Weir never thought there’d be a day where he felt sorry for the Sectoids.

He wondered if these small things–nervous and wary of the bigger, larger creatures gawking at them as they tried to figure out what to do with them–were the last of their kind. Raised in captivity as farm animals for eventual slaughter.

The decision to rescue the Sectoids found in the micronoid’s food chamber was a split second one by Rear Commander Gibson. She was old enough to remember ADVENT and the horrors the Sectoids had committed against them, but…

Well, look at them.

Well fed and docile, but intelligent enough to know their end was guaranteed within a specific timeframe.

Not so guaranteed now. There were some who wanted them all executed, sure, but Gibson was already putting up a fight. She rescued them, she felt responsible for them. Her squad leaders were rallying around her, some more out of personal loyalty than actually caring about the aliens, but the support was there.

Weir admired their spirit, but he doubted they were ready for the political shitstorm gathering over their heads.

He was not looking forward to The Cult of Sirius finding out they had Sectoids staying in their medical wing for lack of a better place to put them.

“Should I discreetly contact the Mutant Alliance?” Mike looked from the observation window to their boss.

“Please.” Weir closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. John was going to have something to say about this. He knew it. He could feel it.

Today might be one of those days he slept in his office.

“Put Kader on damage control and send Gibson my way before she does something regrettable,” Weir said.

“She’s already punched a reporter.”

“Oh, goddamn it.”