Chapter 13: Back and Forth

Samantha had been thinking for a while now. After getting used to the whole "riding on an Alien's back" affair, and getting as comfortable as she could manage, the pair of them had eventually lapsed into a comfortable silence. It gave Samantha the time to space out and seclude herself within her own mind.
Tangential information was filtered out. Their pace, the muscle-strain in her legs as they kept her upright, and the stiffness developing in her biceps due to having had her arms crossed for half an hour. Sounds were drowned out by her own heartbeat, sight was ignored outright, and smell faded into the background— dominated by the aftertaste of apple. Nothing but herself and her thoughts.

When she got like this, her mind always periodically switched from drifting in daydreams, to fixating on one subject or many subjects. What subjects were they?

At first, she tried to map out exactly how far they had already traveled, and from where, to see if she could remember what "hangar" Anteros had been talking about, and whether she'd seen or heard of it, before. She couldn't quite remember many specifics about navigating Guardian's cities, seeing as though she had only barely gotten her bearings of the place before the Infestation began. They were still in The Apartments, so they must have been traveling roughly eastward, maybe northeast? Further away from the Hive's center, at the very least. The chances of running into Colonial Marines would increase...

After that, she entertained thought-experiments about what they might find when they arrived— a ship? No ships? Perhaps some sort of air-vehicle, like a helicopter? And even if they found something like that, would she be able to figure out how to fly it? And if she could, where would they even fly to? There probably wouldn't be enough fuel, if any, to fly much further than a few hundred kilometers. All of this, though, was conjecture, and she swiftly found it pointless to dwell on factors outside of her control...

Her thoughts then zeroed in on the topic of whether she might wind up in any sort of legal trouble, if and/or when she and Anteros managed to escape the planet. She couldn't remember the last time she'd actually been obligated to pay any property or wage-taxes— her immigration paperwork after arriving on Guardian was still in the process of getting sorted through when the Infestation kicked off. Samantha had largely been getting paid under the table, or as an independent contractor, on various odd-jobs and volunteer work, for years. Was there a precedent for this sort of thing? She was pretty sure she'd heard of people going off the grid due to various survival situations, but she couldn't recall what they were, or what the result had been...
For whatever reason, the answers refused to come, and the longer she tried to concentrate on it, the bigger a headache she got.

She then did her best to try and nap without laying down and while keeping herself upright, but her attempt ended in her falling on the floor and sheepishly having to hop back on— Anteros asked if she needed to sleep, but she merely grunted a refusal. After that, she settled for simply resting her eyes. It didn't help very much.

She then spent some time trying to figure out why she was so tired. She'd basically napped and lounged about for two hours, back when she'd been shot. So, she wasn't sure why she felt cold, clammy, and claustrophobic. She also felt a bit irritated, but that was to be expected, given her fatigue. Perhaps she was over-tired? Or more mentally-exhausted, after the roller-coaster that was the last forty-eight hours? Whatever the case, she huffed and promised herself that she would get plenty of time to rest, later...

After that, she lazily thought of nothing in particular for a decent bit of time, before refocusing her thoughts onto the most interesting thing in the current vicinity, Anteros. At first, she didn't really ponder anything about him, just sort of reliving the memories of everything to do with Anteros— everything that had happened, thus far. She seemed to have a fixation on mentally reciting the events of their time together.

Then, after a brief lapse in her memory that she supposed must have been due to her actually falling asleep, successfully (given that the next thing she remembered was snoring herself awake and not knowing where she was, resulting in falling off of Anteros's back, again), her thoughts transitioned into something marginally more intellectual. The dead horse of Xenomorph mating habits became significantly more beatable, again, but this time it was from a newer angle.

Her quandary would be summarized best as: "if Praetorians mate with the Queen, and the Queen is their mother, isn't that technically incest?". This proved to be an easily-solved conundrum, as Samantha knew more than enough to come up with a working hypothesis.

Well, there are tons of insect species that get away with it, all the time. Ants, especially. Why wouldn't the hyper-efficient apex-predators from stars unknown be a similar exception to that rule? Especially given that each individual, evidently, splices their DNA with a foreign Host, as a matter of reproduction, anyway. Though... if I'm comparing Xenomorphs to eusocial insects, I guess that a more apt comparison would be—

It was at that instant that Samantha was thrown for a loop, as a voice cut short her thoughts, and finished her mental sentence for her.

"Termites?".

She blinked, her eyes locking onto the back of Anteros's oblong head, as she frowned. She squinted at him, mouth hanging ajar as she struggled to know how to respond. At first she was tempted to just agree immediately— she had been thinking of termites. Since termites were unique among eusocial insects in that there was always a "queen" and a "king"— the ruling, breeding pair of a colony. Which she'd likened to the apparent case of Praetorians and Queen Xenos. Along with how termites and Xenomorphs were both wildly polymorphic.

After she realized that Anteros had simply read her mind, eliminating any need for confusion, she thought something similar to "oh... well, that makes sense". She, having no other way to respond to him, simply confirmed, "yeah...".

He "hm"ed in reply.

It was then that Samantha began to seriously consider the real implications of telepathy. She started to wonder if he could hear all of her thoughts, or just some of them. If he could read her thoughts, could he also look into her memories? He'd obviously learned English through telepathy, so... how much power did that take, exactly? Was he capable of mind control? Was he influencing her right now? Capable of effecting her emotions, or reading her emotions to the point of being able to manipulate her? Had he been orchestrating every interaction they'd shared, in the course of pursuing some ulterior motive? Not altogether likely— he was the only one baring any cost or effort for it, so far, and like she'd concluded earlier today: if all of it were a scam, it certainly wouldn't be nearly worth the effort, surely...

Samantha frowned deeply as she asked herself exactly how much privacy she actually had, here...

"Basically, none", Anteros remarked, a bit cheekily.

Samantha's face turned into one of mild surprise, a bit thrown off at how quickly and seamlessly he seemed to respond to her inner-monologue. She supposed that that was partially an answer to some of her questions— it certainly gave her some variety of benchmark with which to understand his telepathy a bit better. It seemed to be the case that the two of them could carry out an entire conversation without Samantha having to physically speak a whisper.

His use of humor did a bit to set her at ease (his jokes always had, thus far), but his apparent honesty wasn't much of a comfort to her. He'd literally just implied "you have no privacy, anymore", which... she didn't know what to feel about. That was when he chose to speak.

"If I might offer my perspective...", he suggested. She took it as him offering her the answers to her questions.

She blinked at him, not knowing what to say other than an uncertain "okay", prompting him to deliver his thoughts. She listened for his voice, eyes darting about the moving hallway as she endeavored to carefully scrutinize each word he said.

Anteros, for his part, wasn't too bothered about the whole thing. He took all of this as... well, just more interaction. An interesting subject to engage with Samantha on, and a new area of investigation. Additionally, he was curious to see what her reaction to his intimate acquaintanceship with her mind would be. He was counting on being able to use it to tease her— he found that quite funny. He knew that it, in the long run, would only strengthen their bond. Or... well, to be fair, he himself couldn't foresee a future where being inside Samantha's head wasn't a good thing.
Then again, he was a Xenomorph... so, he was probably biased, in terms of the faculties of mental communication.

In any regard, he set about making his case.

"I was able to read your thoughts since you first woke up— just after we first met. So... none of this is exactly new information. To clarify how it all works...", he began, his pace slowing down considerably- from a trot to a walk. He felt Samantha's arms uncross, her palms laying on his shoulder blades, and her legs ceased squeezing his gut. She allowed the "toes" of her boots to lightly drag across the carpet, and allowed herself to slouch comfortably. Once she was settled, he continued...

"I technically hear everything that goes on in your head, but I mostly just pay attention to your foremost thoughts. I can only see into your memories when you, yourself, are thinking about them. I only see whatever's available at the surface. If I was capable of mind-control, I think I'd know, by now. I've... never really tried it, honestly, and I can't say that I really want to. I think that I might be able to influence your emotional state, but, again, I don't really see any reason to try. I can sort of `taste` whatever emotion you're feeling, at any given time, so... that's a thing...", he elaborated, at length.

He allowed her to take in what he'd said, before adding, "plus, I can also smell whenever you're stressed or frightened", nonchalantly.

She seemed to sort of just... acquiesce to his explanation. Everything he said was met with a "that makes sense" kind of response, in her mind. Apparently, him actually coming out and saying all of it did a lot to put her at ease.

Samantha thought on the whole thing for a little while, before eventually looking down at him, quizzically, asking, "but... how much privacy do have in my own head, around you? Could I... stop you from hearing my thoughts, or if I got far enough away would you be unable to hear them?".

Anteros saw no reason to sugar-coat it.

He outwardly chuffed, "well, Sam... I basically know everything about you. I know what you're going to say before you say it, I know the rationale behind each of your questions, I know the backstory surrounding all of your mannerisms... everything. Everything that goes on in your head— if I'm around to hear it, I hear it. It's... literally tantamount to audible noise— I couldn't stop hearing your thoughts even if I wanted to. It's like being near a never-ending music concert...", he said, frankly.

"Now, if I were to, say... put a hundred-or-so feet between us, then hearing your thoughts would become a bit difficult. At two-hundred feet, I wouldn't be able to hear you, at all. I don't know if it's possible for a Human to stop me from hearing their thoughts— it hasn't happened, yet, as far as I've seen...", he said.

Samantha blinked at him. She frowned. Then thought on it...

And kept thinking on it...

And kept thinking...

She thought on it for so long, that she eventually forgot about the topic, and the two of them lapsed into another comfortable silence. Anteros suspected that it was because she was tired. The only facsimile of a conclusion she could come to on it was something of a mix between: "huh... cool...", "we'll just have to wait and see", and "well... I don't know what to do about it". He supposed that that was all there was to it. It wasn't as though she was in any position to complain or take issue with it- it was simply the way things were.

Nothing to be done.


Aboard the Yautja Hunting Ship, in orbit...

Zazin-Vor'mekta had completed his mission. That of decapitating the Hive by slaying its Queen. After collecting a variety of fluids from the dead Queen's ovipositor, he sent a message via his Sat-Comp to the Hunting Ship, to inform Yak-a'Shen of his success.

Everything that happened after that was a hazy blur— making his way to the surface, marching to the evac-shuttle, being flown back up to the Hunting Ship, exchanging pleasantries with Yak-a' (handing him the fluid-sample to be analyzed), and then heading back to his quarters to rest. At first, he busied himself with polishing all of his armor and weapons, busied himself with combing through the ship's internal communications, busied himself with anything and everything. He listened to music as he worked, thought on what he might do upon returning to Yautja Prime, thought on how he might tell the tale of today's exploits... all to avoid being truly alone with himself. All to escape a crushing eventuality that he knew would come, one way or another.

He hummed to the tune of his music, mentally pantomimed conversations that probably wouldn't happen, and focused on what might come next— all the while, a creeping, silent dread crawled under his skin...

It was only once he'd gotten out of his armor and sat naked on his bed, wondering what to think or what to feel about the events of the day, that Zazin' realized... It had happened, again.

It was this... infuriating affliction that Zazin' had been infected with for the past... four solar cycles— years. He called it "It" because he couldn't find a word for it— any that he found (in English or Yautja, alike) was only able to partially describe a single component of It.

It, in as succinctly as one could describe, was a case very, very chronic boredom. Boredom with everything. Hunting, killing, mating, skinning, forging weapons, trading goods, training with Young-Bloods, earning Trophies, accomplishing honor-feats for the Clan— all of it: it bored him immensely. The bizarre part of it was the fact that he never seemed to realize that all of it bored him... until he wasn't doing any of those things. Even if her were enraptured in the moment, it all became so... artificial and... forced, in hindsight— he just kept convincing himself that it was all very exhilarating. However, the moment that he took the time to settle down and take some time to himself and collect his thoughts... he couldn't help but feel like something was missing from all of it— missing from him...

Whenever he had time to relax, he became painfully aware of how unfulfilling and tedious everything felt. How his life felt. Life! Of all things to get sick of, life was what he couldn't stand?! He was lucky to still have it, for Paya's sake— it was absurd that Zazin-Vor'mekta, of all people, was struggling to find value in the very existence that he'd carved out for himself with blood, sweat, and anguish!

And yet... here he was, in that same, old, soul-sucking rut that had colored every ounce of his memory for the past few years. Every prospect and task he could think of doing was met with thoughts of wondering why he should bother and wondering what the point was. The thought of hunting prey that had once excited him, back before he'd become a Spear-Master, now made him roll his eyes.

Buying new equipment? I already have all of the tools I need. Training with the Unblooded? They'll probably die before their sixtieth solar cycle, anyway— it'll be wasted effort. Going on a large Hunt with some comrades? That would offer no challenge. Hunting a Gro'tye? Already done that— at least four times. Finding a new mate? I already have one that I'm content with— any more would be pointless lust... and also unfulfilling. More trouble than it's worth. Sire more pups? I've already got seven. More Trophies? No— there'd be no point. Become an Arbitrator? No— that sounds like a good way to be slaughtered dishonorably, seeking justice for someone who won't appreciate it. Become an Elder? I probably could, but... what would be the point? Try and give the Hish a hard time, like most people who have nothing better to do? No— I've got nothing to say to them, and no bones to pick.

Zazin' sighed and shuddered in repulsion, growling, spitting out the bile that had built up in his throat. The glob of saliva and stomach acid smacked into the metal wall, pathetically sliding downwards. He always felt sick whenever he got trapped in this state— there was a tightness in his chest that could only be identified as "frustrated sorrow". He became irritable and pessimistic in ways that defied all logic and description.

He was beginning to pant, now, scowling heavily, mandibles spread wide open and flexing. His shoulders hunched as he attempted to drill a hole into the floor with his gaze. And this is where the headache began, followed by an intense itching sensation, all around his body. All brought on by the fact that... everything seemed meaningless. And he couldn't do anything about it!

Zazin-Vor'mekta buried his head in his hands, claws digging into the flesh of his forehead in barely-contained rage. His eyes shut as he warbled angrily.

It's all just a sick, twisted, cyclical quest for more! More and more and more of everything! Money, influence, Trophies, bragging rights... honor! It's all just more for more's sake! There's no pauking point! No end! No climax! No conclusion!

Zazin' suddenly entered a coughing fit that came out of nowhere. It made his vision blur and made it hard to breathe. The hacks were loud and high-pitched to the point that he sounded like a squeaking mouse, as he ran out of air in his lungs. When it finally ended in a large gasp for air, he was dazed... and thirsty. He fell back onto his bed with a sigh, all anger having been... wasted.

No peace...

Whenever It happened, Zazin' couldn't bring himself to get up to do anything. It was only when others approached him and gave him tasks to perform that he suddenly found all of the motivation he needed. As soon as someone brought up going out on a hunt or asked for a favor, suddenly Zazin' was back to his old, young self. Full of flame and passion for everything he did. It was... enraging that he could never find that inner flame, on his own, and had to be coaxed out of this... humiliating state by others. He knew that something was definitely wrong with him— something that may well be effecting his physical health.

The only time that It didn't effect him as grievously was when he was with his mate, Vo'grat-Guan (1). It was... much easier to deal with, when in her presence. Or the presence of his children, when he thought about it.

In fact... he was overcome with the urge to speak to her. He didn't know what he'd speak to her about, but... he just needed to...

A shame there was no viable way to communicate from a fifth of the way across the galaxy...


An hour and a half later...

"So... how much do you know about me?", Samantha asked, pretty much out of the blue.

Anteros had had them stop walking about half an hour ago, and made the woman take a rest in one of the random apartment rooms. He'd been having to catch her from falling, every fifteen minutes, as she kept dozing off. She'd done as he asked, and had a power-nap.

They'd been walking for about ten minutes, now— this time, Samantha had decided to walk on her own, if only to keep herself awake. The question had been building up for at least six of those minutes, as she couldn't seem to get their previous conversation out of her head.

Anteros could tell that that question came with an asterisk. It was supposed to be: "how much information has your telepathy allowed you to see?". She was somewhat worried that he might have seen something that begged explanation. He... didn't see what the point of worrying about it was— by worrying, she was giving him free-reign of all of the things that she was particularly concerned he might have seen. Her mental anxiety about it was pretty much giving him a front-row seat to everything that haunted her. Embarrassing moments from youth, social faux pas in adolescence, fights with friends and family... and some not-insignificant amounts of self-loathing?... huh...
Particularly, the one she was most worried about was her having committed manslaughter, at the start of the Infestation.

In any case, there was nothing to be worried about, really. He had no reason to blackmail her, or some other trite nonsense, like that. He liked her far too much. It was her prerogative to be as worried about anything as she liked, but it was wasted, in this circumstance. If she had a fundamental understanding of what hearing a person's thoughts was like, she wouldn't be so quick to fear his judgement. Though, he supposed that that was fair.

He knew that he was about to get as much fun as there was to be had, with this. So, he kept his response simple, in a bid to get the result he wanted, "anything you think of, I'll know about".

She frowned at him, trying to remember everything she thought that she may have thought about, over the past two days. Anything he might have heard that she didn't want him to. She wasn't too successful at it— it only made her more anxious. As evidenced by her staggered gait and sudden tendency to rub her hands together, repeatedly.

Her mannerisms were oddly varied, Anteros noted. When socially awkward, she would behave very professionally to hide it, but if she were forced to walk-and-talk while being socially awkward, then there was nothing for the awkwardness to hide behind...

He found it endearing. Couldn't tell you why, but Anteros found it all very, very adorable.

Eventually, she worked up the courage to ask, again, "but... how much do you know about me, though?", awkwardly scratching at her elbow with a pleading expression. She was fishing for a "confession" from him, to try and get a sense for how much she'd apparently lost the plot.

He mentally laughed. Well... he "spoke" to her, telepathically, but used it to project a laughing sound into her head. He made sure that it was a warm-sounding laugh, but it didn't do much to give her peace of mind. She only slowed her pace, for a second, frown deepening. He supposed that it was time to throw her a bone...

"Well...", he began, voice blatantly coy. Samantha's heartbeat loudened by a small degree, in response— listening closely. "... I know about Darren, for instance", he offered, semi-helpfully, though with a bit of a cocky tone.

She stopped walking, altogether, and blushed, but did a good job of hiding her embarrassment. She did a less-good job of hiding her shock— she swiftly began mentally piecing together how precisely he might have caught that memory, and how much he might really have known, as a consequence. Anteros stopped walking and turned about on his heel, "looking" up at the woman.

After a moment, Samantha's eyes refocused onto the Scout, and she said, voice aquiver, "s-so... you, know about, uh...". She was trying to ask if he knew about what she thought he knew about— he did, but he was getting a very helpful playback, as her own mind recited the memory.

He answered, sitting down on his haunches, "yep", nodding his head at her. She seemed to feel slightly light-headed, then, not knowing what to say or do— her feet fidgeted where they stood, and she rubbed her own arms.

He decided to break the tension…

"`You grow that beard, yourself, handsome?`", he said, with a chortle.

Samantha clasped her face with both hands and squeaked in protest of her own words being said back to her... but couldn't help but laugh into her hands.
"Oh, no...", she groaned.

"Uh-huh", he said, sympathetically, "at least you didn't get stuck with the bill. Or that job-offer".

Samantha groaned into her palms, again.

What Anteros was referencing was the last proper "date" she'd ever been on, over a year ago. At the time, she had been desperate for a job, and rather lonely, and had hoped to land a decent position at a veterinarian clinic by meeting with the owner (Darren) for coffee. Seeing as the guy was decent-looking, charming, and funny, and seeing as though she had been at a low-point for a matter of months, Samantha had spent most of the date flirting with him, rather forwardly, and uncharacteristically, for her.
She had even been about to invite him over to her apartment, that very evening... when Darren's apparent wife (that Samantha didn't know about) stormed in and started excoriating the man. This prompted a nasty shouting-match in the middle of the coffee-shop, and Samantha took the first opportunity she could to bolt out of the door and never look back. The incident, even, had contributed to her decision to leave that planet less, than a month afterward...

The worst part of it had been that Darren kept that job-offer open, for her, and kept sending her emails about it, even a week after she was already three solar-systems away. And ever since, Samantha had been kicking herself for the way she'd gone about that whole affair.

"I'd probably have run away, too, to be fair. I don't think there was any way that that situation would have ended well", Anteros remarked, at which, Samantha scream-laughed into her hands, before breaking down into chuckles. By this point, her anxieties were thoroughly forgotten.

With a sigh, her hands lowered to her sides, and she straightened up, craning her neck back to look at the ceiling with a disbelieving expression, shaking her head. She laughed, looking to the floor, and brought a hand to her forehead, smiling.
"I'm never gonna live that down, am I?", she remarked.

Anteros, obligingly, rose to stand on his hind legs, and shook his head at her, replying, "eh, you won't have to".
As she looked at him, he elaborated, "you won't find me overdoing it", amenably.

She smiled, tiredly, beginning to tread forward, not quite looking at him, "I appreciate that".

"I'll definitely tease you. But never to the point that you're sick of it", he said, matter-of-factly, discreetly side-stepping to allow her to walk past him.

As he dropped to all fours and started padding along behind the woman, she dryly asked, "and... I'm guessing that the telepathy lets you know when a joke has stopped working?", semi-rhetorically. She loosely held her own elbows as she walked, which Anteros interpreted as her reaction to being given more control of the situation.

He replied, easily, "yep".

"Right", she sighed, nodding. "So... what else?".

By that, she meant "what else suspect, apart from that fiasco, do you know about me?". There were a few ways that he could answer this question... all of them tempting. He kept pace with her, on her left side.

"Hmm...", Anteros pretended to muse, tilting his head coyly, "... where to start...".

She looked down at him and frowned, as though to protest to his blatant cockiness. He knew that it was all in jest, and that she had no "real" grievances with his conduct, as of yet. She'd still asked a question, though, and it did need an answer. In all honesty, there were tens of dozens of things he could bring up. Hundreds of small memories that he'd gained a glimpse of, embarrassing moments that haunted her from years ago, the thousands of tiny epiphanies that came with the transition into adolescence, her experience of being bullied by other girls in school— there was literally too many to chose from, and none of them were particularly worthy of mention compared to any others.

Well... there was one that he was intrigued by, but that could wait, for now.

He played the situation by ear and answered honestly, "to be frank, the more pertinent question to ask would be: 'what don't I know about you?'".

"Really?", she questioned, in feigned skepticism. "I don't suppose there's any way to quiz you, is there?", she asked.

Anteros chuffed, "none that would work. I'd be able to hear the answer to every question even as you come up with them".

She looked at him, "that quickly?", she asked, clinically.

Anteros tilted his skull to the left, completely on its side, as though to look back up at Samantha, "yep. Suffice it to say: I have the ability to glean massive amounts of information just from a single thought of yours. Each topic you think of opens the door to many, many smaller ones. The only thing is, I can only really catch any of it, while you're giving it thought", he explained.

She nodded at him in comprehension, and posited, "so, if I were thinking about, like... puppies, or something, you'd also see everything else that that thought reminds me of?".

It was almost funny that, even as she made that guess, her momentary mention of puppies made her memories of her dog, Charlie, become riled up. He ignored it, and answered her, "pretty much. I might not intimately know every pedantic detail about you, but I can very quickly end up there, just by listening to you think".

She frowned at the floor in thought, and asked him, "can you give an example?", vaguely gesturing as she walked. The pair of them approached an intersection, whereat Anteros took a right turn after Samantha passed it, knowing where to go. She quickly doubled back and followed behind him, on his left side. Samantha repeated her question.

He chuffed, again. "Uh. Like the time you had to hide under your bed when you were little, during a home-invasion?", he offered. Her eyes darted straight to him in surprise, and her expression turned incredulous. She blinked at him thrice, mouth ajar. She eventually stammered, "what— when did I think of that?".

He replied, easily, "back when we left the apartment, and I told you to follow me".

She mentally stumbled at that, but quickly deduced what it meant, and then realized what he was talking about. She absently scratched at her temple, and mumbled, "oh... right...".

The conversation ended there, on a slightly uneasy note, whereby the pair of them were silent. Samantha kept looking at Anteros every so often, and seemed to be thinking to herself, a lot.


Zazin' found it odd that, some way or another, whenever he became mired in It, he would always end up donning his armor and listlessly performing various combat techniques around his private quarters. He couldn't truly call it "shadow sparring", because there was no real effort or thought going into his katas and maneuvers. Just... lazily throwing punches and kicks around as he trudged about the span of his rooms. Sometimes picking up one of his Combi-Sticks to swing it about, only to put it back down, again, after ten minutes, and keep lackadaisically going through various katas.

The sleeping rooms for Elites on this type of Hunting vessel were always large enough that you had enough space to sprint and jump, but small enough that no one piece of furniture was more than four steps from any other. An Ooman would perceive drab, dull, red walls and gunmetal-gray flooring. All metallic. The only soft surface was the bed, itself— circular and covered in various exotic furs from prey items that Zazin' himself had hunted. There was also a large pillow that he'd nabbed from a household on Earth, though he always kept it hidden beneath the pile of furry "blankets".

It was a luxury that each piece of furnishing in the room (the bed, the door to lavatory, the chair in the back-right corner, the armor and weapon-stands to the right of the bed, and the wooden chest full of various equipment and tools at the front of the bed) was equipped with a heating mechanism that gave each object a different temperature to the room at large, and the other objects therein. It allowed a Yautja's Infra-Red vision to more easily pick out and differentiate each object, as they were all made to give off varying shades of red, orange, and yellow, compared to the dull crimson of the walls, floor, and ceiling. Cold.

Any Yautja that wasn't mentally challenged could just as easily manage without such a system, but it was still a desired commodity. One that Zazin-Vor'mekta, for some reason, was beginning to develop a disdain for. Then again, he was becoming disdainful of nearly everything in his life, so... grain of salt.

After a while, Zazin' stopped with the aimless martial arts and instead wandered about his own room, seeming to be searching for something, but not truly focusing on anything his eyes landed on. As he continued to trudge in a circular route that stretched the circumference of his quarters, his pace become increasingly more and more feverish and hurried, until eventually, he ended up sprinting from one end of the room to the other, over and over and over again, punching the wall every time he stopped at either side to turn around.

He couldn't tell how long he'd been at this, but by the time he collapsed out of exhaustion, there were large dents in the metal sheets on the two far walls, and his knuckles were bleeding, heavily. He was out of breath, his arms ached, and he'd (at some point) thrown off the armor he'd put on only minutes prior, due to overheating. And now, here he was... lying on the floor, spread-eagle, nude but for a loincloth... and amongst the portions of armor that had been tossed while he was running.

It was... almost funny to him, that he'd gotten more of a work-out and an exertion from going stir-crazy in his room, than he had from the actual Hunt, a matter of hours ago.

Did any of this help? Not really. When his hands began to bleed, he... felt himself strike the wall even harder, almost as though the pain gave him some amount of... closure. He supposed that, if he couldn't feel joy, pain was better than despair.

It was times like this that he became more and more frustrated with himself, and desired to do something if only to take his mind off of the constant nagging feeling of meaninglessness. Only to then go over all of his options, discount them as pointless, and start the cycle of It, all over again. It was all compounded by the knowledge that, even if he did distract himself with some random task or obligation, he would inevitably end up... here... wallowing in his frustration and despair.

He'd already tried simply lining up many, many consecutive tasks and plans, day-in, day-out, such that he would always have something to do, with no chance of experiencing It... but exhaustion would set in, sooner or later. And... there were many occasions on which there was simply nothing to be done. Conversely, he'd often found himself having to exert himself to the point of becoming drop-dead tired, because he was unable to get to sleep, normally.

Insomnia was something that Zazin-Vor'mekta had become intimately acquainted with. Every time he attempted to lay down and relax, the quiet and the solitude and the lack of else to think of would always plunge him into the most depraved, dark depths of It. Wanting to do something relevant and exciting, but having no way to do so, and unwilling to do nothing, yet wanting to get the night over with and skip to the next day through sleep— all the while, despairing over his seeming lack of options. Thinking in circles, truly...

Needless to say, he'd come to rely on c'nitlip (2) to force himself into senselessness, such that higher logic would not come to haunt him. Not even extreme tiredness could stave off existential crises.

The only true solace for him, other than Vo'grat-Guan and his pups, was music... Ooman music, mostly. Yautja and Hish-Qu-Ten war-chants and choruses weren't very conducive to sleep. Though, given that he still wasn't tired enough to justify sleep, and it wasn't even anywhere near "nighttime", he had no use for it, right now. He could, but... quite frankly, he wasn't in the mood for any of the songs at his disposal.

He huffed, and flexed his mandibles, turning over onto his side, on the floor. In vain, he tried to think of something to do, a bitter scowl coming over his eyes. Try and chat with Yak-a'Shen to take my mind off things? No, it would be an exercise of pretending to be whole, when I'm clearly very, very un-whole. Try to earn another Title— become a Disc-Master or something? No... no— I have no interest in any other fighting methods. I'd be fine with becoming a Vanguard, but I don't think I'm qualified for that. I'd probably get sick of it, too, eventually. Train? No. Sleep? No.

He might have continued to lay there, but his stupor was broken by a sudden ache in his gut.

Oh. Hungry.

He groggily pulled himself up into a sitting position, stared at the bed in front of him, and violently shook his head to return to his senses. His waist-long plaits produced a cacophony of "clacks" and "clicks" as the array of bronze piercings attached to many of the "dreads" smacked together. Zazin' proceeded to drag himself to the restroom and wash his knuckles of blood, not quite looking at his hands as he held them under the water-flow. Not really looking at anything around him, in all honesty— just... in a daze.

He felt around under his bed for the robe that he'd stored there, earlier, but realized that it was being cleaned, so he defaulted to putting on his Phoenix Armor, sans the Bio-Mask. The bronze-colored, pseudo-metal plating was crafted from the hide of a Vy'Drach that Zazin-Vor'mekta had slain as part of the test for becoming a Spear-Master. A large, flying creature that lived in the sun-scorched deserts of Yautja Prime. The harsh environment drove the creatures to adapt a tough armor in their epidermis. The heat and solar radiation at play could kill any Yautja or uninitiated organism in a matter of minutes.

Part of becoming a Spear-Master was killing a Vy'Drach with a Combi-Stick. Not easy to do. The result of the hunt was Zazin's' armor— capable of absorbing energy from the environment around him, and functioning for an indefinite amount of time, out in the field. Provided that he walked through a fire, or something— maybe stand in the sun for an hour or two. Such was the nature of Vy'Drach skin— capable of absorbing ambient energy, and transferring it into a usable medium. Well... the Phoenix Armor could do that— in the case of a live Vy'Drach, energy that gets absorbed by the animal's flesh will end up being used to fuel the body. Vy'Drachs, therefore, have been known to be able to extend their own lifespans by bypassing the need for cells to replicate, and thus, avoiding having to shave down the length of their telomeres.

Once he was dressed, he put all of his armor and weapons back in their proper places, left his quarters, and made his way to what amounted to a mess hall, on a Hunting Ship like this. As he went, everything around him regained its vibrance, to a degree, and he found that ache in his chest dwindling away...

Just as he'd surmised: unwilling to act on his own, but fully willing when something outside himself called him to act.

He shook his head at himself. As though he were a puppet at the end of some strings...


"Anteros?", Samantha asked, tentatively. She stared at her own feet as she walked, expression blank.

He knew what she was about to ask, and so thought of an answer for it even as he replied, "yes?".

She down and to the left at him, and asked, "what... exactly are we?", her left hand gesturing between herself and him. She said it with a hesitant tone and a confused face, but that was hardly the truth of it.

He could tell from the signals in her mind that Samantha was nowhere near as "lost" on the issue as she let on. She was fairly convinced of a great many things, in this regard, the first and foremost of which was the fact that she was extremely averse to the idea of leaving his side, or him leaving her side, at any point in the future. Not that she'd been thinking of the two of them separating— it was more-so that the concept had occurred to her, a few times, and she rejected it. Her question wasn't so much "what are we?", but more-so "what do we tell people if they ask?". She, herself, was more or less ambivalent to the idea of defining terms or drawing a line in the sand. But, she also saw the need to do so— if for nothing else than to be able to throw a dismissal in a belligerent naysayer's face.

Anteros understood all of this. He could easily just skip to the logical conclusion and cut straight to the heart of the issue. Bypass the song and dance that Human conversations usually entail. But... he didn't want to. He found the song and dance very entertaining. It would be far too cold of him to use his telepathy to cut short every possible interaction that he had with Sam. For one, it would probably cause confusion, if nothing else. It would also make her less likely to speak her mind and express herself. How he knew this, he wasn't quite certain...

In any case, he chuffed and countered, "does it matter?", nonchalantly.

"I mean...", she began to clarify, "... what do we tell people if... when we get off-planet? Not many people have seen a real, live Xenomorph, outside of the military, but... that doesn't exactly make it much easier...", she elaborated. She looked at him out of the corner of her eye, as she waited for his response.

He found it curious that she had already concluded that they would have to keep his true nature hidden.

It was a decent point, though. According to the information in her brain: the chances of him being recognized for what he was, depending on a given planet, ranged anywhere from "slim-to-none" to "almost definitely". Apparently, the most prevalent visual that the average Human being had of the Xenomorph species was artwork of varying validity. Most of which, Samantha now discounted as inaccurate. Depending on where they decided to go, remaining incognito could be anywhere from trivial to Herculean in difficulty. The number of people they might meet who would throw a fit if they found out what Anteros was would likely be incalculable.

Anteros chose not to bring any of that up, and to keep the conversation flowing naturally. "Well... we are whatever we say we are, right? It's not as though I couldn't pass for any random animal species", he asked.

Samantha idly cracked her knuckles as she thought on it. Anteros took the left turn when the pair of them approached a T-junction, and the woman almost bumped into the wall in her thoughts. After catching up to him, she answered, "in most places, probably. We'd have to stay away from military, though. I don't know how well-informed the Colonial Marine Corps is, so it would be best to steer clear of any core-worlds, just in case...", she mused, biting her finger.

She looked to him, again, and asked, "but, even without the chance of people knowing you're a Xeno... how do we...?", she couldn't quite find the words to finish her thought, brow furrowed as her hands vaguely gestured about in the effort to summon the proper verbiage.

She was imagining a series of scenarios where a community's understandable fear of a large, predatory animal led to the authorities being called, or a lawsuit being filed, or scientists badgering her to study the "rare specimen", or other complications of that sort. Apparently, such was her newly-acknowledged attachment to him, that these prognostications brought great dread for her.

You do tend to think of the worst possible "nightmare situations", don't you, Sammy?, Anteros thought to himself.

"Well... worse comes to worst, couldn't you just say that I'm your pet, or something? Maybe make up a story about rescuing me as an infant from poachers— something sappy, like that?", he suggested.

That had occurred to her...

"That idea... did occur to me...", she admitted, suddenly feeling a bit ashamed, "and it would probably work really well... but...", she grimaced, and gave him an apologetic look. "I thought you might take offense to being someone's pet...", she said, clearly apprehensive.

This... was an occasion where Anteros found himself really appreciating Samantha's companionship. He'd previously considered the thought that she was taking him for granted or still thinking of him as an animal with static, predictable instincts, rather than as a person with a learning, changing soul. Here, she was completely genuine in her concern over his dignity. In her mind, pretending as though Anteros was her pet struck her as disrespectful and demeaning. It was inarguably the case that she considered him to be so much more than an animal— she thought of him as a person.

... Anteros was... enthused by this. If he were able to smile, he'd be beaming at her. He suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to make his satisfaction known.

As such, Anteros abruptly stopped walking and stood to his hind legs, pivoting to the right to face her. She immediately stopped, herself, the moment she saw him do so and also turned to face him. Surprised but curious. The tiniest hint of fearing reprisal sparked in the deepest pits of her mind, but was quickly snuffed out.

Anteros, wanting to avoid any awkwardness, leaned in and wrapped the woman in a hug, his arms winding around her shoulders— the front half of his head hanging over her back. Samantha, instantly smiling, returned the hug around his waist and rested her head on his collar bone. Anteros, having little other way to express his joy, purred.

A few moments of the comfortable silence later, she started to wonder what had warranted the affection, even as she confusedly grinned into his chest. She surprised herself at how jubilant this was making her— once again craving physical affection after so long without it. Anteros stepped back and released her, though stayed close with his hands on her shoulders. His face was next to hers, right "cheek" lightly touching her own, given how long his skull was. He spoke...

"I'm... gratified that you're taking my feelings into account, Samantha... I honestly didn't expect that from you, and... I feel the need to thank you. I don't think anyone's ever done that for my sake, before", he said, honestly. She blushed and mumbled an "it's nothing", minutely shaking her head and rolling her eyes in self-effacement. It might well be "nothing", but it wasn't "nothing" to him. Certainly not!

He stepped back again, putting the two at arms-length before he remarked, "though, to be honest, I don't think I would have a problem with playing the role of a pet—", he tilted his head, and paused, "... well, your pet, anyway", he added, gesturing to her.

She snorted a laugh, "really?", genuinely surprised, but glad.

He made a Xenomorph attempt at shrugging, and replied, "it seems like the easiest solution to our problem. Hell, I already let you ride on my back, and it's not as though I don't trust you. Plus... I can think of worse situations to be in than just... `being your best friend`, all day".

She scratched at her own temple, raising an eyebrow in the response to the question, "... I guess so. Though, you've done a lot more for me than that...", she remarked. She then frowned in concentration, and absently stared at his chest— Anteros involuntarily tilted his head at her.

Oh, really?, he thought. Samantha's previous ambivalence to the idea of defining the terms of the pair's relationship had now evaporated, and she was about to comment on—

She looked him in the "eye", and crossed her arms, one hand on her chin, as she asked, wonderingly, "what are we, actually? I mean... removed from us having to make up a cover-story? I, uh...". She looked away, out of awkwardness, then continued, "... I'd call you a friend, but... it feels like we're kind of beyond that... you already know... me so... closely, and... I trust you a lot more than anyone else in the galaxy— outside my family, at least... maybe more, at this point...", she petered out, and looked at her feet, for a moment, blushing.

Now... this question was infinitely more complex than the last. Anteros was as ambivalent to the topic as Samantha had been. At first, he didn't think it bore much thought. But as he thought about it, now, he realized that there was something to it. He found that there wasn't quite the right word in the English language for what he and Samantha were. "Friend" was too shallow a term, and "partner" was... inaccurate.
The most surprising part of the question was how Samantha, herself, was trying to figure out where the lines between "friend" and "boyfriend" began and ended. The sheer speed with which she and him had bonded over the last two days made it difficult for her, and now him, to see the line. She, to a small extent, subconsciously acknowledged that where they currently stood could have been interpreted as "romantic", by some standards...

It was an idea that Anteros found himself dismissing the instant he considered it.

Romance, even at its most noncommittal, usually involved some amount of give and take between the people in question. Anteros could give plenty, for he had nothing but himself to spend, but had no way to give her the things that actually mattered. He couldn't own a home or get a certified job or sign any legal agreements in Human societal infrastructure. Nor was there any way for him to help her with her more specific needs. Not easily, anyway, and certainly not in a way that would work in the long-term. Such a thing would likely create more problems than was worth the trouble. Or, at least, that was his assessment of things...

If only he were Human. That would have made all of this a lot easier.

The whole quandary made defining the relationship that he and Samantha had very... tricky. Functionally, he couldn't be anything more than a very close friend, but when taking into account everything else, he was also much more to her— and evidently, she herself didn't find "friend" to be an accurate enough term. If he spent some time, he could probably come up with some new term to describe their connection, but... he didn't think that it would catch on or carry any meaning.

For the sake of the exercise, Anteros asked himself whether he would be opposed to such a commitment if it were possible. The answer was a tentative "no", but with a list of caveats that didn't bear elaboration. To a degree, the fact that he found it so easy to think he could make that kind of commitment, also made him wary of it— how could he possibly understand what that sort of commitment meant, when there was no way for him to actually make it, in the first place?

The Unknown and The Ancestral were both utterly mystified at this entire train of thought, which he found a bit odd— he might have suspected The Unknown, at least, to having something specific to say.

Whatever the case, he had no opinion, no legs to stand on, and no real stake in it. All he knew for certain was: she was his best and only friend, and he was her best and only friend; they knew each other inside and out, and were united inseparably for the foreseeable future— for better or worse.
That was the gist of it. He took things as they came, and made no fuss about the future.

So... in answering her question, he chose to default to making suggestions.

A moment or two of silence passed between the pair, before Anteros offered, nonchalantly, "confidants? Kindred? Adopted siblings?".

Samantha squinted at the ceiling, tilting her head. She'd already given up on trying to find a real answer to her own question, and took the out that Anteros was offering, light-heartedly agreeing, "let's go with `confidants`", with a nod.

She uncrossed her arms and gave him a subtle smile, the conversation ending as Anteros turned on his heel and began to walk forward. She followed.

Anteros could sense that, in her mind, there was something that seemed to be missing. That the question was left unanswered and that there was a lack of satisfaction. He agreed. He felt much the same. But there was nothing to be done about it, at the moment.

It would be a topic to readdress, later on, when they had the luxury of choice...


Zazin-Vor'mekta bit into the jerky-esque strip of meat and tore off a chunk. His mandibles stretched forward and closed around each other, forming a seal over his mouth as he began to chew. It was considered rude not to— tantamount to an Ooman chewing with their mouth open.

He was leaning against the far wall of the ship's mess hall, in the corner, a fur-sack full of foodstuffs at his feet. The cooks and meal-makers aboard the vessel had spent the entire "morning cycle" preparing various meals, and were now off-duty, likely spending their leisure-time in whatever way they pleased. The food they'd cooked was all arranged on a single, large table, in the middle of the immense mess hall, not dissimilar to an Ooman "all-you-can-eat buffet". Most Yautja on Hunting Ships only ate a single meal a day— usually just supper, so a lot of the meals that get made are non-perishables.

Like this dried, seasoned meat that Zazin' was munching on, now. He'd taken one of the many available fur-sacks, at the mess hall's entrance, and had gone around the meal-table, grabbing whatever appealed to him, and then found the darkest corner with the best view. He enjoyed simply "people watching" as he ate, and since it was currently "supper", many other hunters of all ranks were now milling about the room. Some standing near the meal-table, others crouched on the floor in groups, a few up against the walls, and a grand majority of them walking about with their companions— all of them, conversing, as they ate.

Zazin-Vor'mekta had few friends, all of whom were on entirely different expeditions or on Yautja Prime. He was no stranger to going without social interaction for days or weeks at a time. He'd learned to appreciate solitude a great deal, in any case. Not accounting for It, Zazin' was typically the sort who enjoyed being around a social gathering, but not necessarily being in one.

All of that aside, he was also taking the opportunity to eavesdrop on the conversations taking place all around him. Well... "eavesdropping" was a bit dramatic— it wasn't as though anyone in the room was making any great effort to hide their voices. Whatever was in earshot, he listened to. Even if he never had any cause to use it, he was entertained by the usual gossip and rumors that typically went on, in Hunting Ship expeditions.

Right now, he'd been hearing whispers from various groups about the room about how the Queen down on the planet had been killed by someone, an Elite (obviously Zazin'), and that the entire ship would be called to execute a large-scale Hunt. That everyone would get the chance to bring home ten trophies, each. Zazin' wasn't certain if that was particularly the case— organizing such a thing would usually be unviable for an expedition of this size. It was more likely that small groups of five or less would be sent down, a few at a time, each with a higher-ranking instructor, and the Dark Blade Clan would be able to raise it's Blooded population by a small margin.

Zazin' swallowed the meat, and opened his mandibles to take another bite, but stopped when something in the corner of his left eye moved. He turned his head and jumped on the spot in surprise.

A woman.

A female Yautja had somehow snuck up to within fifteen noks of him, when he wasn't looking. And by the way she was approaching, and looking directly at him... she clearly planned on speaking to him. His reaction was subtle enough not to be cause for notice, but now he was a bit irritated. If there was one thing he detested, it was being interrupted while he ate. He hated holding a conversation during a meal.

How, in Paya's name, the woman had escaped his notice was beyond him. Like most Yautja females, she stood at least a nok taller than anyone else in the room, so...
He briefly glanced about. Now that he thought of it, he was fairly certain that this one was the only woman aboard the ship. While it wasn't uncommon for Yautja females to accompany expeditions, they usually did so with close friends, or in a small group. There was usually only one reason for a woman to go aboard an expedition alone. To find a mate...

He decided that he didn't truly care, in that instant, and set about continuing to eat his "jerky".

The woman, having now come within a body-length of him, paused at his apparent lack of concern, her upper-left mandible twitching and flexing as she squinted, curious. She expected some form of reaction from him, at having been approached by her, and it was likely that she was used to males being especially jumpy around females or becoming defensive; Zazin-Vor'mekta interpreted her surprise to mean that she'd not interacted with many males, outside of her immediate family.
He was watching her out of his peripheral vision, as he waited for her properly address him.

Seconds passed as she gormlessly stared at the Elite, blinking repeatedly and becoming visibly put-off. Apparently, she was also used to being talked to, instead of the other way around.

Zazin' could already feel contempt rising in his gut. She wasn't scoring many points, at the moment.

Eventually, once Zazin-Vor'mekta had finished his "jerky" strip, he made the effort to bend down and retrieve the Bio-Mask at his feet, putting it on. It was one that he'd borrowed from the armory, and which he immediately set to show the light-spectrum that Oomans were naturally attuned to. With this, he could properly look at the woman in a way he preferred to. He kept his expression neutral, despite his face being hidden, and gave her a once-over.

She seemed... nondescript. Average. Slightly above-average height for a female, about a quarter-of-a-nok taller than Zazin', himself, and he was taller than most other males. Like other women, her face and skull was thinner and more angular than a male of similar age, though... this woman's lower-mandibles were noticeably longer than normal, extending about half a nok from her face, suggesting some ancestry with the Hish. Come to think of it, her forehead seemed to be a bit larger, as well— going back further than most.

It seemed probable that there was a Hish-Qu-Ten in a fairly recent generation of this woman's family. Unique, but not all that noteworthy. It probably caused her some grief, at some point in her life, but he wouldn't make assumptions about her way of things.

Her eyes were a glowing orange— skin was a light beige on her chest and dark brown everywhere else, with some green striping on the backs of her arms and legs, suggesting the same pattern existed on her back. Her physique was run-of-the-mill as Yautja go: lither than most males, but still adorned with a respectable amount of muscle. By Ooman standards: extremely buxom and muscled enough to qualify as "Amazonian", but that was nothing new.

She was dressed fairly typically for Yautja women— mostly nude, with what an Ooman would call "underwear" or a "bikini", made out of thick fabric with wide straps, and a series of ornaments and jewelry, such as the beaded necklaces around her neck and bracelets. Atop all of that, she wore a series of sashes and "scarfs"— two wrapped around the torso and perched on the right shoulder, one going just under her left arm, and the other hanging down to her opposite hip; and two more sashes, hanging around each hip and both going down to the opposite-knee; all held in-place with discreet clips that attached to the straps of the undergarments.
He wasn't precisely a "connoisseur" of fashion, but he believed this specific style of outfit was called something along the lines of... "discreet flaunt"? Made to show a hint of cleavage and buttock, but only when an observer was close enough or took a long enough look to notice it. Or... he could be completely wrong— he couldn't claim to know very much about the subject.
Overall: fairly conservative— there were entire Clans who made a habit of going completely nude, in public, after all. All parts of this woman's outfit were colored bright combinations of blue, orange, amber, and turquoise. In a Yautja's natural, infrared vision, each piece of ornamentation would appear to be a different temperature, using micro-circuits and heat-wires, though was also made to display an array of colors in visible light. It was considered good, in terms of fashion, to appear impressive even in the varied Vision-Modes of a Bio-Mask— he knew that much, at least.

Zazin-Vor'mekta often preferred to see the world through the eyes of an Ooman. That way, there was so much more color and vibrance in everything. It gave him... perspective.

In any case, his appraisal of the female was over, and he unceremoniously took off the Bio-Mask and dropped it at his feet. He'd been taught better manners than to speak to someone with a concealed face. And speak, he did...

"Hello?", he asked, blatantly apathetic, though with the tiniest hint of annoyance in his tone. He spoke with a very slight shake of his head, craning his neck forward, clearly prompting the female to speak her mind, like an adult, as she'd failed to do, thus far. At this rate, his attention would surely be lost.

The woman blinked, clearly nonplussed, and parroted, "hello...", once again, gormlessly. Zazin wasn't certain if she was surprised that he wasn't groveling at her feet, or if she was simply unsure how to proceed in a conversation with an Elite. In either case, he would be curious as to the reason why she was seemingly so poorly socialized— even a neophyte should have a decent theoretical knowledge of what to do.

He returned her stare, becoming increasingly irritated as the seconds passed by. He was just about to lean down and grab another piece of food from his fur-sack, before she finally spoke up, shaking her head as though shake off sleep or confusion, "a-are... are you Zazin-Vor'mekta The Blue, by any chance?".

He raised an eyebrow at her. It was rare that a woman would stutter or trip over their words. Something was clearly off, here. He responded, "yes. Why?".

Her expression seemed to instantly brighten, and Zazin' struggled to resist the urge to roll his eyes when she said, "I... believe that I've heard very intriguing things about you...", in a tone that she seemed to think was flirtatious. Her upper body leaned backwards, ever-so-slightly, head tilting, and mandibles curling into a Yautja smile. Clearly her attempt to appear flirtatious. One that Zazin-Vor'mekta had seen a thousand times before. If he were two hundred solar-cycles younger, he might have fallen for this, but right now, all he wanted was to eat his meal in peace.

As such, he made a show of giving her a dead-pan look, and then wordlessly reaching down to grab another piece of meat from his fur-sack. He might have laughed at the look of confusion on her face if he wasn't rummaging through the bagging.

Though... he wondered how she'd heard anything about him, or how she'd known his name. No one on this vessel really knew him, so she must have gotten a description of him from somewhere...

He frowned, as his hand wrapped around the strip of meat he wanted. When he stood back up, he asked, as though no interruption had occurred, "from who?". He took a bite of the meat, and began to chew.

Then stopped... when the woman answered, clearly annoyed, "from your mate, Vo'grat-Guan The Adamant".

Oh, pauk... why does she keep doing this?, he thought to himself, uncaringly groaning and slamming his palm into his forehead in frustration.


(1): "Black-Night".

(2): Yautja alcohol.

I looked up the definitions of "chuff" and "chuffed" for the first time. "Chuff" means: a steam-emission from a steam engine, and "chuffed" means: very pleased. The only time I've heard it used in conversation, though, is from an animal behaviorist using the word as a technical term for the sound that a tiger makes when it wants to make a friendly greeting. It sounds like a staccato dog-sneeze, or a person with a runny nose blowing air out of their nostrils. I think you might hear it from a YouTube video of tigers in a zoo. Hence, why I use the word to describe some of the noises Anteros makes.