FILE 215903 DATA RECONSTRUCTION FROM ADVENT NETWORK INCURSION SUBJECT ADVENT CHOSEN "ASSASSIN"

ACCESS DENIED. PERMISSION LEVEL "THETA" REQUIRED.

… … …

SECURITY LOCKOUT OVERRIDE BY TWO TO ONE MAJORITY.

ACCESSING LOG FILE …

[2029.04.15] Although the accelerated growth rate exhibited by subject ADVENT CHOSEN "Assassin" is on par with expectations for cloned individuals using current methodology, expectations for the readiness of her final form may be optimistic to say the least. While all efforts have been made under the current doctrine to avoid the intrinsic issue found in past subjects ADVENT CHOSEN "Hunter" and ADVENT CHOSEN "Warlock", the additional care required is inherently more time consuming than the previous developments.

If our highest priority is to instil an utmost respect for the Elders' authority, then we must put that before all other concerns.

[2029.06.06] … she has so far performed beyond expectations in terms of the current doctrine's goal of respect and focus before all as evidenced by the pattern of brain activity –

Click. "I'm not sure why we need a baby sister."

"Evidently our masters are finding your skills lacking, brother. They are disappointed in you."

"Is that so? Wonder what that says about you, considering I was Chosen as well. And now her. Let us team up. You subdue the priests and I'll cut off her head the second she drops out of the tank. We don't need this. We don't need her."

"Restrain yourself, for once in your miserable life. If the Elders have saw fit to bless us with a sibling, we welcome her into this world with a loving embrace."

"Hmm. I can tell you're thinking about it, though."

"Silence."

Our child.. can you hear Us?

… Yes …

You are to awaken soon .. You will be the instrument for Our will. You shall have no desire, no arrogance, only a duty to Us. You, among billions, are Chosen. You shall execute the unfaithful and the dissidents without consequence. You shall heed no law but Our word. You shall not fail Us.

… I shall not fail …

You brother, the Elder, will guide you. Your brother, the Older, will test you. Yet you shall best them, for you are Our favourite. A creation made in Our likeness, you are the embodiment of Our perfection.

… I will not fail …

Go, awaken now. In due time, this world shall be yours. This, We promise.

When the Assassin takes her first breath, it is not in the form of a wailing cry of an infant spending their first seconds in the world. She already knows five hundred different strategies on the field of battle. Innately, she can call upon the knowledge of blademasters and soldiers both alien and human. Her first independent thought is escaping the sceptic tank she is suspended in and correctly analysing the flaw in the material of the glass.

But she needn't bother, as the fluid drains slowly. Distant alarms cry around her, bathing the room in a red glow that bounced off scientists and the armoured figures of – Brothers. She understood, in a primal sort of way, that they were her brethren. The protective glass peels back, letting her fall forward. Unsupported by the liquid, the cables plugged into the sockets of her suit rip out. One by one, her weight pulls her free and she lands her first step in a perfected crouch.

She did not ask who she was nor where she was, for she already knew. The words of those celestial beings floated in her mind. Jax-Mon Balladhur. Assassin. Wraithmaiden. That is what they called her. And thus, so she would be known.

" .. subject is showing cognitive function, no signs of shock or disorientation. .."

The Assassin rises from her crouch. She does not need anyone to teach her how to walk. There were a set of finely crafted blades waiting for her, presented nicely on a stand and she smooths her finger across the flat of the dagger. Wielding both the short sword and it's longer cousin, she flourishes them in a test of weight – before sharply throwing the smaller at her older brother.

It sticks into the Darklance, pierced through the red generator of kinetic bolts, rendering it disabled. He reacted quick – either he die or his weapon take a hit and he chose the latter. She charges forth to her elder, long sword brandished, one arm out stretched defensively. She barely managed to cross the length of the room before a blast of psionic energy hit her square in the chest and pinned her to the floor.

"She's feisty, I'll give her that much." the older muses, gripping the dagger's hilt and yanking it out of his rifle. He inspects the damage done with a scowl, letting the masterful weapon of the Assassin clatter to the floor. The lance was slung to rest on his spine, pistol now drawn out of principal.

She writhes on the floor. The first instance of pain she felt. She knows it will not be the last. She knows it will be worse, should she fail. The Elder deems her punishment sated and the psionic shackles lift. Priests flock to her. One to her left. One to her right. Children of children. She accepts their outstretched hand of aid because if they are favoured, so she must too dote on them.

"We are not your enemy, sister." tells the Warlock. "The gods must be pleased at how eager you are to begin your service in their name. Come, greet your siblings. You are one of us, now."

The Assassin stands tall. The priests at her side barely come to her ribs and when she moves, the air itself carries each step. No noise. Not even a breath, or the rustle of fabric. She is spindly limbs and impossible flexibility, weaving through the reeds. She moves to her brothers not in battle, but in peace.

"Dhag-Il Vallinar." she greets her Elder. He has the decency to dip his head, however imperceptible. A semblance of genuine care. She knew he saw her as insignificant. She bore no threat to him and therefore was nothing. She will prove him wrong. She was the beloved child of the Elders. Not he.

"Dhag-Mai Madron." she greets her Older. He sneers, full of humanity's worst traits. She knows he does not want her. A brimming hatred for something that has only existed in the world for three minutes. She felt void, for him. She did not care.

"I will slaughter you both myself if you dare interrupt my work." She smiles, all teeth, no love. Empty. She pushes past their tense bodies to sweep down and collect her dagger, letting it slide back into the hidden compartment of her sword. Her purpose is as clear as the first breath she took. She is to assassinate those of ADVENT that grow too independent. Too self-aware. She would be their knife in the dark. The silent ushering into the darkness. The forever quiet.

"So I take that's a 'no' for family game's night then?" the Hunter bit. She does not see him align his pistol directly to her retreating form – the back of her head still adorned with the dreads of tangled wiring and tubing. She hears it in the wind, he's so loud, so annoyingly, obnoxiously grating and loud. The inaudible click of the Darkclaw's safety was like a thunderclap to her senses.

Her blade sung as it sliced through the air, deflecting the horrible crack of the Darkclaw's bolt. The Assassin decided that the look of affront the Hunter now wore was a greater pain than she could ever inflict physically. His aim was blessed by the Gods and yet she was the cause of his blunder. She neatly slips her sword back into it's sling. She does not insult him. She feels no desire to. She must go to the place of power that calls to her.

The Assassin looks at the sarcophagus. Her tomb of power. Pulsating with the very energies of her master. She bows her head in deep reverence towards it, imagining that They can see her. She is lulled into a security, amidst the hum of psionic, in her own personal sanctuary. She slides to sit, cross-legged, like a child in pre-school before it. But it holds greater purpose than mere childish obedience.

She is a lotus flower and she relaxes. Opens herself up to the powers. Let darkness wash over her vision as she exhales slowly. For as long as she remains loyal to Their cause, They would not let her perish. Even in failure, Their love for her is too strong. She knows this.

A disturbance.

"Who?" she demands, rising with blade drawn, body crouched like a wild cat ready to spring. She can see figures – troops. ADVENT soldiers, she believes they are. A mangled strand of alien-and-human genetics. No, no. A perfection of spliced DNA; harmonic. One is clad in red and caped with the decoration of an officer. A Priest, in similar garb though in white, by his side. It is the Officer that speaks first.

"Defence Captain Fiducia." He answers. Though reluctant, he follows the Priest's example by lowering to a kneel. The Assassin does not care for such respect towards her. She would have it earned on the field of battle than given merely because she is the child of Gods. " – We have been anticipating your arrival for many years, Chosen. Our masters have built this stronghold for you; and gifted us along with it to ensure it's security and safe keeping."

"It is your home away from home," the Priest confirms, soft-spoken, rising from her prostration. ".. and your base of operations. You may utilise this and us how you wish."

"Neither of you are to come into this chamber again, not unless it is a swift death you seek." she warns, blade pointed at them both. She approaches and they are bred not to fear. Even if death was staring down at them, they stood, unless ordered otherwise. She felt more of a kinship with these soldiers than she did her blood-brothers. "If you wish to contact me, the.. Who are you?"

"Mystic Hecate."

"Mystic Hecate will call for me. You are capable of this, or do I need to poach a follower from my brother's flock?"

The choice of words did not deter the Priest. "What you wish, I will do."

"Acceptable." The Assassin sheaths her katana. When raised to her full height, they were more than easily dwarfed. Everything must look up to her. A deity. She would prove her status in battle soon. Although she did not see herself being much of a commander, she would do her best to order this small army at her disposal. She could feel every life force within her stronghold and sense their exact position with every beat of their heart.

"Chosen, if I may..?" The defence captain awaits until she nods before continuing. "Your secondary weapon and armour await you in your armoury and the sooner we are provided with a directive, the better. There are also some reports that must be addressed concerning rogue elements within ADVENT ranks."

The Assassin decides that she prefers these soldiers over her brothers after all. They were straight to the point, like her. No mincing words, or pointless sentiments.

"Your directive, as it stands, will continue to ensure the safety of this stronghold. You may exercise as much control that is required to perform this duty to the highest standard. You will act as base commander if I am unavailable." The Assassin strides on as she orders, too practical to stand around, issuing commands when she can make her way to the armoury as she does. The Officer and Priest follow her at her heels. "Mystic, you will be my eyes and ears. You will.."

XO. Why does that word float in her mind? She does not know a 'Central.' the man. She knows a XO, the position – her face slips into concentration. That was not a thought of hers, but something that floated from the thousands of battles she gained her stratagems from. If the Elders have given her this, then she must find use for it.

".. be my XO." she finishes on. The Priest cocks her head, but will obey, nonetheless.

Jax-Mon wandered the hallowed halls of her stronghold like it was second nature – that she had traversed them a thousand times before. In her armoury stood every type of weapon humankind could think of, some of them dissected at various workbenches. She would foster her understanding of humanity's tech in this room. The MECs standing guard follow their handlers example of saluting her when she entered.

"Leave me to dress in peace." she says and they leave without question, as does Hecate and Fiducia. Now alone with blissful silence, where it was not broken by every thump of a heartbeat she could hear, or the draw and soft exhale of every breath, she appraises the armour on the stand.

The material was lightweight and fit like a second skin. It was built, like her, to be nothing more than it's purpose. No ceremonial ornaments were emblazoned on the plate aside from a single symbol of her rank – as Chosen. This, she found was acceptable and would not shear it off. The armour covered up the sockets of her speedsuit and every inch save for her face was protected. She notes the lack of a protective mask or any face guard as a flaw – and it irked her to no end.

The weapon stood out to her as an oddity. It looked like a younger sister to the Hunter's Darklance. Stockier barrel, wider shot. Less charge, but with more powerful kickback. It weighed exactly how it should for her build and would not slow her down in the slightest and as she turned it around, she saw paper string with a small tab attached. How.. utterly archaic.

Arashi, it was named. She tugged the tab closer to inspect it; 'Sister; you will be the eye of the storm.'

She ripped the tag off the weapon as it would only be damaged in a fight, but against her better nature she keeps the tag. No wonder it looked so similar to the Darklance – the Hunter built the weapon. For her. The nothingness she felt towards him suddenly felt a lot more weightier than before, but ultimately nothing was – nothing.

Clad in her armour and now equipped, she flexes her fingers and feels the way the material ripples against her psionic-sensitive skin. She itches to fight, to kill. To fulfill the purpose of why she was created. She exited the armoury, destination intending towards the control room. Somewhere during her walk; Hecate rejoins her.

"Does the armour – " the Priest begins to ask, but is cut off by the Assassin.

"This, shotgun. Arashi. It was built by my brother, the older. He has access to my stronghold? My one sanctuary on this Earth and he may enter it as he wishes? I do not believe he merely dropped it off at the front gates, as it were."

Hecate does not answer immediately, lips pursed, but not too tersely, for her skin should not be blemished by wrinkles or laugh lines or anything that would stray from perfection. "He is Chosen." she answers. "We accommodate the Chosen's demands, be that you, the Hunter or the Warlock. You would be granted the same treatment should you wish to visit your brothers."

"Then I will update the directive of my soldiers. You are only to allow entry to those whom have my express permission."

"As you will."

A moment of silence. An exact ninety seconds, before the Assassin quietly adds; " … The quality of the armour is acceptable with only a single design flaw out of the possible six hundred and thirty three I could have found within the armour."

Were Hecate permitted to smile, she would have.

The control room was an offshoot within the stronghold, but by no means were it small. Surveillance monitors illuminated the room with a soft red, with a larger, global map presented in the centre. The system seemed to be self automated, as not a single soldier attended the stations. The Assassin watched the screens carefully, determining that some of them showed street views from security posts within the megacity centres. Others were checkpoints and train lines.

Her gaze was drawn to a red blip on the global screen. She interacted with it's interface with a thought and a passing gesture of her hand. Footage of somewhere just on the outskirts of a European megacity – bare headed ADVENT, a group of four. Her informed opinion of a single day of existence decided that they were trying to pillage supplies for themselves.

"Monitor this room," the Assassin told to her XO, letting her psionics wash over her and vanish her from sight, obscuring her energy to be nothing more than a breeze in the air.

Jax-Mon watched in fascination the humans interact.

Inwardly she chastised herself. How dare she, the Chosen of perfection, allow herself to get distracted? But.. how could she not? This race – these humans, were the subject of such inquiry and admiration from her masters. The very being she only knew as The Commander was entirely human and They adored them. Love. The Elders must see this as a weakness to make it so she could not feel such things, right?

Right?

The black-haired human, a man, had his arm around another of his species. This one was a woman with an enlarged belly that she seemed to support with one hand resting on it's bloat. No, not a bloating. Pregnancy. The Assassin slipped from her perch on the roofs and landed directly beside the married couple. They are unable to see nor sense her and she walked beside them, eavesdropping into their conversation.

".. and I'll call Jean-paul, let him know that I might be running late." the man's face draws pensively. "Are you sure you will be fine, Mari? Maybe I should take another day off."

"It's not like I'll be alone, Bób." the woman chides. "Look, there are peacekeepers everywhere and they are always happy to assist. I'm sure one will escort me home if I ask nice enough. Don't let yourself get tardy on my account.."

Jax-Mon leaves them to live their lives in a bubble, unaware of the justice she will reap soon enough. She sifts through the pedestrians and peacekeepers alike, not bumping elbows with a single one despite her pace and lanky limbs. A single leap has her land to the rooftops and she darts to the last known location of the freed ADVENT.

Her momentary distraction with the humans did not offer them much time away from their fate. They had ceased discussion on their plans, seemingly waiting for the supply train to arrive. There were explosives rigged to the rails and a few checkpoint guards lay dead and partially obscured in the brush. The Assassin crouches on a crate right behind the two bare-head troopers, with the left holding some sort of detonation device.

These were two. Where were the others? A quick sweep of the area proved they were deeper in the brush with the corpses. Likely lying in wait to shift the crates further into the forest. She walks, casually, to the explosives and inspects the wiring. Alien in nature – charges likely pilfered from the armoury they once reported to and rigged into more remote detonation rather than through satellite or psionics.

Like a scythe in a field full of briar's, she cuts through these sinful, profane degenerates that dare turn their back on the Elders, that dare besmirch Their gifts, Their embrace. The first one falls to her blade, slashed across his throat. Her psionic cloaking melts away and the second is only granted a second of surprise and alarm before her head is enveloped in the Assassin's arms – and neck swiftly snapped.

Jax-Mon soars through the air, flipping in marvelous, acrobatic feats, weaving out of gunfire of the third and fourth. Arashi slips out of it's sling, as she predicts, into her left hand. Facing the last two as she lands, she shoots the darkfire spittle of kinetic shrapnel into the chest of the third. He is burnt and dying, but lives barely in a crumpled mess on the floor.

With each flourish of her katana she deflects the magnetic bolts of the fourths attempt to slay her. He is unsuccessful and she stands as a towering figure of death – no, as a judge. She judges him and finds him wanting. The sentence: death. His decapitated head rolls to join the fallen children of ADVENT.

The gurgled cries of the dying dissident proves that her work is not done. She steps towards the third and drives her blade into it's skull, finishing the job.

The Assassin returns to her stronghold as silently as she left it so that she may clean her blades and repeat the next day for however long her masters wish. For her first day of living, she finds the results acceptable – but not perfect.

She will do better.

A/N: Like I mentioned in Grim Horizon, this is indeed my newest project. This is set before the Commander has been released, but the story will follow through that and up until her death. Stay tuned!