"Central, this is Raven Four. We have splashed the bogey. I repeat, we have splashed the bogey,"

The typical chaotic chatter that filled Mission Control was temporarily silenced as the monitoring officers registered what had just been reported by the interceptor. Only the soft whirring of the ventilation fan high above the room could be heard; every man and woman in the room having stopped what they were doing to stare in stunned disbelief at the blinking red icon of a crashed UFO on the hologlobe on a remote island in the Pacific.

"Copy that, Raven Four. Requesting video confirmation of the bogey,"

"Roger, Central. Setting up video link,"

The image of the downed UFO on the central screen – a flattened, rectangular object – finally broke the stupor of the personnel in Mission Control. An uproar of cheering and whistling rocked the room; officers gave each other high fives and thumbs-ups, while others bumped fists with their neighbours in gestures of elation.

All except one figure in the centre of the room. Central Officer Bradford's face remained grim despite all of the events around him. Coughing into his microphone, he keyed into the speakers in the soldiers' barracks.

"Strike One, this is Central. Report to the hangar for a sortie,"

A single skirmish did not win a battle, let alone a war. And the long war had only just started. He held no illusions that the crash had killed the crew of the alien craft. After all, there was a saying among XCOM operatives that proved grimly true, time and again.

The only good alien was a dead alien, and the only way an alien is dead is if you've put two shots between its eyes.

And a forced, violent re-entry did not classify as a way to make sure an alien was really dead.

"Central, this is Big Sky. Holding position above the AO, ready to set Strike One down,"

"Reading you five-by-five, Big Sky. Commence insertion,"

The pilot of the Skyranger grimaced. It was fortunate that the crash had taken down all external defences present on the alien vehicle. From the sheer size of the thing, he wondered exactly what did the aliens bring on it. It was by far the largest alien vessel that he had seen, being almost as large as an entire football field by footprint alone; and from its height, he could assume that there were multiple decks on it. If the burning plasma cannons on the bow and stern of the ship were any indication, it was also very heavily armed.

"Alright, folks. We're in the AO," Big Sky said, looking over his shoulder at the operatives in the back, "Raven Four managed to bring down this ship, and Central said that they want every last bit of salvage from it. That means you guys are going to neutralise all hostiles in the AO, and get your asses back into this ship when you're done. We have no idea about enemy composition or troop count, and our heat sensors are blinded by the amount of fires burning inside that ship. Stay alert, stay alive, and put them in bodybags before-"

"Thanks, squirt. I'll take it from here. Alright, rookies, listen up!" growled a grizzled old operative, standing up and unholstering his laser rifle. There was an eyepatch over his right eye, with what appeared to be most of the right half of his face missing from some terrible blow. "For most of you, this will be your first mission. I know how that feels; all the weeks and months of training, all the drills, all the exercises, all for just this moment. You want to put a bullet or several between the aliens' eyes. And let me say this just once; it's a damn good goal you got,"

A few nervous chuckles echoed through the crew hold, and the old operative had the faintest of toothless smiles on his lips. But without warning, he seized a combat knife from his boot and had it at the throat of the nearest rookie on his right, as quick as a flash. Gone was any trace of joviality, replaced by a burning rage behind icy eyes.

"And let me tell you," he continued, sheathing the knife, "That the more eager you are to put bullets in those aliens, the faster you're going to get killed. Stay frosty, stay focused, remember your training, and maybe – just maybe – you'll get back to HQ in one piece. Do I make myself clear, rookies?"

"Sir, yes, sir!" they all chorused.

"That's Major Stonewall to you all!" roared the old operative, "Ready your weapons! We move out in five seconds!"

The lights on the skyranger turned red as the vehicle came to a shuddering stop and the rear door fell open. The four frontmost rookies rushed out, their guns held at the ready and scanning for any threats, followed by the major and the three remaining rookies. There was a small valley in front of them, filled with charred and fallen trees where the crashed UFO had torn a furrow through the dense forest.

"So remind me why we only got Stonewall?" one of the frontmost rookies whispered to his friend. The lad was young; perhaps barely older than twenty, with the smooth skin and clear voice that came with youth. He shifted uneasily in his baggy uniform as he scanned the horizon for hostiles.

"1-4, move north-northeast, behind that tree. See if you can find any enemies,"

"Copy that. Moving," the young lad replied, nearly jumping when Stonewall's orders came through his earpiece. He quietly sprinted for the gnarled tree in question, peeking to its side. Just beyond, perhaps only thirty paces away, a pair of small, grey aliens were scrabbling over something; watched over by a taller, thin humanoid with a long, glowing rifle. The ship itself was pockmarked with holes where the interceptor had laid its missiles into the alien vessel; a fierce blaze was burning inside, no doubt fuelled by ruptured fuel lines within.

"Eyes on the enemy. Two sectoids, one thin man," he whispered. A shift in the shadows inside the ship cause him to look closer. "I think that's...a muton...and something else. Inside the ship, on the left ramp,"

"Affirmative. 1-2, 1-3, 1-5, get to the ridge overlooking the crash site and rain lead on them. 1-6, 1-7 and myself will be right behind you, 1-4. The moment that they move, fire on everything that still lives,"

Three men nodded and crept as quietly as they could to the rocky ridge just above the crashed UFO's doorway. "1-2, 1-3, 1-5. Pick a target, one per person. On the count of three, put a bullet through their heads. Rest of you, weapons up and ready to fire if the rookies miss,"

"Three...two...one...firing!"

A hailstorm of bullets peppered the aliens outside the ship. Or rather, mostly peppered the ground around the aliens outside the ship. Only one of the sectoids fell, dropped by a lucky headshot by one of the rookies above. The thin man and the remaining sectoid scampered off with minor wounds; a graze above the leg on the sectoid, and a broken arm for the thin man.

"1-4, 1-5, 1-6, 1-7, fire at will," growled Stonewall, glaring in disappointment at the three rookies above. It was such an easy shot to be taken; at unaware enemies, not even moving, and yet they still failed to kill. How he wished that the sergeants that he usually went on missions with were available!

The other four rookies opened fire on the remaining aliens, managing to land enough glancing hits to finally bleed them all to death. "X-rays neutralised. 1-2, 1-3, 1-5, maintain your current position and watch for any enemy movement. The rest of you, reload and-"

"Mutons incoming!" shouted 1-4. There were two of them; one in a green suit of armour, and the other in red. The one in green beat its chest and brandished its plasma rifle, while the other ground its armoured fists together and leered at the line of cowering rookies, roaring viciously. Without warning, the green-clad muton lifted its rifle and let loose a bolt of plasma, blasting an unwitting rookie's head to fleshy bits with a wet squelch.

"Oh god. Oh god," whimpered the female one beside the dead rookie. She felt the still-warm pieces of bone and flesh stuck to her cheek. That man who was just alive – and now dead – was on her. That could have well been her. Or anyone else around her. "Evac! We need an evac! Now, damn it, now!" she shrieked, pulling her assault rifle's trigger and holding it down. A torrent of rounds made it downrange, pelting the muton's armour with dozens of pieces of hot lead.

"Son of a bitch! Fire at will!" the major shouted. Not that he even needed to issue the orders; the other rookies fired upon the mutons at the moment that they witnessed the death of 1-5.

Fear, it seemed, had a way of motivating even the greenest of rookies to act independently. The muton who had shot one of their own members dead soon fell to the ground, shredded by the combined firepower of numerous assault rifles.

Yet soon the reason why fear was a poor motivator showed itself. The berserker muton remained untouched, while each of the remaining soldiers were rewarded with empty clicks when they held the triggers of their weapons. If an alien could grin, the berserker was now sporting the widest one that the major had ever seen as it started its run towards their lines.

"I'm dry!" shouted the one beside the major, followed by similar statements from her peers. The berserker, however, snarled in fury and continued its charge at the nearest rookie.

1-6, panicked female on the team, could only gasp and stutter in fear and shock when the towering mountain of muscle loomed over her. She could smell its rancid breath, its foul saliva dripping on her arm. The berserker leered at her as it pulled an arm back, and she closed his eyes, hoping that the end would be quick.

"It's high noon, you fat bastard!"

Boom. Boom. Boom.

Three thunderous blasts rang through the small clearing. Her ears still ringing from the noise, she cracked an eye open, wondering why she was not spread out all over the forest floor yet.

In front of her stood the berserker. Or rather, what was left of it. The top half of its head was missing, a fountain of blood pulsing from the frayed veins protruding from the stub. Slowly, it crumbled to its knees, still twitching.

"Your name, missy?" Stonewall growled at her. An enormous pistol was clenched in his hand, its barrel still smoking. She stared at the pistol, wondering just what kind of weapon had enough power to decapitate a berserker in just three shots. "I won't repeat myself. Your name, missy?"

"I—I—Emily-"

"You are not Emily," he snorted, "You are Rookie 1-6. Is that a weapon in your hands or not, 1-6?"

"Yes, yes it is. Sir,"

"It's not a toy, lass. You point it at the enemy. You pull that trigger. You make the enemy dead. You make them use the bodybags, not you. And from what I've seen, you almost needed a bodybag yourself. And you do not want that, do you, soldier?"

She gulped and shook her head nervously. Stonewall marched up to her and shoved the rifle into her chest. "Then you damn well better mean it, rookie. Unless you want to end up like 1-5 next to you. Keep your eyes on the prize, and stay frosty. Because one day, I might not be able to put one between the eyes of the ugly that's about to turn you into paste for his dinner,"

"U-understood, Major,"

"Is that a yes, or a maybe, soldier? Well? I'm listening!"

"Crystal clear, Major!"

"Good. Now what the hell are the rest of you waiting for? We're boarding that damn ship, and making sure that everything in there is dead!"

The inside of the ship was littered with the corpses of dead aliens. Sectoids and thin men, apparently killed by the impact of the crash. There were the occasional mutons, burning where they had succumbed to the noxious fumes spewing from shattered cylinders containing sickly green liquid. The entire ship appeared to consist of a single enormous chamber, piled high with rows upon rows of metal crates and cylinders of assorted glowing liquids. Racks of golden crystals lay scattered on the floor, many shattered into a fine powder. With the ship's power out, the room was lit by the fierce flames that still burned from ruptured pipelines.

"One-Actual, this is Central. A satellite sweep has been completed moments ago, and we detect no additional hostiles in your area. Be advised that there appears to be an energy anomaly in your immediate vicinity. Something is emitting regular pulses of energy, about thirty paces from your current position. It does not appear to match the signature of any known alien weapons; use caution,"

Thirty paces. That was not too far. Stonewall cursed and lifted up his rifle, flicking on the flashlight underneath his weapon. The others likewise followed suit, nervously sweeping their lights over the wreckage inside the ship. Even if Central had said that the entire ship was clean from their observations, it never hurt to be cautious.

"What is this?" one of the rookies spoke, kicking open a metal crate. Inside were bars and sheets of an unknown silvery-yellow metal.

The same metal as the aliens' armour was made of. Looking at each other, a few of the others lifted the lids on other crates, finding similar items inside.

"I think...we've hit a supply ship of some sort," Emily whispered. She opened a few more crates; one had a stash of greenish, glowing grenades; another had half a dozen of those pistols that the sectoids used, and the last that she pried open was filled with some sort of reddish dust that burned her hand on contact.

"Ouch!" she hissed, shaking the flaming powder off her hand and hastily closing the container. Some things were perhaps better left untouched.

She continued walking down the row of unmarked crates, careful to not open any more. Eventually, at the end of the row, she found the strangest sight in front of her.

There were several man-sized casket-like containers stacked neatly on top of each other in a corner, seemingly still in place despite the force of the impact. Perhaps it was due to the glowing blue pads underneath each casket, which seemed to suspend the caskets above the ship's metal floor. Regardless, Emily was drawn in by curiosity. The rest of the ship was in disarray, with items hurled to the ground by the impact; even the majority of the crew had not survived the impact. Why would these be so important that they were protected so well?

Emily grunted as she shifted a few metal crates, stacking them one on top of another so that she could have a look inside one of the caskets. The glass lid of the topmost one was coated in a thick layer of frost. There were even a few larger ice crystals sticking out of its smooth surface like tiny icy daggers. But beneath all of that, she could only see a faint dark shape in the acid green fluid inside.

"1-6, what have you got?" Stonewall spoke, his heavy footsteps nearly startling her off the pile of crates she was standing on.

Swallowing, she wiped down the glass lid with her sleeve. She bit back a hiss of pain when a wave of incredible cold washed over her arm, even through the insulated fabric covering it. After several attempts, however, enough of the ice covering had been melted away, revealing the container's contents.

"I...I think these are abductees. There's a...girl in this one," she murmured, blushing, eyeing the form inside the casket. There was a slender young woman floating inside. Her thigh-length silver-white hair was the only thing preserving her modesty, loosely covering her body like a shroud. If the gentle rise and fall of her chest was any indication, she was still alive, if unconscious or in a deep sleep. For someone so delicately built, she had a rather long and deep scar running over her left eye, as though she had been wounded by some bladed melee weapon. Just who was this woman? And why did the aliens take such a keen interest in her that she would be kept in stasis on a supply ship?

"Abductees? Well then, this changes things. Central, do you copy?"

"We read you, One-Actual. Status report?"

"We have alien abductees in the AO," said Stonewall, tapping on the caskets in front of him. "Likely to be four of them, at least one guaranteed. What are your orders?"

A few moments passed before his comlink crackled to life again. "Strike One, this is Central. Move the abductees to a safe location outside, along with as much salvage as you can from the ship. Once you're done, return to the Skyranger for evac with all remaining operatives. We'll send in a heavy transport to lift the goods out. Good work out there, everyone. Central out,"

A/N

The moment when you're trying to do a mission, and your A-team is all gravely wounded or fatigued, and you have to send a squad of rookies... Well, let's just say that panic can do amazing things in battle. Usually not good things, but amazing things nonetheless. Like throwing HE grenades at the rest of your squad's cover, all because of that one berserker trying to run at your team.

Sometimes, though, the game likes to make you giggle a little at the names they give for operations. The first one that sort of made sense I've gotten out of the Long War mod was Operation God Slayer. And then the following one - a terror mission, in which every single rookie I sent panicked - was aptly named Operation Flaming Dump. Because I think every single rookie probably burned a hole in their pants with the amount of brown noise the aliens were emitting.

A note about this X-Com crossover, however. While I feel that the Long War mod achieved the depth of customisation that was sorely needed in XCOM:EW, the combat mechanics present in the game were sorely lacking - and not through lack of effort by the LW mod devs, who obviously did everything they could with the game. As such, I'm mixing in a few class mechanics from XCOM 2 where appropriate.

In any event, I hope that you enjoy reading this. Feedback is appreciated, as usual.

Next up: The Rose awakens.