Board Thread:What Would You Do?/@comment-46053166-20200919113228/@comment-46053166-20200919113445

This is the more expanded (with a touch of Long War of the Chosen) preceding situation, not an answer:

"There, I fucking got him!" You call out, as the last of the ADVENT forces got shot down by your own rifle like chaff under the scythe. After confirming the kill, after confirming that the aliens are not hiding any surprise for you, and still hazing from the adrenaline, you immediately secure the rifle and call out to the rest of your fireteam: "Everyone's still alive?!"

"Good over here, I'm fine!" Replies a slight Slavic man with a light machine gun on his hand. Like you, the adrenaline of the battle has started to wane, leaving only a tired man on a road rarely used by anyone unauthorized. Nevertheless, he still has some strength remaining for a good-natured thumbs up and a dumb grin – the type of grin that someone would give after facing death for many times – which you return with a thumb of your own.

“Yeah, I’m uninjured.” Answers another man, this one of Western origins like you. Taking a small rest right next to the derelict APC, his rifle handling right behind his back along with the underbarrel grenade launcher and an emergency pack of IEDs, he remains professional and curt even though he is just as exhausted after a very prolonged firefight, and even when his hand subconsciously reaches for the graze on the demolitionist's left shoulder. It has been appropriately bandaged with field dressings (by your own hands to boot), but it still worries you.

“Really?”

“Yeah, man. It’s a graze, and I’m fine. I’ve had worse.”

"Argh, I'm angry!" Calls out another, but heated, voice. This one is a female of Arabic origins, with her designated marksman rifle hanging on her plate carrier. The sole reason why she does not secure the weapon on her hands is due to the magnetic bolt wound on her thighs, the bloodied left hand used to hold the damaged area, and the medkit sprayer on her other hand. “Some bastard shot me! Fuck!”

Noticing this, you begin to move towards the wounded operative, but she just gives you a placating hand. “I'm fine. Just give me a second, alright?”

“You sure you don’t want help?” Echo you.

“Yes, boss. I’m the team's medic, I know my shit.” Her expression, suffering from pain and hatred at the motherfucker who managed to shot through the engines she was hiding a few minutes earlier, softens a bit as she strategically sprays the healing gasses upon her wound. “Just call out to Central about the op. Don’t worry, I’ll take a seat somewhere.”

Unsure about her reassurance, you nonetheless just nod. As team leader, it is your job to keep your subordinates alive and well, and seeing anyone got hurt under your watch unsettle you on the inside. You know the liberation is going to cost many lives, you expect that anyone, including yourself, can die at any moment, and you have accepted that, but still…

You move through the convoy, now dismissed of life but a few alien and ADVENT corpses and the surviving yet victorious XCOM operatives, stand in a place where you can see all of your comrades, and keys your comms to report to the Tactical Operations Center. Your mission was simple: intercept an ADVENT supply convoy moving through the region that the Resistance managed to tip-off at a relatively last minute. The window of opportunity was small, and so XCOM High Command decided to send a fireteam of four to prepare an ambush within a reasonable timeframe. And ambush they did, with minimal casualties.

"TOC, Striker-1. ADVENT security forces eliminated, all cargo accounted for, requesting recovery teams to secure leftover supply, over."

"This is Central, good copy. Hold your position, Firebrand's moving to your position, ETA 5 minutes."

However, as you deliver a SITREP to headquarters, your keen eye can see something unusual moving in the tree lines. And judging from the movement of your fireteam, they also have seen it too.

“Break, break, break.” Says you onto the comms, as you temporary disconnect from the call and lift your carbine's sight up to your eye level. Regrouping with your comrades, you immediate signals them to spread out, take a skirmisher formation, and take cover. Within seconds, like a well-oiled machine, the operatives move up and aim at the disturbance, at the trees where the unidentified thing has just moved.

But what emerges out of there is worrisome, to say the least.

Out from the woods emerges a human. Or, at least, a tall humanoid creature with white hair, red iris, horns, white bat-like wings, and a similarly white devil tail. Even weirder, her clothes can be best described as revealing, punctuating her feminine hourglass charm.

Her entourage is also just as revealing as the leading figure. One – with purple flowing hair – is holding a staff that radiates purple (psionic?) energy, and wears a large witch hat and overtly sexualized attire, all with themes of black and purple and exposed boobs. The other and the last one can be considered the most alien of them all, and can be misidentified as the Chosen Assassin if her profile is larger and less sexual. Her skin is of deathly purple blue, her horns and wings have hints or red in seas of dark blue, and her armor is more bikini and skin than anything else.

Their appearance both confuse and worry your entire fireteam. They are no ADVENT, that is for sure. But they are still more alien than baseline humans, and that is the problem.

The leader looks around, possibly aghasted with the number of dead bodies, and says something in a tongue unfamiliar to you. It is not English, it is not Alien Newspeak, it is not Russian, it is not Farsi, and the closest thing you can relate to is runic. Unsurprisingly, no one knows to speak it here.

The situation gets worse when the things move forward. “Freeze! Stay where you are!” you warn, with minuscule inches of weapons your team holds as warnings. Everyone is aiming at the center mass now, the safeties are now off, the new... whatever they are flinch away at the sight of perceived threats, and things will escalate if misunderstandings are not solved.

So what would you do? Out of your mind, you have two general choices. Of course there will be more, but most revolve around the two below:

Open fire, clean up the stragglers, and drag their corpses back to the Avenger so the Chief Scientist can cut them off? Quick, clean, efficient, uncomplicated and most of all safe, just like you want. They are aliens, after all, and no one on this planet will mourn the death of three more. But in your gut there is a sense of foreboding as you think of this option...

De-escalate, try to communicate and convince these new X-rays that this is still a combat zone, and they need to get the fuck out of here, pronto? Completely unpredictable outcome, with your fireteam's lives on the line. Just note that the moment they harm your team, all bets are off, and either you take them down, or they take you down. No compromises.

Or...???