In this best-case-scenario of the scene variant, the Regretful Traitor [W] comes on their own to the conclusion that they would, in fact, prefer the Team Good to win. The result is not pretty. The MC doesn't know any of that, and instead stumbles into a situation they don't understand.
You move slowly, carefully, methodologically through the compound. The silence is unnerving. It’s not like you’re not running into people (enemy combatants, to be more specific) every now and then— it’s just. They’re not… They’re not exactly combatants anymore. Or alive, for that matter.
Blood of the elder gods. You’re not the attack force, here. You’re the cleanup team. And you can’t, no matter how hard you try, understand what could have happened here. What swept through here to leave behind this carnage.
It gets worse. Oh, it gets so much worse. When you reach the central chamber, you start recognizing signs of battle— claw marks, plasma burns. Bullet casings slip under the boot, and you stumble. Someone catches you, before you fall; you don’t really have the bandwidth to recognize which one of your fellows it is. It doesn’t matter.
You could swear you can hear someone breathe out an almost-inaudible “[C],” but that can’t possibly—
“Contact!” rings in the air. Someone from team B. No shots fired; someone alive, not fighting.
You sweep your half of the room, then gather together around the survivor. They’re slumped against a pillar, half-sitting, half-lying, half-dead. Breathing… barely. Bloody all over, pistol fallen to floor on their side. One of the enemy combatants —former combatants— not just anyone, [W]. It’s [W]. Blood of the elder gods.
“[W],” [C] says, crouched in front of your former comrade, snapping his fingers at his face. “[W].”
At first, nothing happens. Finally, [W] opens his eyes, then his mouth as if he’s trying to say something, but instead he just cougs blood on the floor. He stares that for a moment, then looks at [C] again. The hand resting in his lap, palm down, half-fist, not his gun arm but the other, twitches (so much blood) and turns slowly— his fingers curl open, and he’s holding something on his palm, although from your position you can’t really tell what it is.
[C], however, can. Or so it seems like. He stares at the offering for a moment, then carefully picks it up, closing his fist around it. On his other hand, he clasps [W]'s shoulder. Then he gets up.
Nobody moves. Nobody knows what to do.
“What,” [C] says, voice low, “are you all standing around for? We have work to do.”
. I guess there are times where you CAN lie for a good cause. Or maybe let’s say you made a mistake and did something bad, then get asked about it and lie and say it wasn’t you to avoid scrutiny. You could be a good person but still lie to save your butt.
here’s are some links to the stuff I use.
I keep having all these ideas but then throwing them away because I don’t know how to portray them.