The man extinguished his cigarette in front of the posh restaurant across the street, eyeing the establishment with a mix of resentment and suspicion. Such blatant display of luxury was irritating to many, but he actually found himself offended in a variety of new and exciting ways – not in the least because his financial woes made him dreadfully incompatible with the services provided inside.

It could also be a trap, but he dismissed that possibility right after considering it. He would not stoop so low as to develop a sense of unwarranted self-importance.

"Just like we planned - go in a minute after me and grab a table nearby," he told his companion, who purposely remained outside of the illumination provided by the lone, flickering streetlight. The shadowy figure nodded without saying another word.

Steeling himself, the man crossed the street and walked straight into the restaurant. He momentarily squinted in annoyance at the blinding blue flash of a weapons scanner installed in the doorway – the damn things very near ubiquitous in 2035, and for a good reason, but that didn't mean he had to like them.

It also meant he had to come unarmed, which did not help his disposition one bit.

The head waiter was just as suspicious as he was, considering that the visitor blatantly ignored the establishment's dress code, but opened up with a welcome anyway, "Good evening sir, may I help y-"

One glare in return made him nearly choke on his own words. To his immense relief, another voice from behind him defused the awkward situation.

"Mr. Bradford! Over here, if you will," a clean-shaven, blonde man in an obviously very expensive business suit with an orange tie called out to the new arrival.

Ignoring the stupefied staff member, Bradford proceeded to take a seat at the man's table.

"I'm very glad you could make it, Commander. I know, this is a very unseemly choice of a meeting place, but they have decent security here."

"Acting Commander," Bradford corrected him, his voice noticeably gruff and tired in contrast to the jovial disposition of his contact.

"Of course, of course. That might change soon."

"Good evening. May I take your order?" another waiter waltzed up to the table in the meanwhile. Seeing Bradford in his weather-beaten uniform made him throw a questioning glance at the head waiter. The latter merely rolled his shoulders.

"Feel free to indulge yourself, Mr. Bradford. I'm footing the bill."

Bradford momentarily considering taking that offer up – especially since the holographic menu projected above the table displayed prices way out of range of his pathetic paycheck – but decided against it. He was still an officer. More than that, he was here to talk business.

"Coffee, black," he finally settled on an option. The waiter nodded and left without another word, eager to distance himself from the burly visitor.

Meanwhile, another figure entered the restaurant – a middle-aged woman in a leather jacket and a head full of disheveled, long black hair. Much like with the previous visitor, the head waiter decided to give her the benefit of doubt and not judge her by her appearance. The restaurant wasn't in the position to refuse anyone, anyway.

"Good evening Madame, may I-" the man jerked slightly as the woman walked right past him. "Oh, that one, certainly," he mumbled afterwards.

Bradford's interlocutor, however, immediately waved the newcomer over. "Colonel Durand – please, come join us!"

This was unexpected. The commander and his bodyguard exchanged glances. In the end, Bradford nodded subtly, allowing Annette Durand to sit down on the chair next to him.

"I must apologize for ruining what would have otherwise been a decent attempt at subterfuge," the man chuckled. "May I say, you haven't aged one day since we last met."

The compliment was only partly true. Her face was pretty much the same it was twenty years ago, if a bit pale, but even Bradford tried to avoid looking into her eyes nowadays. However life may have battered him, it was three times as bad for Annette, and it showed.

The colonel eyed the businessman suspiciously, but did not say another word.

"Now then, allow me to introduce myself – my name is F. Denman Williams. I hope it won't be too arrogant to assume you've heard of it."

"Software tycoon, entrepreneur, sole proprietor of Sub-Oceanic Reconnaissance and Extraterrestrial Salvage Operation and 27th richest person in the North American Alliance," Bradford listed what he remembered off the top of his head. "You did sign your invitation."

"And you've done your homework and prepared as best you could. Good, good. Now then, allow me to answer the question of why I've invited you here – I want to buy out your organization." He carefully avoided mentioning it by name – the walls had ears, after all.

"Really?" Bradford narrowed his brows. "Buying our bases and poaching our personnel to dig for Elerium underwater wasn't enough for you, now you want to finish us off?"

"Quite the contrary, Mr. Bradford. I want to preserve it. I'd even say return it to its former glory, but alas, barring another alien invasion, that's beyond my current capabilities. More importantly, I don't need the real estate – I need you. Its people. Its heart and soul."

"I'm afraid you're twenty years too late," Annette spoke up for the first time. "There's hardly anything or anyone left."

The truth hurt, but it was the truth. Twenty years was a long time, and many people they once fought side-by-side with simply moved on. Bradford could not blame them – after all, they had won, and deserved a chance at peace. However, that did not make the isolation he felt any easier. He and Annette were different in many ways, but similar in one – they could not go back to their previous lives. For him, the sense of duty always came first.

"Wrong, Ms. Durand. There are still you two, and quite a few others who would come back if they were needed."

"Hmph," Annette chuckled weakly, "my time has long since passed."

And there were people like Annette, who simply could not fit into the greater society ever again. The revelation of the existence of human psionics caused a moral panic unlike any other in the past few centuries, the gifted ones being almost immediately ostracized or regarded with suspicion at best. Annette was "merely" the most powerful psionic human ever discovered. This power came at a price of being seen as an abomination wherever she went.

"Even if you aren't a field operative anymore, that doesn't mean you should give up on life, Colonel," Williams attempted to cheer her up. "You still possess more than twenty years of valuable experience. Your condition would hardly preclude putting it to use."

Now it was Annette's turn to frown. The man clearly knew too much, and he wasn't being very considerate about it. The brain trauma caused by the alien exploitation of her powers never went away, and even got worse to the point where constant migraines rendered her unfit for field duty.

"What do you know," she hissed, "of being robbed of the only thing you had left? Of the only cause you had in life?"

Amused, Williams chuckled. "Oh believe me, I know," he said before rolling up his sleeve for a bit.

The tattoo could be visible only for a moment, but that was enough to make Bradford instinctively go for where his pistol holster usually was. As for Annette, she remained motionless, but her eyes dangerously flared up with purple.

"Now, I can explain," Williams hastily attempted to stave off an outbreak of violence. "That was twenty years ago. You've won."

"And all this time you've been subverting our assets," Bradford said, drumming his fingers on the table. "You devious sons-of-"

"No, Commander," Williams interrupted him. "EXALT doesn't exist anymore."

"Really?" Annette asked, her tone not promising a peaceful resolution. "And when did that happen?"

"Like I said, twenty years ago. Some of us escaped your raid, but we all explicitly agreed that the time of EXALT was over and went our separate ways. I am not acting on behalf of a dead organization. I am acting on behalf of only myself… and humanity, if you could believe such a thing."

"We don't," Bradford cut him off.

"If it helps, Colonel Durand can check the truthfulness of my statem- urgh," Williams froze in place as Annette instantly took him up on his offer and probed his mind. Moments later, he shook his head and slumped in his seat like a puppet with its strings cut.

"No offense, Colonel," he complained, rubbing his temples, "but you're about as subtle as a tank division."

"He's telling the truth," Annette finally admitted to Bradford, the psionic glow having faded from her eyes. Apparently, Williams did not have to worry about getting his brain fried for a while.

"We may have had slightly – well, alright, very different goals," Williams continued, "but we never intended to put humanity in a worse position. Our experience with the alien invaders made us realize, however, that the means we chose for said goals were… counterproductive, to say the least."

"You don't say," the colonel raised an eyebrow, "and at what point this blinding flash of realization occur?"

"About forty-five minutes before you burned our Toronto headquarters to the ground," Williams admitted, ignoring her sarcasm.

"Better late than never," Bradford chuckled. "I must say, the orange tie should've been a dead giveaway."

"Some old habits die hard," Williams smiled, "but anyway. I've spent the past few years digging through every single one of your mission logs I could get my hands on. Which is to say, all of them. I've S.O.R.E.S.O. do some investigative work as well and I have a rather unfortunate… premonition, let's say. 'Conclusion' would mean that it's a fact, and by God, I don't want it to be one."

After a moment's silence, he continued. "Twenty years ago we've been invaded by a collective of alien species vastly superior than us in nearly all respects. Yet, looking back at it, I can't but help – could it really be called an invasion?"

"You mean sending their ships one by one and rarely, if ever attacking more than location at a time?" Bradford asked. "We have a credible explanation for that. It's also classified."

"Yes, the one that they were looking to 'uplift' us for whatever came ahead. Or, in other words, were trying to awake our latent psionic potential," Williams stated, irritating Bradford even more with this open flaunting of information. "Don't you, however, think that they could have just as easily launched a full invasion, subjugated the planet and openly conducted whatever nasty business they intended? With their battleships, it could have been easy. Instead, they always tried to subvert and infiltrate, resorting to open conflict only with what can be described as a token show of force."

"They were afraid of something," Annette suddenly spoke up. "I remember. From the Temple ship. We… myself, Matthew, the Tariqs – kept communicating with Zhang to the last. He showed us… images. I didn't know what to make of them back then, I still don't know now. I thought they were afraid of us, or of failing in their task, but I was never sure."

"What if they were afraid of something else?" Bradford attempted to connect the obvious dots. "The Temple ship nearly turned into a black hole. They were prepared to destroy us all if they hadn't gotten what they came here for. And they practically scrambled to abandon Mars and leave the system soon after."

"This is all conjecture, of course," Williams continued, "but take a look at this."

The two veterans focused their attention on the couple of printouts passed to them.

"SS Azure Star, cruise ship under the Euro-Syndicate flag, lost with all hands and passengers in undetermined circumstances in Gulf of Mexico, February 24th, 2031," Annette read one out of dozens of entries on the list. "Maritime accidents happen. How is this relevant?"

"Look closer, Annette," Bradford pointed out. "No cause of sinking, all in areas deep enough to preclude investigation, no survivors, all taking place in the last few years. A single case is an accident, a string is a pattern."

"Exactly," Williams nodded. "So far there's nothing but theories. Freak storms, magnetic anomalies, acts of terrorism by the Cult of Sirius or the Inquisitors. And there are just as many contradictions as there are theories."

"You have the resources of the entire S.O.R.E.S.O. at your disposal. Haven't you found anything?"

"S.O.R.E.S.O. is a deep-water salvage operation, not a military organization, I'm afraid. I've probed into the matter, but we always run either into legal or technical hurdles. I am also wary of risking unarmed civilian personnel to what might be alien threat."

"I wouldn't take you for one to place value on human life," Bradford snorted.

Williams looked down, his voice tinged with sadness. "I've learned the value of that the hard way over the years. They might have been your enemies, but I personally knew almost all of the operatives who fell in combat against you. It was a senseless waste of life. I'd like to think my conscience will not let me cause another."

"If you expect pity, you're not going to-" Bradford was interrupted by his retort by the feeling of Annette's hand on his shoulder.

"Commander, let it go. It's unbecoming to speak ill of the dead," she said, looking him straight in the eye.

Involuntarily, Bradford let out a smirk, partly of amusement and partly out of pride. In a world half empty it was a remarkable sight how, despite the general misery that made up most of her life, Annette still found the time and willpower to move on from the vengeful, bloodthirsty force of nature she was when she first joined the fight. It counted even for more considering how the subject of the conversation was an organization entirely responsible for her misfortune.

In contrast, Bradford had spent these years on becoming increasingly jaded and bitter. How the mighty have fallen, he thought. The Commander would certainly not approve, were he still around.

"So, where do we come in?" Bradford focused his attention back on the former EXALT agent, who was all too happy to ignore his little faux pas. "We've been discarded like trash by the powers that be. Need I remind you, right after our victory they patted us on the back, then locked us out of our own base while they took everything not nailed to the floor. Our resources, our research, our staff, our equipment, even my sweater!"

Williams blinked. One of these was not like the other.

"I really liked that sweater. It was with me throughout the whole war, dammit," Bradford finished, relieved at finally having had the chance to vent two decades' worth of frustration.

"Well," the entrepreneur started, "I can't really say if I'll be able to help you with that sweater, but here's the thing – the UN, with the world being in fantastic shape and all, is just itching for an excuse to shut you down for good. Whatever pittance they spend on maintaining that last base right now is too much for them."

"Tell us something we don't know," Annette scoffed.

Williams continued. "Like I said at the very start, I want to buy out the whole organization. The brand name, if you will. It would become a corporation. Obviously, I can't promise you funding of the entire Council, but what I can spare will be enough to restore your base and even fund a decent force of both military and scientific staff, the former being legally allowed to deploy in any of the Council's member nations."

"Okay, but what about the part where the Council actually agrees to sell? That would be admitting that they let us become mercenaries," Bradford voiced another complaint. "Not to mention that you'd be running this operation at a loss. With all due respect, I don't believe in altruism. Not anymore."

"Do you think that's really an issue to a world where three out of sixteen remaining world governments are megacorporate entities?" Williams chuckled. "But, there is a catch. The contract I have drafted and which has the Council's tentative approval contains a reactivation clause. When the sale goes through, you will become a part of the S.O.R.E.S.O. However, if the new threat is confirmed, you will be placed under government control and funding once again, under your real name, for the duration of the crisis. See, that way I can't really abuse you for my own nefarious ends."

"Hm," Bradford scratched his chin. "I… well. You've put a lot of thought into this, Mr. Williams. As outlandish your claims might sound, I have to agree that it's either this or retirement. However, given your own history, I have a condition of my own: no interference into how the organization is run."

"Of course," Williams nodded. "I never intended to, other than sending an audit team every now and then to make sure the money isn't being spent on hookers and blow."

The unexpectedly crude joke actually made both Bradford and Annette crack up for once.

"In that case, dare I assume I have your consent to the contract? Because that's quite possibly the last thing keeping this deal from becoming reality," Williams stretched his hand out to Bradford.

Despite how sound said deal sounded in theory, Bradford still allowed himself a moment of doubt. He never considered himself to be capable of leading the world's finest fighting force, but alas, the Commander had long since retired. Briefly, he lamented not even being able to ask for advice from Dr. Vahlen or Dr. Shen – the former having moved on to greener pastures and the latter having passed away.

At least he still had Annette. Obviously, their relationship was strictly professional, but during these troubled years he and the veteran colonel with nowhere else to go had come to rely on and trust each other's judgment.

Noticing his questioning glance, Annette nodded. That was good enough for him to accept Williams' handshake.

"For all our sakes, I hope this works out like you've outlined it, Mr. Williams," he said after the deed was done and the two returned to their seats. "We live in a world too tired to be aware and too cold to care even about its own survival."

"There's no telling what horrors await," Annette added solemnly.

"But at the very least, we're now on the same side," Williams noted. "The history of mankind is rife with struggles, but one thing is certain – our greatest enemy was always within. Obviously, I don't expect you to trust your former bitter enemy straight away, but I do hope we can learn to put aside our differences – to learn from our own example - and work together."

"Wise words, monsieur Williams," Annette admitted. "I only wish we could have all heard them twenty years ago."

"Hindsight is often a bitter kind of wisdom," the entrepreneur sighed in agreement.

"Speaking of wisdom, Mr. Williams, I'm afraid you need more of it when picking restaurants," Bradford suddenly spoke up.

"How so?"

Bradford glared accusingly at their waiter, who gulped and tried to blend in with the wall. "It's been half an hour and they still haven't brought me my coffee."

Even two decades later, the former central officer still got very disappointed when things weren't done by the numbers.

A/N: With Firaxis stating outright that XCOM2 takes place in an alternate timeline, I had this spur-of-the-moment idea to depict the timeline where we won, at the same date. Where things are different, but so too they stay the same, where there is wanton canon welding and something nasty in the sea, and where I can't even mention the titular organization by name because of a single dash in it. It's still technically "finished", but I might tie it into Blindsided, whenever I get to rewriting that disaster.