#fearlessly inept

With careful fingers and precious seeds, right from the Arctic apocalypse vault somehow still unearthed and undisturbed, Bradford and the Commander have begun a garden out back of the house they moved into at the end of the war.

Said House was his work, all by hand and furnished with items stolen or bartered for or ‘borrowed’. Said garden is full of hardy vegetables: beans and kale and cabbage, mostly, and when Bradford visits it at the heat of the day, he finds the Commander napping amongst the sprouts, cheek against the planter’s wood frame.

Bradford gingerly steps through the rows to them, stares down at their slumbering form. They look almost elegant in a way, curled up snug to the planter with a beam of sun illuminating their skin, sending notes of dust and pollen swirling around them like some kind of glitter.

He absently wonders if glitter still exists somewhere as he sits in the edge of the planter next to them. Their breaths are soft, even, not the chaotic panic they are sometimes when he is woken in the night to them clinging to his body slick with sweat and with fear.

“You’re going to get a crick in your neck,” Bradford murmurs quietly to them. Right then, he decides to make a hammock.

Sure, he’s got no idea how but it can’t be any harder then building a home- they’ve fought two wars to get here, a hammock should be a piece of cake.

There are two trees at the far end of their backyard, where the grass gets longer and more wild, where their property becomes possibility and wilderness. Bradford jogs back into the house and grabs a blanket from its draped position on the couch and comes back out, where he ties both ends of the blanket to the ties and forms a pocket of fabric between them.

Bradford tests it first, and thanks himself for doing that as the hammock breaks under him. A tighter tie at both ends, and another test— it holds this time. Good. The Commander weighs much less then him, it should be fine.

Bradford eases them up, careful to make sure they’re still sleeping as he carries them across the distance to the hammock. Gently he sets them down into it; for a moment he fears it will break and he will have to explain himself to a bemused and grass covered Commander, but it holds, even as they shifts in their sleep.

He stands there, watching their chest rise and fall, and feels warmth erupt in his own heart. Twenty years of searching and occupation had all but beaten even the slightest idea he would ever get this from his head. He had been ready for so much less, had all but settled for so much less…

There's candles lit in the bar when Bradford comes in.

Cheap birthday candles, deliberately alternating blue and white, dripping wax down a old bronze hanukiah onto a piece of cardboard.

The Assassin’s breaking and recruitment chapter, from a slowly developing fix it fic I’m hesitantly titling Reclamation.

If she is to die here, now, and forever, the Assassin thinks she is ready.

The soliders twitch and shift as she reforms in front of sarcophagus, but they do not move. She can hear the Commander speak as she steadies herself: “Leave her be. I don’t think she can do much else.”

“How very kind of you, Commander.”

There is no response. The Assassin struggles to draw her sword; the solider nearest, the Reaper who the others refer to as “Outrider”, stiffens from behind her cover, but the Commander’s voice sounds, urging her stay put.

(The Assassin will not admit she appreciates it.)

“You have fought well, XCOM.” The words are slick and garbled with blood that has trickled into her mouth from her unhealed wounds. Her mind is cloudy with its death kneel and heretic in its function, and she feels as though she is pulling up glass from her own mind as she adds, “May you reclaim this world as your own.”

She hefts the sword with hands that are shaking far too much, takes a sharp breath–

And then finds that she stops.

A blue glow rests on the edges of her form. The solider named Kelly and the medic who is referred to as “Scorch” approch slowly as the glow eases her muscles, forces her to the floor. Her grip on the sword hilt loosens, the weapon drops to the ground almost gracefully with a clatter that echoes in the room.

There is a voice in her head then, and it is kind and soft. Its owner and their companion hovers at the brink of her mind, almost asking to be let in. The Assassian’s eyes widen as she recognizes them.

Then she hesitantly lowers herself as the two come forward into her head.

The surge of pure power that runs through her as they enter makes her bones hurt, makes her head ache. Then she hears a reprimand, and the Ethereal, because that must be the being who is bound so tightly to the Commander’s own, burns embarrassment.

“Don’t hurt her,” she hears the Commander say. There is a response she can’t make out. She feels the Commander roll her body’s eyes.

“Easy now,” they say to her, and it is the first thing they have ever truly said to her. Not a offhand retort or a snappy swear, but a true greeting.

Their voice rings in her head, is a offset echo in the soliders’ comms. Somehow, they are speaking in two places simultaneously. “Easy,” they repeat.

The swordswoman and medic have reached her now; the medic pulls a large bag from her waist, the ranger stands at her side. Among the foot of where the sarcophagus was the rest of the squad idle, some attending to each other’s wounds, the others watching her.

“Scan her,” the Commander says to the Ethereal. The Assassin feels a wash of Psionic energy run through her, the power flickering over every atom of her self. She lies there, aching, unmoving and not resisting. If they are going to end her themselves, she cannot stop them.

(Something tells her that is not their intentions.)

“Well?” asks Scorch after a heartbeat.

The Commander is slow in responding. “We’ve got what looks like chip remnants here,” they say. “Aren’t really sure. Whatever link the Elders had, though, destroying that chamber broke it. She’s totally off their grid. For all they know, she’s already dead.”

A grin is forced into her lips then. “And that’s perfect.”

“Can you show me where to–” the woman’s voice is cut off as her eyes take on a slight blue. The Assassin manages to find strength enough to arch a brow as she comes around and squats over the Chosen’s form near her head, manages to flinch as the human sets her hands on bleeding skin.

“Oh,” says Scorch, and her voice is slow. “I…I think see it now. It’s the glowing stuff. Okay. This is weird.”

“Sorry, it usually is the first time. If we could have practiced, we would have, but…anyway, you think you’ll be to handle it.

"Yeah, I’ll be fine. It’s just disorienting.”

“Understatement of the year. I’m gonna let my buddy here psionically transfer commands through me to your hands, make sure we do this right, so just try not to resist too much. You ready?”

“When you are, Commander.”

“Good.”

“What are you doing?” the Assassin asks. “You’ve won. Why are you denying the death you have so obviously chased for me?”

“I never wanted you to die,” the Commander says. “I just wanted you to stop. To think. To make your own choices.” There is a distinct impression in her mind that they are smiling.

“And this? This is us asking consent. I mean, we could just go cutting right into you. You aren’t much against any of us, especially not in your current state. We could crush you in multiple ways…physically, psionically….”

There’s a wave of affection from them to the Ethereal. “But that’s Elder behavior, and we aren’t the Elders. So, give us your word and we’ll scoop out the rest of whatever tech they tried to shove in your head.”

The Assassin blinks. The swordswoman Kelly glances over at her and smiles awkwardly; the Chosen’s blood still coats her sword, and the Assassin can still feel the burn from where the human tore open her chest. She pointedly looks away.

“Hey, people, hurry it up down there.” It’s the voice of the Commander’s…accomplice? Mate? She is not sure. He sounds nervous and a little angry.

“The longer we’re here, the more I feel something bad is going to happen,” he goes on. “We’re already taking risks as is…”

“Central, nothing is gonna happen,” the Commander retorts. “Really. Just let us do this. It’ll work. She’ll come around.”

He growls a little. “If this backfires, I’m never going to let you leave this ship again, psionic projection or otherwise.”

“It won’t,” they assure him. “We’ve got this. Trust me, Central.”

A sigh, and the anger dissipates. “Always. Just…do it a little faster, is all.”

“You got it.”

Their attention turns back to her. “You’ll get a chance to be free. Really free. Like the Skirmishers. Well, maybe they’re a bad example. You don’t like them too much. Like me, how about that instead? What do you say?”

She is silent. The Commander tries again.

“When you were about to commit, whose words were those?”

Silence still, but for a different reason.

She feels the Commander nod internally. “Yours. Truly yours, right? The Elders would say nothing of the sort, wouldn’t allow any kind of sentiment like that. So how did it feel?”

She is confused now, but it may just be the blood loss. “I do not understand.”

“When you spoke, and it was you, how did it feel?”

Like lightning. Like something lost had been returned. Like the buried things in her mind had been shifted a little closer to the surface.

“Do you want to feel like that again? Like that all the time? We can make it happen. And that isn’t a empty Elder promise either. We can prove it.”

The Commander floods her with genuine confidence. “We can. So…do you want us to?”

The word is so quiet it is not heard at first: “yes.”

The Assassin freezes as she feels a tug at the back of her head and then the sharp point of a knife cut in. She goes limp at the touch.

“You lead Scorch in the removal,” she hears the Commander tell the Ethereal. “I’ll keep her occupied.”

And then they are sitting right next to her inside her head, smiling a smile that she feels the occasion does not warrant. There is blue and blue and blue around them when she tries to internally look at their form head on. The sight makes her head spin, and the feelings they radiate make her sick to her stomach– love and loyalty and trust and love.

They should not be here. These humans, in her stronghold. This human, in her mind.

(The thought makes her stomach flip…and instills a sense of respect for them all regardless.)

“What’s your name?” the Commander asks. “Your real name. Not your title. Not the thing the Elders call you.”

She is quiet. Then: “Rei-Mordenna.” When she says, it feels like betrayal and freedom. It has been so long since she has used that name.

She hears the Ethereal whisper distractedly; the Commander makes an annoyed noise at it and shoves its full attention back to Scorch.

“It wants to know your human name,” they say to her, since her curiosity is palpable. “I think that’s cruel. You aren’t human, not anymore. Would you want to be, anymore?”

She cannot answer that. She has not had time to even think about it. The information is not new, of course; she and her siblings have always known it.

She just needs time.

She realizes this with a start. Time. Something the Elders have never given her.

(Time. Rest. Other things. It has always made made her temples begin to ache and a burr form in her chest to consider them, so she never has.)

The Commander dips their head in understanding. “You’ll get all the time and rest in the world as you recover. And me and my bud here will talk to you about stuff if you want.”

“Why are you doing this?” Mordenna asks. There would be fire, anger, but she is too tired to be anything but baffled. “Are you not afraid? Are you so foolish as to risk everything by taking me in? How do you know I will not–”

“I know because you’d have already killed me,” they say with a laugh. “I have what the Elders wanted to be on my side, and beyond that, I have people who’d risk themselves for me. Who already have.”

She feels a overwhelming surge of love wash over her, love directed at– at so many. It is directed at the Ethereal, at the swordswoman “Kelly”, at the Reaper “Outrider”, at the Skirmisher “Mox”, at the quiet human man “Tygan”, at the scrappy human woman “Shen,” at the scruffy human man “Central”.

There is love for her, too. For her and both her siblings. It is so strong. So…strange.

(Have the Elders ever loved her? She is not sure. She isn’t sure if she ever loved them either. This feeling that they emit is nothing she has ever experienced before. It is all consuming, and burns with a steadfastness she has never known.)

“There is nothing your siblings can do that’ll make me fear them now,” they go on. “I mean, you guys have kind of shown your whole repertoire, and it’s not too unlike what humans in your same situation would do. Sorry if that’s offensive, but…” They shrug and go on. “If the Warlock takes my people, I will take them back. If the Hunter hurt XCOM’s friends, I will repay the injury. Not even the Elders scare me, not anymore.”

“You speak so boldly. It will be your downfall.”

“Maybe. At the very least, I’ll bring them down with me.” They wink, and then the jovial look faded as they pause, to be replaced with something serious and stoic.

“You know, you three and me, we’re equals in a way.”

“Finally,” she interrupts. “You understand. You see your place among us.”

“Commander,” warns Central.

“I’m not talking tactics and I’m not talking surrender and tanking,” they say back to him, the last word disgusted. “I’m talking personal.”

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you to be careful,” he says.

“I’m always careful.”

He snorts. “Just try to be a little more right now, please. Listen to your…head buddy if it’s talking, since you probably won’t listen to me.”

“My good old Psionic head friend is currently puzzling over the best way to remove a three centimeter large chunk of alien tech. It ain’t saying shit. And hey, I listen to you. I always listen to you. I could never tire of listening to you. I just don’t always actually put what you tell me to use.”

There is a warm blazing in the Commander’s self when they speak to him, and it matches the love Mordenna felt rush through her. It is so much different from the fever of which she heralds the Elders with.

(Or heralded. She is not sure anymore. She is so tired.)

“Look,” they say to her. “Sure, we’re all gods of the battlefield here. All of us touched by the Elders. Like, I accept that. I don’t like it, but I accept. That isn’t what I’m talking about when I say we’re equals.”

They take a breath, and if Mordenna is right in assumption, it is to compose themselves. “The Elders have not treated you well. Take it from someone who knows what that looks like. You weren’t given the things you were supposed to by what you call your parents, and if I have to do that and lead the resistance…”

A smile then, and they’re back to their happy self. “Well, I’m more than happy to take a risk and a challenge.”

A noble cause, but a terribly misguided one, Mordenna thinks. The Chosen do not need the Commander’s bleeding hearted sympathy.

(Even if they might be right.)

“You seek to recruit us?” A dark chuckle escapes her tired body. “I did not except you of all people to make such a poor decision.”

The Commander actually guffaws at this, one hand on their stomach, the other slapping their knee.

“Have you not being paying attention to any of the missions you’ve interrupted in the past? I am a human disaster! Poor decision central over here. I just have smart people and a mind bonded psionic alien to help me not totally fuck up.”

“Commander!” Central now sounds both worried and annoyed.

(But it is not the same irritation Mordenna has heard from the Elders so many times before. It is light, peaceful, somehow amused, and it does not pack the underlying vitriol that she finds she is absently searching for.)

“Relax, Central. I have admitted nothing but the truth that can already been seen,” they say.

She hears a long, long exasperated sigh in the comms and a murmur of, “Commander, please”. Said human’s form in her head grins the grin of a trickster, but it softens as they focus back on her.

“I don’t want to recruit you, or your brothers,” they say. “I know, I know, it seems like it, but that’s not what I want. I just want to give you guys a chance to choose.” They rise and begin to walk away, the image a metaphor for their presence backing out of her head. She watches with her internal jaw slightly dropped.

Externally, Scorch moves away from Mordenna, and the movement jars the Chosen to reality. The woman is kneeling at her side now, is hesitantly reaching for a arm, one of her medkits in hand.

Mordenna forces herself to relax; Scorch pulls a vial from the kit and gingerly injects clear liquid into the Chosen’s upper arm.

“Painkiller,” says Scorch when Mordenna looks at her with accusation, and the word is soft.

Mordenna does not know if she is to thank the human when they look so conflicted. She simply nods instead. There is a sparking sensation in the back of her head, and when the Chosen runs shaking fingers across it, she finds raised patterns that indicate stitches. The healed wound screams Psionic intervention, is stamped with the energy of the Ethereal.

(How ironic, to carry that signature now.)

“Kelly!” calls the Commander, and they are fully out of her head now, except for a lingering connection at the very edges where she feels human and Ethereal briefly meet to realign fully with each other before stepping out; their voice comes through the comms on the woman’s ear now.

The swordswoman moves forward on what is obviously planned command; she scoops up Mordenna’s dropped weapon, tucks it into a belt loop, and then in one solid movement takes Mordenna by the arms and hefts the Chosen over her shoulders.

“And with that classic squadmate move, it’s official. Don’t move too much. I dunno how easy it is to carry a sword, a rifle, and a alien on your shoulders.” the Commander says.

“I’ve carried worse,” Kelly says. “Like Morris.”

“Fuck off!” comes the offended voice of the grenadier at the base of the former sarcophagus.

The Commander makes sounds in the swordswoman’s comms piece like they are trying very hard not to laugh and regain their composure. “You didn’t have to call him out like that,” they say.

Kelly shrugs. “That operation was entirely his fault and I intend to remind him at every opportunity, Commander.”

“It was not!” comes the answer, and it sounds almost pouty.

The poorly concealed amused wheezing in Kelly’s comms gets louder. “Jesus, you people are goddamn ridiculous…but I guess I am too.”

They finally let loose a short bark of a laugh before they manage to collect themselves and their full attention returns to the Chosen. “Now, nonsense aside: vigilo confido, Rei-Mordenna. Welcome to the rest of your life, and to XCOM…that is, if you’d like to stay with us.”

They seem as if they are attempting to sound as regal as she has when they interacted before. “I hope all that hasn’t been too off putting. We’re a lot looser here with the rules and conventions then ADVENT and the Elders are, so you get a lot more…well, that.”

Then they pause, and there is sheepishness, and the act falters.

“Anyway, could your first act of resistance be, uh, telling us how to get out of here?”

@fluffbruary

Prompt: Bonus - birthday

Fandom: XCOM 2; nebulously Fearlessly Inept verse?

Rating: PG

Warnings: N/A

Central has never seen someone cry over cupcakes until today.

The Commander is staring down at the slightly off white open box, mouth parted slightly, blinking tears. Their trembling hands hold a chocolate cupcake-- it's a little small, and the frosting is lumpy, and the XCOM logo is a simple blue fondant piece, but he made them with all the love in his heart.

And by God, is there love in his heart.

"Happy birthday, Commander," he says.