Stress, as it turns out, lights a fire under my muse. Add that to free time and winter and wala! We have another chapter.
So we're getting very near to the end of this story...I think. Wanted to post an update to wish you all Happy Holidays. Don't want to get ahead of myself but I'm already a good portion of the way done with the next chapter, too, so maybe I'll be able to wish you all a Happy New Year by posting it!
Just a reminder that this is a Mature-rated story, and like in real life the characters in it don't exist in a vacuum. Well...at the moment they kind of do because they're in a ship in space. But the point is that good and bad exist in each of them, making them complex and occasionally hard to predict. Sometimes hard to like, sometimes hard to hate. Those of you following know that I address a lot of themes/concepts/beliefs/issues and there are times this silly little fanfic will touch on something that hits close to home for you, that stirs your emotions.
Anya's lethargy was wearing on her. She wanted to spar, to learn something, to leave the ship and explore some strange planet. Instead she was barely able to get off the couch some days. There were those who glowed while pregnant, who found it fulfilling in a way that made them feel realized, completed and whole. Anya just found it to be a giant pain in her ass.
Several days passed, then several more before she began to feel concern about L'tor's absence. She missed him, and it took her awhile to consciously recognize that. Since settling her on the clan ship he'd left her a few times to go on short hunts. While his absence didn't trigger the same deep panic she'd felt when she'd been left alone on his drop ship, simply because she had the presence of others here, he still had to deal with her less-than-darling reaction to his leaving her. The cold shoulder before, the attitude after.
Though she was aware of her childish behavior, she found it hard to control. That he was a grown-ass yautja competent and capable and experienced enough to take solo trips to alien planets wasn't the point. The problem, as best as she could figure, was the fact that while he was free to come and go as he pleased, she was trapped here. He could take offense to that statement – and had – all he wanted, but it was the truth. She'd been basically independent since the age of fifteen, finishing high school and sharing the duties of working and caring for her ailing mother with her sister Chrissie.
Though she'd had a lifetime of experience running away from addressing any major issues in her psyche, she wasn't blind to her ingrained aversion to deep, meaningful, intimate connections with others. After so many devastating losses of everyone who she'd held dear and depended on, at such a young age and in such short succession, she'd been determined to never put herself in the position of needing anyone ever again. Even so, here she was, aching for the sound of a specific voice, for the scent of a specific body, for the touch and company of a specific individual.
Annoyed by her train of thought, Anya shoved herself off the couch in L'tor's quarters and forced herself to walk away from the remainder of the thick, grainy bread she was mindlessly eating. At least this pup was nowhere near as hard on her as her firstborn had been. She'd had some mild morning sickness for a bit, but not like the first time. Plus, not only wasn't it determined to turn into the Incredible Hulk in her womb, it was also a lot less active. A flutter here and there, an occasional bout of tumbling and squirming, but so far no attempts to use her internal organs as punching bags. Vlieg'r, during his daily checks, assured her she was progressing well and the pup was in optimal health; perhaps it sensed her mood and was laying low either in sympathy or in fear of riling her up anymore.
The entry door opened as she paced from side to side in front of the large window, and she turned as A'ni-de did his customary pause and sweep before stepping fully into the room. He was still annoyed with her and he made sure she knew it.
"Ooman," he greeted her with a grunt.
"Yautja," she returned, unaware that she was the only one on the ship that would not only greet him, but honor him with that label. It softened him every time.
He rumbled and headed to the food cart to check its contents with a critical eye. She'd been eating better but was still keeping to her subtle habit of leaving the majority of the meat. He understood that she did that with the intention that he would eat it, but the meat was better used to pay for other services. Some time before L'tor had left on his scouting mission, the Elite had told A'ni-de he no longer needed to keep paying the informants watching Chulonte.
"He has moved on," L'tor had informed him firmly.
A'ni-de strongly disagreed. The Firstborn's failure to continue pursuing An'eya was not proof that his interest in her had subsided. L'tor did not understand the political maneuverings of the underhanded and less-than-honorable, the subtle twists and turns and manipulations, and A'ni-de's attempts to explain had his half-brother bristling in outrage at him.
"What you are saying is dishonorable," the Elite had hissed, mandibles spread wide in anger. "Firstborn attempted to confront me and I made my stance on An'eya clear to him. I will not surrender her for anything he has to offer. He has moved on!" he repeated.
A'ni-de would very much like to believe the same, but he followed the cunning instincts and open-eyed awareness he'd developed since being sentenced to life belowdecks. Honor, sei-i. Honesty. Nobility. All of these things were the embodiment of the yautja ideal, the code by which trained and true warriors conducted themselves with each other. But he had seen the other side, those who were not of the nobler warrior class, who had not experienced true brotherhood and could call another his mei'hswei. He'd heard what was said when they thought no one was listening, watched what they did when they thought no one was looking. Not all, not even most. Only the ones who could not get what they wanted with fair competition, and who could not accept their failure.
Chulonte's failure to either continue trying to negotiate an acceptable trade for Anya with L'tor or find himself another Bearer was a red flag in A'ni-de's experience. The Firstborn would not give up entirely, nor so easily. He still bore watching.
Even so, he been forced to cut the allotment he'd been taking as payment for his network of informants, under L'tor's direct orders. His brother might be so insufferably noble and honorable that he believed all others were, also, but A'ni-de had lost that belief shortly after his servitude. He made do with less meat and the more savory and tradable leftovers from Anya's cart for himself in an attempt to keep some of his distant connections. There had been several closed-door meetings he'd heard about, and evidence that the Firstborn had his own unusual connections belowdecks with the lower tiers, but no concrete proof he would dare to approach L'tor with as evidence of treachery. His half-brother, he knew, would not hear of intrigue and subterfuge; only direct and ironclad facts would convince him.
"You guys put crack in that bread? Stuff is addictive as hell," Anya said, her tone grouchy. A'ni-de blinked back to awareness, then eyed the bread. There were cracks in it, yes, but he failed to see how that made it addictive. He chuffed and regarded her, endlessly baffled by this ooman.
"H'ulij-bpe pyode amedha," he rumbled, calling her crazy.
"Am not," she retorted, looking and reacting as if she really was affronted. "I meant to leave some for you but I pretty much finished it," she said, still on the topic of the bread.
She'd noticed, then. How, he didn't know, since he never ate in front of her. The bread made up the bulk of his daily sustenance. He used it to sop up the remainder of her soups and stews for himself, and dragged it through the dregs of the juices from the meat he carefully parsed out to his sources. Though he loathed bread, it was chock full of grains and nuts and berries and his body needed all the protein and nutrients he could get. It didn't keep well or trade well, so he made do with it for himself.
"I brought you some rjet from the common room, though," Anya pointed out, her tone brightening.
She had; there was more on the plate than he'd originally brought her. He scowled and looked at her after setting the cover back down. "Should not do that, female," he advised. If she was caught, he was unsure what the consequences would be; there was no logical reason for her to take it. The food supplied to the females in the common room was always choice and of the highest quality the clan could provide. They were allowed to eat as much of it as they wanted or needed, but he was certain that taking it to feed an aseigan would be not be looked on favorably.
"You're getting too thin," she objected, then huffed. "Fine. I'll take it back, then."
He blatted at her as she called his bluff and reached to lift the cover over the meat, flaring his mandibles at her. "Now who's being hullidge-bipity?" she mocked as she went still, throwing the accusation of 'crazy' right back at him.
"H'ulij-bpe," he corrected her automatically, before shaking his head with an annoyed rattle.
"What you said," she sighed, waving dismissively. "I'm gonna go mingle with the girls for a bit. Eat something, wouldya?" Her tone was exasperated and as she met and held his gaze he realized he was looming possessively over the food cart. He relaxed his stance and nodded to her. She returned the motion, then left him alone in the room. He hesitated, listening alertly for her or anyone else to appear, and when that didn't happen he gave in to instinct and ravening hunger, treating himself to every bite of food left on the cart, even the leftover bits of bread. When he was finished he didn't feel the guilt he normally would have felt; this, after all, had been Anya's gift for him, and no one else.
His duties were less with L'tor away; he'd long ago noticed that Anya tended to clean up after herself. He'd been a personal aseigan to an Elder after healing from his final, crippling hunt, one who'd kept hunting beasts in his private quarters. On top of needing to stay alert to their aggressive reactions in response to his limping and stiff movements, he'd had to daily clean pounds of their c'jit off every surface. That was in addition to cleaning up after their Master who had a tendency to drop everything he picked up on the floor whether or not it was used or soiled: loincloths, bathing towels, equipment, everything. If it hadn't been dirty, it quickly was, either chewed on or shit on or stepped on. It hadn't taken long for A'ni-de to react in an outraged outburst, and that was how he'd been relegated to the slaughterhouse level.
He'd been proud to be labeled as a dangerous eta, though it hadn't improved his living conditions. The title had earned him harsh masters and overseers who were quick with the whip at any perceived hint of aggression or resistance from him. For a very long time he'd encouraged their brutality, shamed that he'd failed a hunt so catastrophically and was robbed of not only a noble death but the right to be treated with an ounce of respect. He'd prayed to Paya and Cetanu both, demanding, then begging. But he still woke up every day, his body refusing to give in, the gods deaf to his pleas for release. The overseers who beat him within an inch of his life had earned his scorn for failing to properly kill him, and eventually they learned to treat him with cautious respect. Most of the servant class were weak from the day they were born but A'ni-de was meant to be a warrior, and he'd proven to be made of flesh and bone and spirit that together were apparently unbreakable.
Satisfied that Annie-dee would eat, Anya strolled to the common room, in no particular hurry. She passed a smaller room that contained Carolyn and Debra, having a private chat. She let them be and moved on.
As had become the norm, the common room was loud and crowded. There was the scent of freshly grilled meat in the air and clumps of women gathered around the carts, tempted by the smell. Anya took a naxa with a peeling knife from another cart, and found a seat near Trish and her newborn. Two seconds later she was back up and working her way through a knot around a food cart to grab some meat for Trish, who'd wheedled her into it. On her way back she passed by a couch where several others were anxiously watching two pups roll around on the floor, and she paused to observe with a smile. Lots of vicious vocalizations, all bluster and threat as they tumbled and rough-housed, both chubby and uncoordinated. One fell flat and the other squeaked in surprise, then scuttled to the legs of his mother. The one who'd taken a tumble rolled back upright and looked around, then went in hot pursuit.
"Thanks," Trish sighed when Anya returned with her plate of grilled meat. "I owe you one."
Anya smirked and snorted. "Got a mini fight club going on over there," she commented, motioning toward the two pups with her chin.
"Yeah?" Trish asked, and glanced over, interested. "Wish we had money so we could place bets."
Anya eyed her as she finished peeling her naxa. "Didn't you say you had a gambling problem back home?" she remembered.
Trish shoveled meat in her mouth and shrugged as she settled back down. "So what? It's not like there's any chance I'm gonna lose the rent money." She chewed for a moment, then scowled. "Then again, that does take away all the fun of gambling," she decided.
"Losing the rent is fun?" Anya asked, surprised.
"Nah. The risk is fun. Take that away and there's no fun left."
"Sort of like taking the getting high part out of doing drugs?" Anya supposed, thinking about it.
"Exactly. Nobody'd do 'em if they didn't get wasted," Trish agreed.
Anya sectioned her naxa and bit into a section. "Guess I don't miss drinking," she mulled. "But I do miss getting buzzed."
Trish snorted. "I don't miss sitting in traffic, but I do wish I could get in my car and get the hell outta here."
"Could probably fit a car in these corridors," Anya decided, and Trish paused to regard her, an amused glint in her eyes.
"Pedal to the metal, baby. Watch these sumbitches dive outta the way!" she laughed, and Anya started to giggle at the mental image that was forming. "Talk L'tor into letting you bring one of those back. With a trunk full of chocolate and vodka, of course. You could pull up outside my room and honk the horn. We could go tool around the ship."
"Would have to be a convertible," Norma added, pausing as she was passing by them and overhearing Trish. "You might not have enough room to open the doors in the corridors," she pointed out.
"An old muscle car, with like a four-forty under the hood," Trish said, warming up to the topic.
"And fat tires," Anya decided. "Gotta leave skid marks on every turn."
"That shit would be epic," Trish sighed, a smile on her face. "We could blast the hip hop and everything."
Norma giggled. "Is it wrong that I was picturing us with handkerchiefs around our beehives, martini glasses in one hand, cigarettes in the other, with big giant sunglasses on our faces and the Beach Boys playing?"
Anya almost choked on the fruit she was savoring as she started to laugh at the mental image. Hers included shocked yautja warriors frozen like deer in their brights before being bounced off their front bumper left and right. The entire clan ship scattering in terror as she honked the horn and revved the engine, opening the car up on the straightaways and drifting around the corners, Little Deuce Coupe blaring through the speakers.
"Fuck the martinis. I was thinking vodka bottles and blunts with some Eminem," Trish countered after Anya shared her mental image, then she burped and let out a contented sigh and said: "The picture of motherhood."
"Stay classy," Norma quipped, then headed off.
"Did that bitch just insult me?" Trish inquired after a few drawn out seconds.
Anya giggled. "She said you were classy and she wants you to stay that way."
"Oh. Okay then."
Trish eventually wandered off to find a quieter place to take a nap, and Anya cleaned up her remnants of rind from her naxa. There were eta wandering in and out that could clean up after them, that delivered fresh carts and kept the room neat and orderly, but she was used to cleaning up after herself. She was just thinking to retreat to her own room for some peace and quiet when Vlieg'r caught her eye in the doorway to the clinic, and motioned her to come to him.
She sighed and approached, anticipating a checkup, but he led her into a small lab off the main clinic. Without preamble, he backed her into a corner and quietly told her, "There has been news. A crash."
His words stilled her to complete immobility as she stared at him, instantly understanding what he was saying.
"I was asked not to tell you," he continued after pausing to let that news stand. "I refused."
She finally blinked, then deflated. His mandible, she noticed with a detached sense of unreality, glistened with healing salve, and his one eye was narrower than the other. Swollen.
"Did they...?" she started to ask. ...find L'tor? she wanted to ask, but couldn't.
"They did not locate any evidence of remains," the healer said, deducing her broken-off question. He paused to glance at the open doorway, clearly wary, then he returned his attention to her. "They also could not lock onto his signal. His personal equipment must have been damaged."
That would be the left gauntlet, she knew, and closed her eyes. He would have been wearing it, of course. If his equipment was damaged it could only mean that he was damaged. He took meticulous care of his possessions so there was no chance it was just a failure or breakdown. Her eyes opened.
"His drop ship?" she asked, her mind reluctantly kick-starting into gear.
"They found it, sei-i. He was alone."
No way. Not that he'd chosen to go on this excursion solo, but that his ship had failed. Like with everything else he owned, he was diligent about maintenance and self-inspected before every trip. He knew both ships inside and out, and he would be quick to spot something wrong. Hell, he could listen to it and know if something was the slightest bit off. And if something was, he didn't wait around until it got worse or broke. No, he got up, even out of a sound sleep, and repaired it.
She met the healer's eyes as she thought, but didn't say the word she feared: sabotage. There was something in his gaze that begged her to keep it to herself, that led her to believe that he was thinking the same thing.
"Who hit you?" she asked instead. He chuffed and the intensity of his gaze diminished as he gave her a nod, seeming to be relieved that she'd gotten the pleading, silent message he'd tried to broadcast.
"Firstborn. He wanted to deliver the news to you himself, but he was unable to do it immediately. I disagreed with his decision to wait until he was free to tell you."
Chulonte. Her mind was spinning faster now and what it was telling her set the fine hairs on the nape of her neck tingling. "When did this happen?" she wanted to know, her tone of voice more demanding as she started to feel anger.
"The crash, or...?" Vlieg'r trilled, motioning at his face. His agitation had caused him to lose some of his fluency, apparently.
"The crash," she clarified, narrowing her eyes.
"Was told about it earlier. I returned here to repair my wounds and think about the Firstborn's command." He paused and chuffed, then subtly straightened his hunched posture. "I decided you should be told immediately."
"Thank you, Vee, for everything," she breathed, deflating, then she gave him as respectful a grateful bow as she could manage and abruptly left the room to move into the clinic. She was drawn to the large picture window and she went there, then hugged her arms around herself and stared blankly at the view, wondering where L'tor was, if one of the bright stars she was looking at had been his destination and might now be his grave. The Elder Healer came into the clinic behind her but left her alone to busy himself on the far side of it.
OmygodL'tor, she thought, and shivered. She couldn't imagine him gone. Even now, with him just a few days gone, she was already missing his presence sorely. Without him she was trapped here. Without him she was alone, no matter how many other life forms existed either on this ship or in the surrounding galaxies. Stranded. Adrift.
The pup shifted inside her, and she smiled sadly and thought: And pregnant besides. Her hands slid from grasping the opposite elbow of each arm to flatten over her belly, and the movement of her reflection caught her eye. Not totally alone. Part of L'tor was inside her. For now that would have to be enough. For now she would not allow herself to believe her mate was gone. No evidence of remains, the Elder Healer had said. No body, no limbs, maybe even no blood. Maybe he survived the crash and was right now working to repair his communications equipment so he could send a signal out to the parties searching for him. He was strong and capable and smart; it would take more than a crash to kill him.
Behind her, the clinic's main door opened and she watched the reflection in the window in front of her of the dark, tall shape that entered, but she didn't bother to turn around and face him. He came to the window and stood quietly beside her, radiating heat and ticking softly.
"Female. The healer told you?" Chulonte trilled after a moment, once it became clear that she would not greet him or even turn. He was rank with musk, she couldn't help but notice, and she wrinkled and twitched her nose. He smelled like excitement and anticipation to her, and his very presence felt like he was vibrating with tension. Part of her wanted to lash out at him, and part of her was warning her to watch her step.
"Sigh-ee," she said, still unable to look at him, trying to settle herself with quiet, shallow breaths through her mouth.
"I wished to be the one to tell you," he rumbled, quietly. Like she would be able to take the news easier if it came from him.
"Thank you," she said automatically in response. Gathering herself, she stepped back and finally turned to look at him. He shifted to fully face her, all dark flesh and lighter, muted patterns. He still had the potbelly and the avid green eyes that devoured her when she met his gaze. "How long," she asked, "will they search for him?" Chulonte, standing stiffly, flinched. "They're not searching for him?" Anya realized, her mouth hanging open.
"Sent probe," he said simply. She stared up into his glittering green eyes, dumbfounded at his response. "Ship had enough system left to do scan. L'tor personal equipment not responding." His mandibles shifted restlessly, his tresses flexing rhythmically atop his crown as though he was wracked with waves of tension.
"So...that's it?" Anya asked. "One electronic ping and that's it?"
"Ping-ga?" he trilled, cocking his head.
Ignoring him she demanded, "Are you sending someone to search for him or not?"
Now he chuffed and his stiff posture relaxed. "H'ko. Gods will decide."
"So you're not sure if he's alive or dead, then," she surmised, pouncing on his falsely pious words. Caught, he bristled. "So we'll wait for him to send a signal?"
"Sei-i," he hissed, clearly annoyed at her refusal to accept his certainty that L'tor was dead and gone. Anya understood that there was no search, and Chulonte wasn't waiting around with baited breath for L'tor to find a way to signal he was still alive. It was a courtesy, one that he apparently hoped would give her enough time to grieve L'tor's loss and be ready to move on. And when she was, she could only suppose that he fully intended to be there for her.
She gave him a low, respectful nod and kept her thoughts off her face, saying, "Thank you, Chulonte," her voice as monotone as she could make it. No matter her feelings, this was a yautja not be messed with. Clearly he got what he wanted, and she didn't doubt that others turned a blind eye when he used methods that were generally frowned upon. Like possibly sabotaging a rival's ship. The point was, she would do herself no favors to get on his bad side or disrespect him. Especially - she shuddered at the mere thought - if she ultimately ended up as his possession.
He deflated and returned her nod with a low magnanimous rumble, like he was trying to benevolently acknowledge her thanks and reassure her that together, they would get through this thing. It bordered on a purr closely enough to tell her he was looking forward to starting to work on it.
He gave her a final nod before turning away and leaving her at the window, then he exited the clinic, off to whatever nefarious things the Firstborn did when he wasn't making her uncomfortable. He might be cunning but he was nowhere near as smart as L'tor. Plus, he underestimated her and heard only what he wanted to hear. Silla might have been a dumbass, but she sure as hell wasn't. If he pushed her she would run rings around him; for now she would string him along. At the very least she'd buy herself more time and some distance from him. She was pregnant, for god's sake. And nowhere near ready to believe that L'tor was gone for good.
Uneasy after her awkward conversation with Chulonte, Anya exited the clinic into the corridor, unwilling to walk through the common room. She hurried to L'tor's quarters, her head down, her heart pattering as she willed no one to bump into her and try to engage her. A'ni-de and the food cart were both gone, and she let out a sobbing breath that was loud in the empty room. With no one there to witness her grief she let it pour out of her, keening as she replayed Vlieg'r's words in her mind over and over. The unfairness of it all, the threat, the fear, the uncertainty, the pain and the loss. She used the couch as a punching bag to vent her anger and frustration and rage, letting it all out, spilling the depth and breadth of her volatile emotions, bent and determined to vent them all so she could gather and center herself and come up with a gameplan for moving forward, knowing that until she spent herself she would not be capable of focusing.
She cursed L'tor, damned him. Raged at him for doing this to her, for leaving her here. Seesawing back and forth, as each time the thought that he was lost touched that aching and sensitive and vulnerable part of her and caused her to ricochet back into anger. She vomited, the naxa coming back up in a fury. Ripped every carefully folded and placed drying cloth off the shelf in the washroom and tossed them onto the floor. Went into her closet and pulled down every hanging item, then emptied the shelves. Stripped the bed. She even stepped into L'tor's closet, then froze and backed out as she was assailed by his scent wrapping around her. False security. Broken promises. Lost hopes.
She stormed back into the living room with renewed fury and jerked the cushions and pillows off the couches and chairs and tossed them in a rage, venting her anger. She thought about knocking his trophies over but couldn't bring herself to do it. The locked armory door prevented her from being able to spend her rage on his equipment so she kicked it and bellowed in rage and pain, then limped back into the living room to kick viciously at the cushions and pillows.
When her quarters had been ransacked to her exhausted satisfaction she collapsed into a stripped armchair and sobbed herself to a state of calmness, almost serenity. Soothed by her tantrum, she wiped her face with her hands and gathered herself together, then settled into a thousand-yard stare as she mentally focussed and started to systematically think about her options, stirring up old workplace memories of SWOT analyses to determine strengths, weaknesses, opportunities and threats.
Some time after she'd vented her rage, Anya jumped to her feet from the chair she'd been occupying as the entry door hissed open. A'ni-de paused to regard her, seeing her leaking eyes, her flushed appearance, scenting her anxiety and grief and rage and seeing the evidence of her passion in the disarray of the room around her.
"Oh," she said quietly, then reached up and wiped her face. It was clear to him then that she had hoped he was someone else. "Annie-dee," she said, her tone cool as she stood straighter. Taller. More proudly. Her tone had strengthened, as well as her resolve. He wasn't sure if that was her innate ooman traits at work or if the yautja in her was showing. "I was just told that L'tor is missing," she informed him. "That they think...they think that he might be dead."
So she had heard the news also. He watched her crumple a bit as she delivered the words, more water leaking from her eyes. Her fleshy mouth went tight and she lifted her chin, her eyes glaring and defiant and angry even in her mourning. She was vibrating with ch'hkt-a, nervous energy, proof that she hadn't completely spent herself or her anger despite the damage done to her quarters. Her n'dui'se was strong and ripe, and he bristled at its acrid tang, wondering when was the last time he'd scented an enraged female.
Her scent and behavior rallied him and his hands balled into fists as he dared to enter her living quarters and let the door slide shut behind him. He regarded her a moment, then turned and engaged the lock.
"Ki'sei, mei-jadhi," he growled, his hands fisting at his sides as he felt himself going rigid with his own steely determination. Her stance and scent indicated that she was willing to fight, that she hadn't given up, that she wasn't prepared to accept whatever story she'd been told. She blinked and went still, gaping at him, then he whirled away and headed for L'tor's armory. He knew the code; L'tor had not kept it secret from him. As he entered he was aware of the soft sound of Anya's steps behind him, then he stood still in the center of the room and let his eyes wander.
There was plenty of spare awu'asa of varying plate strength and size. Ki'cti-pa, chakt-ra, the spear he'd helped repair and several different types of bladed discs. Al'nagara and dah'nagara, the long and short swords. A matching pair of L'tor's heaviest shoulder-mounted sivk'va-tai. An ornamentally decorated kv'vurj-de, probably meant more for ceremonial purposes but undoubtedly fully functional.
He moved first to L'tor's spare mask on its stand, lifting it with reverence and taking a moment to admire the evidence of wear and tear. "Annie...what are you doing?" Anya asked from behind him. He grunted, mentally whispered apologies to his brother for this breach, then settled the mask over his face and connected it to his gauntlet. It required some recalibration to connect and would require more to be set to his preferences, but for now he simply breathed in and familiarized himself with its settings, shivering slightly. It felt good to wear a biomask again. When properly calibrated, it would feel better.
He moved next to the awu'asa, scanning the carefully arranged and habitually cleaned spare hunting armor and ignoring the brighter, polished ceremonial armor, then he started donning the pieces. Each one required a tightening of straps, driving home to him how wasted his physique had become. The straps were in excellent condition, not broken down or worn out, proof that they'd been regularly oiled and kept in good repair.
Spaulders across his shoulders and settled comfortably over his chest and upper arms, he moved on to the greaves for his legs, tightening each strap, feeling himself coming to life with these familiar movements and sensations. No longer was he a half-naked servant; the warrior in him was coming back online with a tingling, exhilarating rush.
The armored belt with draping panels was a good weight and he added to it, reaching for knives, sliding each blade from its sheath to double check it before clicking them into place, then tucking the chakt-ra into their holders behind him without having to look. The thin back panel attached to the spaulders with another clip to the belt, and to it he added the swords, then slung the spear into place. Next he lifted the sivk'va-tai with cautious respect, holding each one in both hands reverently for a moment before clicking them into place atop his shoulder armor.
He turned and moved to the last piece of combination tech and weapon: L'tor's spare right gauntlet. Not only was it fitted with wristblades; it contained a projectile launcher and several smaller hidden razor-sharp knives, meant to loop onto a finger to add authority to a strike, and weighted and balanced perfectly for throwing. When he comfortably settled the gauntlet he flexed the muscle atop his forearm with a soft, punctuating grunt. The wristblades responded perfectly, springing from their housings, curving forward with gradual serrations and backed by wicked gut hooks. Holding his arm up in front of the lenses over his eyes, he rotated his wrist, admiring the blades for a moment and drawing in a slow, deep breath of pleasure as he tested their weight and balance. The inhalation caused the bindings around his newly-fitted armor to creak and made him aware of the weight he'd donned. All familiar and comfortable and almost forgotten.
Anya was stunned as she stood in the doorway to L'tor's armory and watched A'ni-de help himself to it and suit up. Is he looting the place now? she wondered, aghast. She couldn't take much more drama or betrayal, and she was well aware that despite being told that A'ni-de was a failed warrior and a lowly servant, she was no match for him and incapable of putting a stop to whatever he thought he was doing.
Apparently satisfied, he turned to face her, wristblades still fully extended. She actually took a step back in cautious uncertainty. No longer did he look like her comfortable and familiar servant Limpy. He was a stranger to her, decked out in armor and weapons, holding himself straight and tall and rigid. Maybe he was helping himself with L'tor out of the picture, she thought. Maybe he'd decided to help himself to other things, too.
There was whirring, and the weapons atop his shoulders rotated in sync, then independently, before settling and going quiet. The wristblades disappeared with a metal-on-metal scrape, then the Sherman tank that had once been A'ni-de started moving toward her. Hastily, Anya backpedaled from the doorway and retreated into the main room, for a moment debating making a run for it. His steps were heavy but still uneven, thanks to the limp, and he followed her into the room, then cocked his head and regarded her.
"Hers good?" he trilled, his voice muffled by the mask over his face.
Anya blinked, then let out her breath in a whoosh as she deflated from the precipice of tension at his familiar question. "Hers is wondering what the hell you think you're doing," she answered, keeping her tone even.
He grunted and lifted his head, then did a slow scan of the room. "Hims not here. Cannot protect. Hers in danger. I will protect."
She blinked again, still in the process of trying to take him in and struggling with the visual, even as his words sunk in. He wasn't robbing the crib, taking advantage of the opportunity presented by L'tor's disappearance. He had suited up because he believed she was in danger, and he was willing stand in L'tor's place to protect her.
"They'll kill you for this," she breathed, no longer afraid of him but for him. He chuffed and loosed a rattling, confident bray of sound that was somehow amplified by the mask.
"They can try," he allowed. "If they succeed, I will die with honor."
"Annie," she tried, smiling nervously. "How are you gonna fetch my soup dressed like that?"
"S'pke?" he trilled, then lifted his personal gauntlet, the left one, and tapped a few buttons. "Hers has eta," he purred slowly, almost deliciously. "Many, many eta." His next trill was an amused one, but she didn't get the joke.
Not only did she get her soup, but her usual full cart of assorted foods and beverages. The eta who had delivered it had knocked on the door, then rattled in awed appreciation at the sight of A'ni-de who had let him in. There had been a rapid but lengthy exchange of news and information, heavily peppered with scathing language that Anya was able to pick up on. Another two eta arrived while the first delivered his information. These two scuttled around, efficiently cleaning up the mess she'd made with rapid effectiveness, putting everything back in order without a single judgmental glance at her. Before they left A'ni-de went to the cart and lifted the cover on the meat, then gathered the strips and split them between the two. They bowed and chattered as they secured their rations and left, and the first one went with them, the three of them already haggling amongst themselves.
She kept a peripheral eye on A'ni-de as she ate her soup, wondering if she might have found herself holed up in some sort of bizarre hostage situation. Currently he was issuing a steady, contented rumble, squatting between L'tor's trophy skulls facing the exit door and treating what was left of his mutilated tresses with the grooming oil that he'd helped himself to. Apparently her formerly reserved servant was gleefully going full yautja on her. Watching it happen felt a bit like she was trapped in a cage with a feral tiger who was leisurely licking his balls while pretending to ignore her.