Dust, the Grenadier, was checking her ammo. Again. She always checked twice. “The ground is wrong,” she said quietly. “Too much salt. Nothing grows here. Even the crystals under the soil are dead.”
The first room was a cathedral of dried brine. Ancient mining equipment stood frozen in mid-rotation, encrusted with salt crystals that glowed faintly purple. And there, embedded in the far wall, was the data tap—a pulsating node of alien tissue and metal.
Outside the viewport, the stars streaked by. And somewhere in the darkness below, the Assassin was licking her wounds, replaying every bullet, every word, every heartbeat.
Sparrow looked at her squad. Fix, still bandaged. Dust, counting her rounds. Kai, gripping his sword like a life raft. XCOM 2- War of the Chosen
Dust closed her eyes. “Because she’s been watching longer than we’ve been fighting. And she’s not trying to kill us. She’s trying to understand us. That’s worse.” Back on the Avenger , the Commander debriefed them in the darkened strategy room. Holographic displays showed the Assassin’s file: three previous encounters with XCOM squads. Three total wipes. No survivors except one—a traumatized rookie who’d hidden in a freezer for six hours.
“Echo Lead, we’ve confirmed the data tap. ADVENT is running a black-site psi-training facility in the lower caverns. But there’s something else. The energy signature matches… a Chosen. We think it’s the Assassin. Get the tap, get out. Do not engage her directly.”
That’s when the alarms changed pitch. Not ADVENT— psionic . The floor began to crystallize. Salt poured from the ventilation shafts, not white but red , mixed with something older. Dust, the Grenadier, was checking her ammo
From the salt curtain at the back of the cavern, she stepped. The Assassin. Tall, wrapped in tattered cloth that moved against the wind. Her face was a porcelain mask cracked down the middle. In one hand, a katana that wept black vapor. In the other, nothing—but the air around her palm bent .
They dropped through the cloud layer into twilight. The mine’s entrance was a black maw ringed with ADVENT turrets—sleeping, but not blind. Fix made short work of the first sentry, his GREMLIN slipping a logic virus into the turret network. The turrets swiveled, paused, then swiveled back to face the mine interior. Friendly.
“Now.”
“Showoff,” Dust grunted, hoisting her cannon.
She didn’t aim for the Assassin’s head. She aimed for the floor .