In the grim darkness of the 21st Century, there is only war and lust...

When people start thinking about the Outskirts, they imagine a death world of wild Chryssalids, rabid Faceless, invasive xeno-biome areas, and wandering hordes of Lost zombies killing anything and everything on their path. And they would be reasonably right; ever since the Alien Invasion of 2015, ADVENT and the Elders - their alien masters - had spent over 10 years to contain and clean the mess, but they just could not. The fact that the Resistance loved to make camp and disrupt their operations added in their fruitless endeavor. It is perhaps thanks to those factors that ADVENT retreated to their controllable (and heavily guarded) Administration Regions around the 2030s, except for valuable strongholds, and only occasionally assigned incursion teams into the lands.

What people tend to forget (or desperately try to forget, but fails miserably, thanks to City 31/New York in 2042) is a very peculiar incident in 2022. No one had ever known how it happened, but they could only see the symptoms. On July 12th, 2022, a prominent Resistance Faction, known as The Cabal, suddenly reported uncategorized creatures that resembled, of all things, human women with additional appendages. They were intelligent, sexually attractive, physically more powerful than a normal human, but also primitive, very lustful, and will instinctively rape any male they have spotted. While there were no first contact scenarios, they tried to warn the rest of the Resistance about the new extraterrestrial elements. A week later, Johnathan-John Quimberly Bradford, former Central Officer of the Extraterrestrial Combat Unit, or XCOM for short, and his band of merry men successfully fought against those same alien threats, who were raiding a Resistance Haven, confirming that they are hostile. Other rebel cells started to report similar contacts within the year. From September 2022 to February 2029, many ADVENT garrisons were attacked by the same X-rays. While the success of those attacks was varied, the damages were substantial enough that ADVENT Military Command had to pull off most assets from the Outskirts. There were also new settlements that seemingly appeared out of thin air, who were (and are still) oblivious to the state of the world and permanently stuck in the medieval ages. Generally, thanks to a prominent religion (among many other reasons,) they were more or less hostile to most Resistance and ADVENT personnel. More extreme problems, such as further hostile biome corruption by the new X-rays (known colloquially as Dark Zones to the Resistance or Demon Realm to the new arrivals) or unnatural and radical geological changes, followed. Soon, the remaining Resistance cells realized that the Outskirts have permanently changed, and not for the better. Even though they have more jurisdiction than they can ever dream of, they are contested continuously by – for lack of better words – horny hentai monster girls, superstitious 'locals,' religious crusaders, and most of all, non-psionic magical users.

This is a side note, but the latter of which is still a topic of debate long after the Long War for Liberation, as magic is not something XCOM or ADVENT can reverse engineer and transform a man to a mage. In fact, later testing reveals that most races are magically deaf, which is not a great deal since humans, hybrids, and Sectoids are psionically gifted. While it is proven that psionics can protect oneself against magical corruption, the fact that the reverse is valid to all Outskirt elements remains unexplained. Some explanations say that the new extraterrestrials have inner soul energies that fuel magic, but that still does not explain how do Terran humans and some aliens are psionic species. In contrast, Outskirt humans and monster girls are magical races. The original proponent later ended up disappearing in Moscow – a known Lost territory – trying to prove the hypothetical explanation.

Regardless, such a change was drastic enough for many prominent Resistance Factions to move their bases of operations away from the affected areas. While the Reaper hunters and the mystic psions of the Templars remain their HQ, others like the ADVENT deserter Skirmishers, the spymasters of the Cabal, and the newly reformed XCOM relocated their headquarters. The latter two factions deserve honorable mention: they expanded their operations to urban espionage and global infiltration or confrontation, respectively, and both ended up leading the Resistance movement. Later, the underground wartime global government advised the remaining rebel cells to contain the spread of the phenomenon, but by then said phenomenon had spread itself to most of Earth, spawning three new region-spanning Quarantine Zones. They are known as QZ North of North and Central America, QZ East for Southeast Asia to Central Asia and Japan, and QZ Central from the Middle East to Central Africa. Now, the rebels have found themselves involuntarily trading being periodically raided by ADVENT for being attacked continuously by monster girls or religious crusaders. Unprepared cells were compromised, revealing intel about other cells' whereabouts, and some Havens received heavy casualties. And most of all, none dared to imagine what kind of horrors some rebel groups faced when their areas of operations were turned into Dark Zones. The last few transmissions of the Kiryu-Kai, a Japanese rebel cell whose base ended up in the center of a nationwide Dark Zone, left... too much for interpretation. The remaining cells had to adapt to the new environment, on top of maintaining their primary mission: to survive and overthrow the ADVENT Administration. However, amid the chaos, nobody knew why the North American-based region is not called QZ West, rather than QZ North. Still, such detractors later found themselves swiftly targeted and captured by lamias or succubuses, compromised and turned into sex slaves, before being executed by either ADVENT incursion teams or Resistance retaliation forces, so everyone simply considers the argument closed.

Thankfully, due to the technological edge, general resourcefulness, absolute pragmatism, surprisingly competent leadership, astounding anti-corruption corps, and XCOM's innovations and support (as well as ADVENT's unwillingness to intervene,) the Resistance is somehow capable of holding the line and can almost freely operate in the Outskirts. In fact, years of working and scavenging in the Quarantine Zones mean that they can develop new technologies much faster without relying too much on XCOM. Considering the constant threat they face, it is necessary for their survival. Still, no one is willing to admit that a chastity belt is much more useful than whatever futuristic stuff they make for QZ or Outskirt operations.

But now, the year is 2035. It had just been a month since Operation Gatecrasher, and change is already in the air. ADVENT is falling down by the hands of XCOM and the Resistance Factions, that much is clear, but no one can say the same to the creatures and kingdoms roaming and living in the Quarantine Zones.

1259...

On a Wednesday...

Neutral City-state callsign "Chimera," Sector 25, QZ North...

"Actually, boss, it's Yharnam now."

"Wait, what's Yharnam now?"

"The city callsign. Overlord had just sent out an update to all XCOM elements in Sector 25."

"OK, why did Overlord do that? Changing landmark designations out of the blue is gonna make so much confusion and slow down operations. Unless we're alerted to a Chimera Squad or something like that operating in QZ North, I don't see why they'd just kinda do that. Better yet, why only us but not every Resistance asset in the entire region?"

"HIGHCOMM orders, boss. Here, take a look."

"...why the fuck does it suddenly make so much sense?"

1259...

On a Wednesday...

Neutral City-state callsign "Yharnam," Sector 25, QZ North...

(cue Captain's Table – Heinz Kiessling)

It is a bright cold day in April, and the clocks are striking thirteen. W****** K***** D*****, callsign "Buzzkill," his chin nuzzles into his shemagh scarf to protect himself from the vile winds, slips into a dark alleyway between some houses, though not quickly enough to prevent a swirl of coarse dust from hitting him skin.

The alleyway smells of old rag mats, hours of sexual course, literal shit, and decomposed garbage. At one end of it, a bulletin board, filled with requests or posters. Buzzkill has no idea whose bright idea was it to nail the board in an insignificant alleyway in the middle of nowhere, but who is he to question man's idiocy? Yet even some people manage to find this one useful for spreading information, such as the new wanted poster pinned on top of other papers.

Behind these masked men lies a confused, cold-hearted, and unloved heart. The caption reads in the local language.

The poster has a sketch of musket-wielding soldiers wearing some sort of thick coveralls that spans from their toes to their heads, which is accompanied by a strange mask. They also have a single chest plate with weird pouches, as well as peculiar sleek metallic frames, unlike the knights and heroes. Their armors indicate that they value mobility rather than full protection.

In short, they are either Resistance fighters or XCOM operatives with CBRN oversuits, magnetic or coil weaponry, body armors (possibly Predator or Warden Plate Carriers,) and combat exoskeletons. Pretty impressive setup for a rebel cell, and pretty standard stuff for an XCOM squad.

Without remorse or regret, they have slain countless innocent people and spurred any attempt at learning love.

It is probably from another raid, and sometimes he pities upon the unfortunate X-rays that just happened to be nearby. Those attacks are somewhat infrequent, and most of the time, they are trying to eliminate either ADVENT troop columns, supply lines, RD research facilities, COIN operations, or monster campgrounds that are too near to an outpost. That, and there are still standing orders to kill every interfering monster girl on sight, regardless if they are a part of the raid or not. He cannot say that they do not deserve it, though.

But even with the inherent wrongness of their acts, we must not falter our own.

Ah yes, the always 'benevolent,' dangerous, lustful, stupid, and utterly ignorant acts and souls of X-rays. How fucking pure.

He'd pick ADVENT prisons or Chosen dungeons over being a sex slave at any time.

We must show them that there is more in life than just mindless violence.

By the time the X-rays show humanity that 'more in life,' the Elders would have already destroyed the planet and turned most humans into soylent green. Besides, to this day, he still cannot comprehend how do the locals do not recognize that there is a world war right outside their kingdoms. He'd figured that the admittedly overt Resistance activities might alarm them that something is amiss, but no, everyone just refuses to accept it. Dissociative amnesia, he can understand – after all, it is a dangerous world out there – but a region-wide memory loss or denial is just not possible.

We must help them reach their inner, real feelings, and soften their hearts with love.

He just runs out of words to snark back at this propaganda poster and is tempted to toss this piece of shit away from public eyes. Even in this place, he doubts that anyone will actually report anything because, in most cases, they would never know what a fully-fledged XCOM operative looks like.

He notes that the poster comes from an infamous warband, however. Ever since his fireteam is reassigned from urban infiltration to QZ operations, he and the rest of the team are still tracking them down and finding out if they have any affiliation toward "Crimson," the Resistance's designation for the Monster Lord (on top of tracking down ADVENT activity.) So he grabs a notebook, jolts down the essential bits, and then continues his journey to his destination. The alleyway is smelly as usual, and he has to fix his scarf so that the piece of cloth can block some of the more pungent odors.

He passes the market on the way there, and even with the dusty wind and the leftover smell of garbage, he really wants to pull the scarf away. The scent of sweet cakes, wonderfully cooked goods, and flowers hit his nostrils almost immediately. As always, it is buzzing with activity as merchants try to sell their newest wages, while onlookers window-shop the neat and beautiful trinkets. Foodstuffs are abundant in this place, which he really has to stop to gawk at it. Fresh meat, confectionaries, culinary foods, and others are rare everywhere ever since ADVENT killed all animals, and the Resistance has to rely on captured rations, old MREs, fruits, vegetables, and in many cases, remaining wildlife, both terrestrial and alien. So to see butchers selling all sorts of meat and bakers making all sorts of sweets is a surprising, nostalgic, and welcome sight for his team, to say the least. There are also some X-rays mingling around, sometimes with their husbands, trekking around, trying to buy essential goods, or in some cases, looking for a life partner for themselves. Some minotaurs even wink and sultrily smirk at him, which he ignores.

All in all, a very usual sight, but something is unsettling about it. Buzzkill has to admit, while there are a lot of things he wants to buy for himself, the fact that those aliens are usually too physically close for his comfort. They are also too humanlike for his taste – occasional flirting or capturing attempts notwithstanding – and that tends to scare him off from crowded spaces. At least in the City Centers, ADVENT aliens are passive, rarely interact with people, and only react violently when there is a perceived threat. Yes, he'd rather wrestle an angry Muton Elite mano-o-mano with a rusty bayonet (and die trying) than gaze upon a defenseless succubus. The lack of electronics also adds to his uncomfortable feelings. But still, orders are orders, and he will swallow his instinct if it means completing the mission.

He stops his musings when he hesitates to enter a particular bakery. He and his team usually buy sweetstuffs out of this place, when they are definitely sure that there are no traces of DM Radiation (or demonic energy for the locals) because it is generally safe to ingest. Also, nearly everyone takes a liking into their goods. But his hesitation is due to the owners of this shop.

"Oh, hi there, mister Clarke!" The head baker greats him; her brown eyes light up when seeing him. She is a young redhead woman in her early 20s, with a baker cap and an apron. Her behavior reminds him of a somewhat stereotypical kind mother, complete with an adorable, soul-soothing facial expression, and the hair braid going over the shoulder and ends on her giant chest, if not for the different appendages on her lower body. Then she reminds him of a hostile Viper coming to suffocate him and shooting poisonous clouds at his team if said Viper does not shoot at his fireteam with its particle rifle. Or its worse cousin, the Serpents. Or the useless version, the Najas. "It's good to see you again! Welkin and I would love to thank you for last night, mister."

"Hey there, Alicia." Tiredly replies Buzzkill, using his alias Nathan Clarke, who tries not to remember that complete clusterwreck trainfuck of last night. He really does not want to spend more time than he needs, so he decides to coolly and curtly continues: "Give me the usual, please. I need to go quick."

"Of course! Just wait a moment, mister!" She bows, giggles, and then slithers into the ovens with the already heated baked goods like she has previously predicted that he will visit her place. He cannot help but raise a suspicious eyebrow.

As he waits, he still cannot help but avoid all eye contact from nearly every single person in this market. Part of it is due to some X-ray onlookers are eyeing at him as some sort of meat, part of it is that he is still not comfortable being so close to monster girls like this, even though it is his job to work undercover. He is also not wearing adequate armor – he only has a concealable vest – so that also contributes to his feelings. Again, the operative knows that subterfuge is the best way to work here, but he feels like he should be in CBRN battle gear, and he is going to be compromised wearing these civilian clothes.

"Here you go, mister Clarke!" Calls out the baker girl, with a large paper bag full of sweets on the stall. Before reaching the goods, he grabs his bag of gold coin, carefully moving his arm so that he can push and keep the concealable PDW hidden underneath the trench coat.

"How much?"

"Oh, it's free." Replies Alicia. "I can't find a way to thank you for what you did to us, so I would love to repay with this! You are also my most frequent customer, so think of this as a membership coupon. I also would love to gift you this," She also puts a bottle of milk on the stall. He looks at the label and realizes that he should never drink the liquid, let alone touch it. It is a mildly (depending on its 'thickness') mutagenic concoction extracted from live animals, and it is considered an infectious biohazard by the Resistance. "As another thank you for your deed." Regardless, she continues and stresses her feelings with a kind smile.

"...noted. Just keep the milk, I don't need it." He pulls back his arms and takes the takeaway, leaving the bottle alone like it is a Taliban IED. He also ignores the puzzling look of the woman, as she is wondering why he would ever ignore such a delicacy. "Thanks for the help."

Still, she returns to her happy-go-lucky smile. "No problem, mister. Thank you for choosing Alicia's-"

"Honey!" Suddenly calls out a younger male voice right next to him. When he immediately turns his head upon the source, he is greeted with the sight of a young man, twenty of age. He has grey hair – but the hairdo does not remind Buzzkill of an old man – and a kind, innocent and curious face of a kid in an adult body. But what is more interesting is the skin coloration of the newcomer. Sure, he looks like the local version of a Caucasian, but there are subtle hints of yellow on the outline of his skin. Not to mention the grey but lively eyes, which has a faint heart-shaped pupil on each of them. All of that is the telltale signs of a compromised human. "I'm home!"

Looking at the poor bastard only makes his own skin crawl.

"Welkin!" The baker leaps out of the bakery and gives a crushing hug to her cute and adorable husband with her snake coil. How does a 10-foot tall lamia manage to jump with a snake lower half is utterly beyond him.

"A-anyways," Buzzkill stammers. "I gotta go." Without saying goodbye, he swiftly leaves the scene before the couple reduces themselves into a long and loud making out and sexual session.

While the operative is walking away, he cannot help but think about the surprisingly common scene of couples openly loving each other. Whenever it is an average couple, man-monster, woman-monster, or gay couple, they are always unabashedly willing to kiss, hug, cuddle, and fuck right in the open area, observers be damned. He supposes that he just has culture shock, as the Quarantine Zone is notoriously known for their free sex 'policies,' and Buzzkill should get used to it if he wants to complete his assignment. Still, holy shit does it ever makes him shudder every time he has to watch another couple porking themselves in the streets. At least the operative does not have to work in the Dark Zones; the tales he heard from his unfortunate contacts leave either nothing or too much for the imagination.

Another walk across the stinky alleyway, and another step to a different deserted area, he soon finds himself in a different district away from the city square, a more 'normal' one. There are slightly fewer public affections than the city square (read: one less monster girl raping a man than usual,) and people are still milling around with their jobs, happily walking by, and talking to each other like it is an average day. Minotaurs and centaurs push many carts full of this season's harvest, to be sold on the market or cooked into food. Certain monsters are skipping back to their homes, acting like excited children, or impatient wives. There are also a significant number of Resistance agents working undercover in the area, but nobody needs to know that yet. He meets one who is jogging around, and the two of them ignore each other and stay focused on their tasks, not even exchanging a nod of acknowledgment. He sticks to the shadows or away from others, internally fearing for his life that a random X-ray might pounce and has her way with him.

Another turn to another alleyway, and he ends up in front of a small house. Not many people tend to venture in here, in fear of deadly phantoms coming to take them away (in both meanings of the word.) While the air is undoubtedly haunted and isolated, he has no reason to be afraid of the dark.

He quietly opens the door but waits for a moment, as he tries to scan for any potential threat. On the walls of the empty living room lies a large oil drawing of the Tower of Barad-Dur in the fiery and maleficent glory of Mount Doom, but in place of the Flaming Eye of Mordor lies ADVENT's logo instead. The inscription on top of it is illustrated so that the Tengwar words themselves are burning, and the text reads as follows: Only together can we build a better tomorrow, as if it is mocking the motto. The colors are also unusual: sure, there are the standard lava and ashy mountains of Mordor, but within the yellow fire comes a streak of green human genetic sludge. The horizon, covered by tarry smog, also hides distinct streams of purple psionics. All-in-all, some of his teammates are utter nerds, and he has to chuckle at this artistic dumpster fire. They used to joke about linking the painting to a hidden passageway, 80s superspy style. Hell, he remembers aiding them in their quest to recreate the Tower itself (against his better judgments,) with plans and initial sketches of an ADVENT Network Tower of Barad-Dur. Unfortunately, much to his – in equal parts – disappointment and relief, XCOM High Command reluctantly scrapped the idea due to operational security reasons.

As if the logo is not revealed enough.

Still, that does not mean that he will enter the house just yet.

He knows that he is paranoid – this is where he and his fireteam lives, and they made the house as secured as they can – but it is something that is built into his mind a long time ago. He cannot clearly remember the last time such 'skills' are needed; he only had images of a Chryssalid jumping at him, but he knew for a fact that the incident was around 2012, so that does not make any sense. But experiences and close calls have dictated that a soldier's instinct is reliable, and as of right now, it is screaming at him to pull out his gun and start defending himself.

Turns out, it takes only a 180 turn for him to realize the threat.

(cue Clique Chic – Mondstein)

"What the f-" Buzzkill manages to squeak out before he is suddenly launched back into the house. Before he can recover, he is pinned down by a female figure. The assailant itself is nothing more than a winged and horned monster girl, with large amounts of bluish-grey-green exposed skin, pointy scales all over her legs, hands, and her supposed bra. Its tail is almost excitedly wiggling like a dog. That appendage even closes the door by itself. It appears to be rather sloppy but powerful, and he can recognize the facial expression after merely weeks operating in QZ North.

Lustful, ferocious, and, most of all, undead. Another quick scan at the monster's silhouette and Buzzkill suddenly realizes what kind of hostile he is dealing with. That X-ray is a goddamn Zombie Dragon! He needs to get off the thing, ASAP!

As for the monster girl, she is feeling rather bold today. Ever since she returns to the world of the living, her body, her mind, her everything has become so hot, so lustful, and all of her is craving for a man she can call her own. She refused at first, yes, but as time went on, her rational mind cannot bear against her centuries worth of carnal desire any longer. And now, after watching this fine specimen of a man for a while, she simply cannot hold it anymore! She must make him hers!

As she gazes closely at the finer details of the man, her mind should have noticed some discrepancies here and there. His arms feel slightly heavier and more metallic than it should, his pupils move and react faster than a mortal man, and his handsome face, while terrified, is seemingly gleaming a streak of... something that modern monster girls cannot comprehend. In fact, it is safe to say that this Zombie Dragon, with only the Monster Overlord knows how many years of pent-up sexual energy, simply cares about making him as her new husband for life. Instinctively, she breathes on him, marking him as her treasure. She continues to admire his face as her hands gently and lovingly caress him.

The operative immediately holds his breath as the thing leers and leaks saliva onto his face, knowing exactly what happens if he simply smells the miasma. He had read the autopsy reports and the local encyclopedia; a Zombie Dragon's breath contains mutagenic spores that erode a man's higher brain functions and turns women into zombies. Luckily for him, basic gas mask filters can cancel out the neurotoxin, but unluckily for him, he does not have any, aside from a flimsy cloth shemagh. He does have a cybernetic lung that can filter many toxins (it is a long story,) but he is definitely not going to become a test subject for this 'hypothetical' experiment.

He holds his breath and mentally counts that he probably has 1 to 2 minutes before he needs to inhale. He needs to act now, or he will be compromised.

Aww, is her lovely husband struggling? Even better. In her heart of hearts, she loves a man that struggles before he gives in to pleasure and love. But what should she do with him? He does not seem to be affected by her miasma, so she must do something to subdue her husband. Maybe she should pin him down and kiss him violently? Perhaps she would embrace him and soothe him with gentle love? Or possibly... or she can...

...she is getting wet down there. Wet with desire. The dragon's lust is begging her to take the human now and make him hers now. And when she cannot think of anything else but to satiate a hunger left forgotten for eons, she simply and sweetly smiles at him.

"Don't worry, handsome," Says the dragon in her mother tongue. "It will be all over soon. Now relax and give in to the pleasure, dear."

She makes her decision as she begins to kindly take off his clothes.

The thing had just roared at him. An animalistic roar that promises nothing but pain and slavery. Its feral grin and the increased speed only reinforce the fact that it really is... committed.

Yep, he is going through hours of decontamination after this.

While this zombie monster/Lost-lookalike abomination tries to violently pull out his dick, he quickly goes for his weapon under the coat: an XCOM-made M74C Personal Defense Weapon, a coilgun that just happens to look, feel, and shoot similar to a conventional MP7A1. It is already fed with a 20-round magazine, and the chamber is loaded, so all he has to do is disengage the safety, line up a shot, and open fire. And in this range, where the target is literally on top of him, he really does not need to aim without fearing collateral damage or friendly fire.

But by the time he had procured his weapon, it had already torn off his pants and his shirts apart, and it is now looking at him sultrily. The thing giggles as its primal sexual instinct guide the creature to lower its nether parts onto him. Unfortunately for the X-ray, unlike the local heroes and heroines of the QZs, whose infallible idealism and overconfidence always benefit the monsters they are fighting against, it is trying to rape a ruthless and experienced XCOM Gunnery Sergeant.

Perhaps it is due to the creature's brain fantastic capacity not to realize his intention to kill makes the thing's head comically and confusedly veers itself onto the PDW's barrel.

The gun opens fire, its unusual 'muzzle flash' streaks and dissipates on the flash hider, and from the barrel comes to an armor-piercing bullet, aided by the miracles of coil technology, gliding and penetrating the sound barriers in front of it. The sound of gunfire reverberates throughout the soundproof room, signaling the thunderous yet anticlimactic death of the monster girl. Within nanoseconds, the bullet punches through the Zombie Dragon's forehead and over-penetrates through the target's spine. Before it can registers that it has been shot, he squeezes the trigger again at the face of the monster. And again. And again. Multiple times.

Being undead, the Zombie Dragon herself is incapable of feeling pain. It does feel her head being torn apart and blown away as her supposedly future husband goes in for the kill. But even then, her lust-clouded rotten mind can never register anything other than complete sexual infatuation towards the male specimen. Even, or perhaps especially, when he is kicking her corpse away and is going to finish her off.

As soon as Buzzkill manages to get himself up, he backs away while still pointing the gun at it. Even when he is at a distance where its spores cannot harm him, he nonetheless grabs a gas mask and secures it on his face. But though he pumped enough bullets into it that the thing cannot possibly move, even if a Sectoid is reanimating it, it still does not change the fact that the creature is still kicking it.

And for XCOM, the only good X-ray is a dead X-ray.

The once lewd and mighty dragon is now laying motionlessly on the floor, unsure of what it will do, or perhaps it is waiting for yet another death. He does not care. That thing dies today; he reasons in his rage-induced mind, no matter what it takes. He is ready and willing to paint the entire house with rotten dragon guts if it means that the monster stays dead.

However, as he releases the spent magazine onto the gun, slaps a fresh one into the mag well, and is about to flick the bolt release, he suddenly hears footsteps from the inner sanctum of the house.

Right behind him.

"Down on the ground, do it!" Yells a savage voice in the local language, snapping his thoughts away from the X-ray and its cruel imminent demise. When he turns around, he looks upon a figure wearing, from head to toe, a nanite-reinforced CBRN suit in MULTICAM camouflage pattern, a gas mask, and a Warden Plate Carrier. His rifle is the coil Mk165 Mod 1 Close Quarters Assault Rifle – standard issue weapon for almost all XCOM operatives in the Quarantine Zone – with an under-barrel grenade launcher and holographic sight attachments. There is only one man in his fireteam would use such a weapon, and his name is E***** C******, or "Crown," the team's demolitionist, lance corporal rank, among other things.

"Hey, fucking watch it, man," Buzzkill quickly yells out in English, with his gun already tucked away. "I'm friendly!"

Crown tries to lower the weapon as he acknowledges that one of the operatives is back. "Buzzkill? Sir?" Asks he, before he raises his rifle again and points towards the half-double-dead monster girl on the ground. "How did that thing get in here?"

"What's the team's status?" The team leader ignores the question.

"Wha-"

"What happened to them, Crown, are they OK?!"

"...upstairs and uninjured," The demolitionist succinctly replies, although Buzzkill feels like he dragged on a bit too much. The team leader also let out a sigh of relief after hearing that crucial piece of information. "Merc and Azura are guarding upstairs and overwatching the entire district by now. Now, what about that thing?"

"One thing at a time." At this moment, Buzzkill would love to order Crown to execute the target as excruciatingly painful as possible. Still, considering that it is even worse than useless, and now he is no longer irrationally vengeful, he needs to deal with the mess professionally. So he takes a breath to calm his nerves, scan the situation, and begin directing. "Alright, so here's what we're gonna do. Get the rest of the team down here to dispose the body, clean the room, start packing and relocate to Safehouse Delta-4. A Banshee will come the moment it's dead, and as soon as it starts wailing, this hideout is compromised. Hell, it might be here already." After tossing the other operative a biohazard bodybag, he then glances down at his torn overalls to look at the bloodied parts (not his blood, though). "I'll deal with HQ and alert the other cells to go underground myself the moment I'm out of the bathroom. Any questions?"

"None, sir."

"Good." Buzzkill walks to the decontamination showers before stopping for a moment. "Eliminate it however you like."

As soon as he sees the demolition expert nods in affirmative, he continues and soon sees himself inside a pretty spartan shower, the biohazard wrappers on the walls notwithstanding. All field operatives have to go through this and other protocols if they wish to go further and not contaminate the BSL-4 biosecurity level of the actual hideout upstairs. The team also uses them for regular baths. After getting used to the wrappers, the hazardous material symbols, and the decontamination procedures, it is a surprisingly pleasant experience.

When he is done tossing the ruined civilian outfits and concealable armor into a yellow biohazard basket, he suddenly hears a deafening feminine scream. That's odd, he initially thinks after regaining himself, the showers should be soundproof. Then he starts to listen in more carefully and realizes that, yes, it is the cries of a Banshee. Their grievous wails of sadness inform the locals that someone or something has perished, or is going to die tonight, and those are few sounds that can penetrate soundproof materials. In comparison, the supposedly thunderous gunshots of Crown's assault rifle sound comparatively quiet.

Regardless, no matter what happens, if he keeps staying here, eventually, people will start talking, and the city guards will begin investigating. Killing anything, including enemies, is very taboo in the Quarantine Zones, with the limited number of uncompromised humans and monsters preferring to snatch a husband for themselves, which is entirely opposite of the Resistance and ADVENT's modus operandi when it comes to engaging hostiles. After many years, the locals should have at least know to connect the screams of a Banshee with Resistance activity, and the last thing everybody needs is confirmation that XCOM has already infiltrated the city. Luckily, all of the equipment is easily packageable, and the team only needs about an hour to pack up everything and relocate, so he has nothing to worry about that.

What he is worried about, however, is Crimson's agents and the Order kooks, even when there is no concrete evidence of the Monster Lord's interference yet. The former has been amicable towards Resistance forces so far, and he doubts that they will ever focus on one of many monster-friendly cities that have a modicum of decency for once. Still, there is no telling that some of the extremists might find them to be beautiful slaves. The religious nutjobs and their 'heroic' goons, meanwhile, have been a pain in their asses for long, but now their activities have recently been increased for good reasons, and XCOM High Command is concerned that their zealotry might mess up with the fragile peace of QZ North. If the zealots find out that someone is dead, they might interpret the Banshee cry as a human has been killed (as if they can ask the creature without killing it) and push for more drastic actions. Not to mention ADVENT, who, while being an outside force as far as QZ power struggle is concerned, might plan for another incursion at local settlements and Resistance Havens alike. Most combat-ready rebel cells are as stretched thin as it is, and XCOM cannot merely intervene every time there is a distress call. That, and he cannot believe that the ADVENT Administration, the puppet government with actual and dangerous extraterrestrial military backing (rather than these sad excuses of sexual degenerates), can simply give up the Outskirts in less than two decades. The Resistance had raided ADVENT positions for years, and they never bulged, but when the monsters attacked their bases, they pulled all assets away. He does not know what games those alien puppets are playing, and he really hopes that XCOM has time to shut them all down before the situation deteriorates.

As he stands there, reviewing past actions and feeling the cold waters washing through his skin, he can only sigh in relief and tiredness. The HQ talk is going to give him a migraine. He might as well enjoy the quiet, private bath before all hell break loose.

Such is life in the Quarantine Zone.

Buzzkill Almost Got Raped

It's Always Sunny in the Quarantine Zone

Starring:

Michael Tsarouhas as "Buzzkill"

Adam James as "Crown"