.x.
"You should have just killed him."
Tank ignored me, carrying on with his long, even strides as I trailed somewhat disconsolately behind him. We were going the same direction Reed had gone, but I somehow doubted we'd catch up with him; if we did, I suspected he'd have a number of fully armed fellow ex-military friends with him. I had tried explaining this to Tank, but like my last comment, it had fallen on deaf ears. Undeterred, I said, "I wish I could kill him. Or watch one of you kill him." And that was the absolute, utter honest truth.
Perhaps it was because I'd been rambling off an on for the last hour or so, needing to hear something familiar to keep my mind off other, more unpleasant things, or perhaps it was because when stalking creatures unknown silence was a vital part of discretion – whatever the reason, Tank stopped in his tracks, turned to me, and held up one hand in an unmistakable gesture that indicated he wanted me to be quiet. This was accompanied by an overly unfriendly growl, and with a sigh I clamped my mouth shut and followed obediently after him when he began to walk once more. Without distraction, my mind took the opportunity to occupy itself by dreading things that could and most likely would happen in the near future. I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that I would encounter Reed again, and that fear mingled with the foreboding prospect of what would happen when and if we found Scar.
And on that subject, I slammed every shutter in my mind closed, because dwelling on the topic of the hunter most familiar to me did strange things to my insides and made me feel short of breath. It was a sensation I really didn't care for, even more so because I knew what it was stemming from. How incredibly ironic it was that things should wind up like this, that I should begin developing some sort of … affection, fondness for a being I'd once thought a monster. Was that what it was? All I knew was that the thought of Scar dead filled me with a kind of dreadful apprehension. The fact that once upon a time his death would have made me nervous only because my survival depended upon his well-being made what I was experiencing that much worse. In another light, if this were happening to somebody else and not me, it would be almost comical.
I snorted then. Comical, my ass. At the sound Tank whipped around, long hair flying in an arc behind him as he turned, and gave another snarl that held the promise of repercussions if I didn't shut the hell up. Again, it was reminiscent of something Scar would do, and I shook my head, dispelling the longing, the misgivings, that came with such a thought. We began travel again, and this time it was in complete silence. Tank's cannon was still in firing position, and his left arm blade outright and ready; the agitation wasn't merely on my behalf, and I felt somewhat heartened by this.
Time passed – hours maybe, by my somewhat disjointed method of figuring. Tank led the way with a sure confidence I found comforting. Many, many times I glanced behind me to ascertain that we weren't in fact being stalked by whatever other detestable creatures aside from one Reed Weyland still remained down here. Nothing met my gaze but the shadows we'd left behind. The further we went without encountering something hostile, the more I felt my heart lighten—incredulous that it should do so, considering. When Tank, several paces ahead of me, stepped out into a larger branch of the tunnel we currently traversed and erupted into a long, low and what I could only interpret as surprised trill, I felt every muscle in my body tighten with sudden and fearful tension. The high pitched whine of machinery filled the stillness around us as his cannon lowered into its inactive position against his back, and I knew then what awaited me if only I were to step up beside him.
And for one long moment, I seriously considered giving into the powerful urge of turning heel and fleeing desperately back the way we'd come.
I didn't, to my credit. The fingers of my right hand tightened to the point of pain around the collapsed haft of my spear, and my left hand balled itself into a fist at my side. Extremely nervous, I took the several steps I needed to be standing at Tank's side, steeling myself, hating myself, confused with myself …
The first thing I saw was a great pool of blood, and it took a moment for me to realize that the fact it was sizzling against the rough, pitted rock of the ground meant it didn't belong to one of the hunters. From there my gaze traced a garish smear of the putrid green some few feet to something large, something that even in the dim, dusty light of these underground caverns gleamed glossy black that lay crumpled in the far corner. Long limbs were outthrust, the body contorted, indicative of a violent death. The head, a mixture of features from two distinct races I was more familiar with than I ever wanted to be, was half turned in our direction. Most of the blood flowed forth from a jagged, diagonal slash that roughly bisected half the face.
Our prey, our reason for being here, was dead. Tank was already moving as my eyes found then what it was they were so afraid of seeing: Scale crouching on the far side of the passage turned small chamber, and beside him, slouched against the wall, was Scar. Several things I noticed then in quick succession: the medical kit I was far too familiar with lying open before Scale, the sheer amount of fluorescent life blood painting Scar's body, the way his yellowish, faintly mottled chest, now bereft of the armor that had previously shielded it, rose and fell sharply as he labored to draw breath. Seeing us had prompted Scale, still masked, to emit a harsh chitter I could not interpret. Tank had crossed the floor to crouch over the predalien corpse, leaving me suddenly very alone and unable to decide what I wanted to do more—flee this situation, or move with haste to the side of a certain creature I wanted dearly to hate almost as much as I was fond of.
It was the sound that came from Scar as his mandibles twitched in what had to be a convulsion of pain that drew me hesitantly closer. It was a gasping, strangled, torturous noise. Scale was in the process of preparing the infamous blue gel, and paid me no heed as I knelt carefully on the other side of Scar, setting my spear down beside his removed mask as I did so. Scar's eyes, mere amber slits, focused only briefly on me before rolling back slightly into his head. One of his hands clutched at one of the myriad of wounds decorating his chest. Blood was still leaking from the two shotgun blasts Reed had inflicted, but what elicited a murmur of dismay from me was the almost vertical slice that ran almost the entire length of the right side of his torso. It appeared deep, and blood pooled forth from it in a steady river.
Quite suddenly, I was panicking. Was he dying? Could even the hunters' medical treatments – far more advanced, I had gathered, than our own—save him? As I watched his fingers, coated in slick vivid green, flex rapidly against his own skin in a paroxysm of agony, it struck me then how very much I wanted him to live. Damn the fates, damn myself, damn life itself for doing this to me—I felt hot tears well up then at the helplessness I felt, at the knowledge I couldn't do anything but pay witness to this horrible, terrible scene before me.
Tank was there then, standing over us all and staring down at his injured comrade from within the impassive shell of his mask. When he grumbled inquiringly at Scale, tapping his arm device, I paid no heed and instead turned back to Scar, knotting my hands into the loose length of my shirt in frustration. Movement snapped my eyes back around. Scale had risen, and I caught the last vestiges of the laser imaging from his own arm device die away as he gained his feet. When both hunters began to move away, further down the tunnel depths we hadn't yet explored, I shot to my feet and hurried after them.
"Where are you going?" I demanded, my voice shrill. I hated myself for the fear, for the worry evident in my tone.
It was Scale that turned, and he gave me a growl that was both authoritative and a trifle unkind. For an instant we stared at each other. Tank, standing slightly further ahead, made an impatient noise, and when Scale turned they both continued to walk.
"You can't leave!" I shouted, full-blown terror having descended. Where the hell were they going? Were they leaving Scar—one of their own—behind to die? "Goddamn it, STOP!"
They did as I asked, and when Tank strode to stand directly before me I was fairly quavering from a mixture of tumultuous emotions. Instead of snarling, instead of giving me some unhelpful guttural noise of disapproval his race seemed so fond of giving, he half turned and gestured, close fisted, in the direction he and Scale had been headed. He then reached over his shoulder and tapped his cannon, grunting, before pointing to the dead predalien. Confounded beyond all belief, I merely shook my head in frenzied frustration, not understanding, not wanting to understand … Tank, with a gravely trill, lightly patted the mark on my cheek and indicated with a swift thrust of his chin to wear Scar was collapsed. And with that he turned to rejoin Scale, and together they both moved with determination and purpose farther down the passage.
And I was left alone then with what I was fairly certain was a dying hunter. A dying hunter I harbored an unprecedented, unbidden, and unwanted affection for.
When I turned back around to face Scar, I was ashamed to realize I was crying.
.x.
