He was right. The traitors needed to meet their swift end. She picked up her trek once again, but the blinding snow on either side of her grew deeper and deeper with each step. Even she, light enough to tread silently on even the roughest of terrains, had trouble walking over it.

The wind bit at her face as she pushed on, every strong gust threatening to shove her back. Her steps were careful, rooting her feet deep in the snow as she continued her pursuit of the rapidly disappearing trail. The gusts continued to strengthen, whipping up the snow to render her blind and whistling loudly to the point of deafening. She took a struggling step, and then another, pausing a moment to gather strength before a mighty gust sent her tumbling.

One moment she was sailing through the air, aloft like the fragile snowflakes that surrounded her. Then her hand found her sword and drew it, plunging it into the ground in one graceful movement. The resulting collision with the ground wasn't nearly so elegant, causing her decaying arms to ache and newer rot along her sides to make itself known. She pulled herself up as quickly as she could, panting and hiding her face from the winds with her arms. Surely, it would be best to retreat? Her progress was slow and even holding onto her blade was difficult. She could just go back to her Stronghold and come back when the blizzard died down.

"You were not made to quit in the face of something so inconsequential as a storm." What would Father say if she came back having been defeated by mere wind? She was the Elders' true Chosen, the only one worthy to take Earth's throne. She would not fail.

She pulled the dagger from the end of her sword and planted it in the snow. Both her blades would be horribly blunted by the time she caught up to her targets, but she would make do. She kept low, dragging herself forward by her sword, then her dagger. Every plunge of her blades into the snow beneath brought her closer to her prey. The cold air continued to tear at her exposed face, but she continued to pull herself against it. The Chosen Assassin would not fail again. Elder Atlas did not create His daughter to be defeated so easily.

It was hard to get through the snow on crutches, but Cássia figured she was doing a good enough job at dragging herself up the mountain.

She was at the back, with the older members and those that had wounds and scars of their own. Betos was behind them all, watching over all her people. Doctor Lindbeck was just a bit ahead, checking the bandages around one hybrid's arm. With luck, he wouldn't see her. She limped ever closer to him, just a little bit more and-

"Would it kill you to keep off your feet for just a few more days?" She was staring into the doctor's dark eyes, filled with absolute exhaustion. Cássia looked away.

"I'm not making someone carry me the whole way. There's enough supplies that need carrying, they don't need someone to be holding me like I'm made of glass when I can walk just fine."

"You can't 'walk.'" He said, waving over one of the stronger women to sweep Cássia off her feet.

"We are almost there!" Betos called forward. "Pass over this ridge and it won’t be far!"

“See, Calopei? I can make it the rest of the way.” The ex-lancer sighed.

"I once carried Mox for miles," she said, adjusting her grip as not to drop her. "You are like a feather compared to him, Southgate. It is no trouble to get you over a ridge." Cássia huffed, bringing her crutches up to rest on Calopei's shoulders.

Then a scream echoed from the front. Calopei immediately threw herself behind the cover of a rock with Cássia in tow, causing the diplomat to squeak as the rough movement jostled her wounds. There was gunfire, then silence; an unsettling pattern to the Skirmishers.

"It's her," Calopei growled, pulling a modified stun lance off her back. "She has an entire planet to rule, and she finds the time to pester us?" Another few screams as Cássia felt for her pistol.

"What do we do?" she asked as Calopei set her down.

"You stay here." Cássia grabbed her arm.

"You're not fighting her alone!" Calopei was already moving towards the fight, stun lance raised and ready for combat. Cássia pressed herself against the rock, trying to push herself to her feet. She was XCOM's best diplomat back in the day, the things she knew… 

She ran a hand over her eyepatch. She really couldn't stress how much she wanted to keep her other eye. The thought of another interrogation, this time at the Assassin's hands… Shaking her head, she quickly, as much as one could when their legs screamed in protest, hobbled to a larger rock where other Skirmishers were. They silently greeted her, most of them injured in one way or another.

The exception was, unfortunately, Eilan, who was shaking like a leaf as he watched for the Shadowblade.

His bandana hardly did anything in muffling his panic. "Not going back. Not going back. Not going-"

"You're not going back, Eilan." Cássia said, carefully prying the gun from his hands. Betos had said something about Eilan being a prison escapee. Cássia knew how that was. "You're going to stay right here with us, okay?"

"O-Okay," he murmured, letting Cássia take the gun as she passed him her pistol. He looked over his ripjack, kept polished and sharp. "Wait. Should- Shouldn't I have the gun?"

"You're shaking too much, you'll never get a good shot." XCOM operatives had nerves of steel. Any who didn't died in the field. "Hold down the fort, I'll be back before you know it."

"Cáss, no! She'll kill you!" But she was already gone, limping towards the sounds of battle. Everything was quiet for a moment, then another as Cássia continued to clumsily creep closer. Then another scream ripped through the silence, the cacophony of gunfire beginning again.

Cássia turned a corner, only to be greeted by orange stains in the snow and- "Calopei?" The armor had the same poor quality blue paint job, the same white stenciling of the Skirmishers' sigil, and as Cássia tore off the helmet-

"No." Calopei wasn't moving, and the snow was getting oranger by the second. Cássia frantically looked around for some fabric to stop the bleeding with, finding it in a discarded cape. Dragging herself through the snow, her fingers curled around it only for purple particles to fall around her like ash. There was a hand around her throat before she could scream, pulling her up to meet glowing eyes burning with hatred. The Chosen Assassin regarded her the way Cássia would a chair she stubbed her toe on.

"You won't be getting away so easily this time, Ambassador." Cássia tried to kick at her as the glow in her eyes became brighter, psionics beginning to surround them like a raging storm. Cássia's feet only barely reached to the Shadowblade's chest, her toes getting just the tiniest bit of force across. Her struggling did nothing, held in the air as she was. She couldn't even cry for help. She looked into the Assassin's tempestuous eyes, trying her best not to imagine what the dungeons of her Stronghold looked like.

Then the Chosen was shrieking and Cássia was falling to the ground.

It only took a few seconds to get her bearings, even with the pain of hitting the snowy floor face first from seven feet up. Calopei was still on the ground, but there was no one else to be seen. No trace of the Assassin nor whatever caused her to drop her. Cássia supposed she would have to take her chances.

Grabbing the cape again, she scrambled back to her friend. There was an angry shriek from the Shadowblade not far away and the muffled sound of unfamiliar gunfire. Cássia clumsily pressed the fabric to Calopei's wound, looking around nervously. If she picked up her gun, then she couldn't apply pressure to the wound. The sounds of combat came closer. Cássia's heart hammered louder and louder.

A bullpup fired and the Assassin gave a dying scream, bright light leaping into the clouds moments later.

Cássia practically cried in relief. She hardly noticed the footsteps approaching. Her head snapped up to see Betos, half dead and coated in orange blood, almost certainly not all hers. But the more surprising thing was the one supporting her.

A Reaper. She stared for a moment.

"Hey, Cássie…"

"...Jack?"

Of course, Atlas's Chosen was the one to bring the Commander back. Him and his perfect Assassin.

The Warlock's body hadn't been moved since it was placed in cold storage. Idunn didn't think her son would ever require a crypt, but here he was. Disappointing.

Idunn ran a spectral hand over his burnt back, practically char in some places. She had made him able to regenerate from anything the humans could possibly muster against him, only to end his existence herself.

Oh, the irony.

She'd been so proud when he was first born, for he was so young, with such starry eyes that looked at her like she was all he needed. It felt good to finally be appreciated for her hard work.

Then, his "teenage years" came. She did not tolerate talking back. She kept her son in tip top shape, counseled him, directed him, unlike Atlas who let his daughter influence his decisions, and Jupiter who was too busy sulking to care about what his Hunter did.

For all of Atlas's griping about being the only one who really did anything, Idunn couldn't help but notice how often he slunk away to his own corner of the Void, doubtlessly running off to his emotional partner. Idunn scoffed, trying to ping Atlas's location. She got something even more disappointing.

The Assassin, Chosen Ruler of the Earth, had been defeated in combat within one week of her coronation.

Idunn knew this would happen, the Assassin had failed like this before. This was a pattern for her, and just because she retrieved the Commander did not mean she was…

The Elder took a handful of her son's white hair and pulled it back over his burnt shoulders. Some of the burns had wrapped around to his chest.

Her son should've taken the throne, not Atlas's weak excuse for a child. There was too much of Titivillus in her to be fit to rule. How Atlas tolerated his spouse from before the Procedures was beyond her, but even kept at an arm's length his influence had corrupted the Assassin, all that Atlas had said about her being the perfect, emotionless ruler made erroneous.

Atlas would make some excuse about how that was how he meant it to be, all part of his "grand design." Idunn knew better, knew very well that he had as much control over the Shadowblade as Jupiter had over his Darkstalker. The Assassin would end up exactly like her defiant brother, mark her words. Then the others would see that the throne had always belonged to a good, obedient child.

The Dawnkiller shouldn't be resting in a tomb.

Right on schedule, the ADVENT convoy arrived with its horde of troops and holier-than-thou officials. Harper watched them pass, walking in like they owned the place, like they weren't here because ADVENT was blind against the larger Factions without the Market's intel.

Every month, another convoy, another few hours of haggling. Days like these, Harper was glad she was just a scavenger. Trying to balance turning a profit and not bringing the fiery wrath of ADVENT down on the place was not a kind of stress she wanted, not when all she wanted to do was translate this diary, inexplicably written in ADVENT. 

Harper knew a lot of languages, but not ADVENT, and this particular sample was left by a missing member of the market who left before she even knew this place existed. The only speaker of ADVENT they had. She hadn’t translated without prior knowledge of a language in ages. She didn’t even have scraps of a dictionary to help her out! The shadow looming over her shoulder wasn’t very reassuring, either.

“Can I help you?” she asked, closing the book over her hand to mark her spot. She met the eyes of a sock puppet of a man, face seemingly scrunched up and wrinkled. Or would’ve, if not for the dark glasses. His suit was black and red, and his expression thoroughly disinterested. 

ADVENT. 

Fantastic.

"Where did you get that?" he asked with a voice that was surprisingly soft. 

"None of your business," Harper snapped. He tilted his head and Harper almost swore she heard him hiss.

""I find myself in the company of scavengers and sneaks to rival the Reapers."" He gestured to the diary. "Interesting sentence, especially written in ADVENT."

"...That's really what it says?" She almost opened the diary again before she remembered what she was dealing with. "It's still none of your business, Mr…?"

"Ambassador Wallace," he said, mouth twisted into a smirk. Harper's heart sank. "I believe we will be getting better acquainted during my time here, improving relations with the Market. Perhaps I could be of service in translating-"

"I can do it myself," she snapped, standing.

"Can you?" They stared each other down, waiting for the other to back off. Harper's pride wasn't having that.

"I don't need a government slimeball to do my job," she hissed, promptly turning on her heel to make for her quarters. She chanced a glance back at the ambassador, only to see him watching her as she stormed off. A chill ran through her spine. She would be looking into hiding the diary that night.