Sapience

by Voice From the Abyss

What is sapience? Is it the capacity to love? The capacity to feel lonely? Xenomorphs are very clever, but we would still consider them mere animals. There is, however, one exception— one Xenomorph with a conscience. Through one-in-a-million circumstances, and a certain Human woman, we'll see what happens when a Runner grows self-aware (Limes \ SubscribeStar link on my profile)

16. Chapter 15: ASBSS

Chapter 15: Alien Skies and Blood-Shine Sunlight

Fortune just has to piss on me, doesn't it?!

Zazin-Vor'mekta was officially, 110% done. It had been two hours since he and Hult-nah'Mei-Jadhi had gone in search of Yak-a'Shen. Two hours of walking and talking and a slow, trudging march toward failure. Zazin's' prior chipper mood was slowly, but surely eroded, the longer the search wore on. They'd checked almost every part of the ship— even the engine room. Eventually, they had to start asking around for the Clan Elder. But, as it happens... Yak-a' was, apparently... nowhere to be seen. No one knew where he was, and those who remained on the vessel had also been searching for the Clan Elder.

Most everyone was down on the planet, hunting Ooman marines and Ahgai'Palak, but there was still at least six dozen people on the vessel. More than enough to find one man. But no one seemed to have any clue where Yak-a'Shen was.

He'd disappeared off of the face of the Great Spiral...

... exactly when Zazin' needed him most.

As the pair had walked, and the longer that their quarry remained unseen, the woman kept asking, over and over, where the Clan Elder was, and when she'd get her mate. Clearly, she was utterly inept at pattern-recognition, because the answer on his part was always: "we'll find him for you", or "I'm sure that he's in (insert portion of vessel here)". Every single time, he did his best to assure the female that her time wasn't being wasted. And every single time, Zazin's' patience was worn down ever further.

Making those assurances every ten minutes, between idle small-talk, became increasingly difficult to grind out of his maw. Eventually, when it was clear that Yak-a'Shen had (apparently) been thrown into a black hole, Zazin' stopped trying to keep up appearances, and instead switched to aimlessly leading the woman around the ship, stalling for time and saying that the Clan Elder would surely return sometime soon. Eventually, that became an old routine, as well...

It was at that point... that Zazin-Vor'mekta realized how hopeless the situation was. It seemed that this was simply destined to end poorly for him, and in the worst way possible. He could feel it coming. This had happened at least four times, and the writing on the wall was flashing in a bright, technicolor rainbow. He could taste the inevitable meltdown coming on, and he became resigned to simply evading the storm, rather than trying to prevent it. The other times that these incidents went down the drain, he'd tried to tough it out and come to a peaceable solution. And each time, he'd ended up in a brawl. So, now... he wordlessly made his way back to his quarters, in a bid to get out of dodge, ignoring Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi's repeated inquiries as to their destination.

I'm done. I am done. I'm not dealing with this anymore— I'm finished! That's it! Fuck it— it can't be helped! I'm done!, he kept chanting to himself, internally. He could feel his vision begin to narrow— the sounds around him muffled themselves as his heart-rate kicked itself up a good few notches. He didn't know if his rising fight-or-flight impulse said more about him, or more about the situation, itself. Either way, his plaits started to vibrate and shudder, his shoulders hunched. At this point, he had long-since thrown courtesy to the wind, and didn't care for the judgment of the woman behind him. The air... tasted wrong. Suddenly, his own armor chaffed him, and everything he heard and saw became irritating as all Hell...

As they neared the door to his quarters... her voice imposed itself on the air. He'd been preparing for it, believe you him, but hearing it still flayed his nerves, all the same. She must have realized what was happening, because she dimly uttered something along the lines of: "wait, what is this…?". He wasn't truly paying attention, but the sound of it, alone, was enough to make his tusks nick themselves as they roughly gnashed together, in reaction. His mind screamed to itself as soon as it registered her voice: Shut! Up! Shut! Up!

Outwardly, Zazin' did little more than scowl with all of the inert ferocity of a particularly miffed toad. He knew that what was about to come wouldn't be pleasant, and he didn't plan on being around for it.

He stopped in front of the door to his room, punched the "open" button on the wall a bit harder than was necessary, and stepped through the doorway— choosing to ignore the presence of the woman, behind him. In his head, he imagined himself storming into his quarters, with the woman's yell of protest being cut off by the door sliding closed. However... whatever he might have expected to happen next, unfortunately, didn't come to pass.

Not two steps into his room: he heard the woman's voice shout something indistinct, before a sharp pain lanced its way throughout the back of his scalp. His head was yanked backward by a handful of his dreadlocks being forcefully grabbed and pulled on!

The pain... was agonizing for a few seconds, as he felt his head and neck go numb from the shock of it. He couldn't quite hear very well, as blood was thumping through his skull like a set of war drums, but he was certain that a scream of shock and pain had torn from his maw. For the scantest of seconds, he could do nothing... but more quickly than most might have expected, his senses returned to him, and in his mind: the glassy shroud of pain shattered into a hailstorm of angry shrapnel.

His mandibles spread apart as he roared loud enough to tear his throat— he could feel every plait on his head dislocate from their sockets... and he was far too incensed to notice that his extremities had been released from the hand that had grabbed them.

He spun about on his heel and swung a fist in an overhead arc far too wide to be un-trackable. Evidently, though, his rage made him quick enough that it didn't matter, and his knuckles slammed squarely between woman's eyes. Whether it was out of impulse, or because he was thinking straight enough to know how sloppy that punch was, Zazin' immediately raised up his left knee into a static hop, his right leg deftly lashing out at where her midsection happened to be. The woman's upper body was already knocked off-kilter by the punch, so when his heel and sole rapped into her gut with a terse-sounding "smack", she was sent stumbling back.

He heard a small, choking gasp from the female, just before she fell over and bashed the back of her head into the opposite wall. The moment he saw her, sliding down the wall to sit on the floor, hissing and wincing, rubbing at the skin between her plait-roots, his rage dispersed like dirt at the behest of a water spray, and he adopted a stern scowl in place of twisted anger.

He had seen Yautja women take six times as much punishment and barely lose steam, so he wasn't exactly concerned for Ms. Entitled's health. In any regard, the typical female of the species was around thirty-percent stronger than a man. Half-again as heavy and tall, too. If this did devolve into a brawl, Zazin' knew that he'd be the de facto "underdog", even though this particular wench didn't seem especially disciplined or martially capable.

Though, in a situation like this, appearances would be what held water if it became a legal issue. If posed vaguely enough, Zazin' knew that the situation could be spun to put him in a fairly amenable light. It would still be tabloid politics, though...

All of the dread and irritation that he'd felt previously was suddenly washed away in the wake of his outburst. Now, all he felt was... a vague mix of disappointment and sardonic consignment.

He stood there, moodily thinking over the situation, and staring at the female that had dared to touch his plaits. Such an action, especially considering the circumstance and intent behind it, was supremely childish and lowbrow. Dishonorable, almost. The Yautja version of "hitting below the belt" (Yautja have cloacae, so... unless you happen to get in a fight with a man during or shortly after intercourse, there wasn't really any chance of doing so literally).

You prissy, entitled sow— I dare you to try that again! See what happens when I'm paying attention, you hormone-headed cur!, he internally ranted to himself as a means of restraint— desperately wanting to say it out loud... but knowing that looking for a fight was the surest way to lose one.

Never pick a fight if you're not certain of its outcome, he'd always been told.

Though... considering her latest course of action, she may as well have done just that, given the total lack of respect she'd put on display. He had been (almost) nothing but courteous to her. And he was Elite! If the multiple Ahgai'Palak Queen skulls in his house were worth any consideration, she should have been kowtowing to him! Apparently, though, she wouldn't know how to count her blessings if they all twisted her mandibles and called her a "whore"! The least she could have done is attempt to continue the dialogue, instead of throwing an ill-conceived tantrum— most people learned not to pull on someone's plaits when they were children, for Paya's sake!

You'd think that the woman could know when not to push her luck. When not to resort to such dishonor and pettiness— all over losing some arbitrary prize.

But no, that just won't do, will it? Little girl wants her naxa fruit, and if she doesn't get it toute fucking suite, she'll bring the cabin down on everyone's heads, or die trying! How egotistical are you— how arrogant do you have to be to pull that on an Elite, and think for even a second that it would work?! If you'd lost half the things I have, in life, you'd know how to handle a small bit of defeat— but you don't, because you've evidently never had to do anything yourself, before!

If there was ever a time that Zazin-Vor'mekta could feel his blood pressure rising, this was it.

He remained absolutely still— merely simmering in his own boots and waiting for the woman to finally meet his gaze. If nothing else, he wanted to make a point, before she could try to retaliate.

It took at least a minute. For a good portion of the wait, she nursed her minor wounds, checking to see if either of her eyes were bleeding, and whatnot. Eventually, she seemed to realize exactly what had happened, and visibly refused to look him in the eye for a good, long moment. It surprised him that she knew she'd screwed up— such clarity in the present was usually only prevalent among those that were at least middle-aged.

When she finally did look him in the eye, after slowly standing up, he blinked at her, before huffing, and stepping into his room, so that he could press the "close" button.

"You need a bigger skull", he said, tiredly. It was an old proverb that meant something along the lines of: "you're getting too big for your boots", or "you're leveraging an advantage you don't possess". It was a phrase that pups and juveniles alike were all but beaten over the head with, whenever they boasted too much or started pontificating about a subject they didn't truly understand. Essentially: "check yourself before you get into trouble".

Zazin' made to reach to his right to the close the door in the woman's face, but her expression turned into one of manic fear the moment she saw the action, and it wasn't too surprising to him that the first thing out of her mouth was: "no! Wait! Please!". Her hand reached forward to try and stop him, but Zazin' merely caught her wrist with his left hand and held it away from him. He knew full well that if she really wanted to stop him, it was entirely within her power to at least almost accomplish it, but the fact that she was refraining from it only told him that she lacked conviction...

And even if she did, she'd find a knife in her throat for invading his domicile...

Zazin' gave her a deadpan glare and ground out through his tusks, "you yanked. On my plaits". His hand released hers, and she retracted it with a not-so-subtle growl. She huffed and spoke...

"And I apologize for that, but I cannot leave this ship without having mated with someone of Elite status, or higher!", she insisted. He resisted the urge to roll his eyes— he got the impression that she'd rehearsed that line more than once. Not that he thought she was lying— she'd said it with enough sincerity that she was clearly being genuine. He just got the feeling that that was simply one of her catchphrases.

"Why not?", he toned, raising a brow.

The woman noticeably hesitated and blinked at him. She seemed to lack much of a poker face. She, apparently not wanting to admit to anything, defaulted to, "I was promised that much by Vo'grat-Guan: your mate, and an accomplished female of the Dark Blade Clan—", he cut her off.

"That's not an answer. It's an excuse. So, unless you can give an actual reason for all of this, beyond just... repeating yourself, I'm afraid you're going to have to find someone else on the ship to attend to your needs", he said, holding his right arm blatantly near to the door controls.

The woman's brow creased in what could only be exasperation, mandibles anxiously clacking together, "no one else on this ship will give me so much as a glance— I'm a Bright Spear! I was told that you're the only Dark Blade Elite who wouldn't care about Clan-affiliation!", she raised her arms to either side in a show desperation. Her tone was beginning to sound as much, too.

Zazin' shook his head, "I don't care about Clanship, but I also don't care for your bullishness. Find an Elite among your own Clan to rut with! Why does this need to be my problem?! There's more than one Clan in the Spiral to bother with, if you don't care for the men in your own!", his tone held the air of suggestion in it.

She almost stomped her foot, her voice being raised a degree higher than reasonable and almost cracking, "I can't!".

"Why?!".

"Because I can't return to my Clan empty-handed!", she screamed, plaits swinging about her head, with her fists clenched, the sudden increase in volume making his ears twinge. Despite the pain, he felt that a barrier was just broken, as his scowl disappeared. Her face, for the shortest of moments, displayed abject fear and urgency, but was quickly concealed under mild seriousness. The situation seemed to deescalate now that she'd made her position a bit more transparent.

Zazin' squinted at her. It wasn't unheard of for certain Clans to send their females off on courtship migrations, in order to bring in more diverse genes, but the Bright Spears had never been known to indulge in the tactic. If the woman's obsession with mating outside of her own Clan, and doing so with a Dark Blade Elite specifically, was all completely genuine, then there must be some outlying reason for it. Likely something personal.

A long silence washed away the shattered fragments of the previous tension. The female sighed, and shook her head, apparently having had enough of keeping things vague.

"A few months ago, I was banished from my Clan...", she said, her demeanor becoming significantly more morose. She hugged her own waist and stared at the floor. Zazin' paid closer attention— eager to determine the female's real motive. None of the previous women in these escapades had admitted to anything like this, so he couldn't claim not to be curious.

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi's tone became bitter, "I made the mistake of eavesdropping on the affairs of my mother, and allowing the details of my heritage to become public knowledge. My mother had apparently mated with a Hish-Qu-Ten Bad Blood, while she was pregnant with me and my siblings, and... I notified the Elders as much. This led to it becoming apparent that my grandfather was a Hish, and that the Bad Blood was my grandfather's nephew...", her eyes studied his face as she said this.

She gauged his reaction for a moment or two, only to find him stoic. Zazin' could see how such a thing would get someone thrown out of their Clan, but it didn't quite add up. If what she was saying was true, her entire family would be banished, and (because she was the one to come forward with it) she'd be granted some measure of amnesty. Even the Bright Spears held to that standard...

He couldn't quite grasp why the Bright Spears were so fixated on purging Hish-Qu-Ten influence from their ranks, but it had been that way for at least as long as the Hish had been absent from the home-world. Most Yautja Clans were, at best, begrudgingly ambivalent to the schism between Yautja and Hish— at worst, they were actively at war with the long-heads. However, in most cases of "mixed-bloods", no matter where a Clan laid their allegiance, it was left on a "don't ask, don't tell" basis, and it was generally understood to be "family matter". The Bright Spears were largely unique in their... zeal for purity. The Council of Ancients had yet to come to a concrete verdict on what to do about the Filial Schism, even after hundreds of years.

The fact that this woman was alone, on a Dark Blade hunting ship, and apparently in need of a mating-partner was an anomaly, in this circumstance.

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi evidently noticed his confusion and decided to preemptively elaborate. She placed a hand on her hip, and ran a hand through her plait-roots.

"My family's genetic makeup had been a relative secret, until then, and when it was accepted by the Clan Elders that my mother had consorted with a follower of Nightstorm, our line was denigrated, and blackmailed by everyone with something to gain. My mother...", her tone became ornery and resentful, "... didn't take a liking to being the village pariah, and passed the blame to me". Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi seemed to moodily think on the memory.

"She accused me of Dishonorable slander, in front of the Elders. It didn't work, of course, everyone knew she was spouting musk, but all the same... she pulled on her web of strings and had me banished, anyway...". She rubbed her eyes and sighed, again.

Zazin's' eyebrow raised at that. To think that the mother had enough influence on the Bright Spear Elders to have her culpability for the Dishonor not only waived, but also passed onto the one to hold her accountable, was... he'd say "unheard of", but... more like "extremely rare". It was a common insult, among Dark Blade members, that the Bright Spears were too easily influenced by money and bribes. He was beginning to think that the rumors might have some truth to them.

Zazin' held up a hand and asked, "how does any of this mean that you have to find a mate?". The woman rolled her eyes, apparently in tiredness, and explained:

"The last thing I heard her say to me, as I was being sentenced, was...", a pause, as the woman made a face and put on a shrill voice, "`don't return until you've had children of your own. See how easy it is to bed an Elite, and then feel free to criticize`". She seamlessly transitioned back into a normal voice, "those were her exact words, and I can only assume that they've been officially logged into the Clan Archives…", the resentment she carried for her mother was very evident. And the fact that she didn't seem sure of her own assessment wasn't unnoticeable.

Zazin' blinked.

The woman in front of him finally finished her case with, "so... after being cast out, I decided to take revenge on my mother the only way available to me. If she wanted me to give her grandchildren, then I'd do just that. But I'd also do it knowing that I'd one day get to reveal where those pups came from… and then relish the look on her face when she finds out that her progeny have Dark Blade blood in them".

She said this with a non-negligible amount of sardonic pride, smiling darkly, and made no attempt to hide how brilliant she thought this plan was. Zazin', though, was failing to see the majesty of it— probably because it didn't quite follow, to him.

"How would that constitute vengeance? Am I missing context...?", he suggested. Her smugness evaporated and was replaced with awkwardness.

"Ah. Well, um... the one thing my mother would always pester me about was grand-children. She would constantly bribe me into courtship agreements with random males— she was probably obsessed, now that I think about it...", she uttered, pinching her chin in thought. A moment passed, as she seemed to have a small revelation. She continued, "and... she really, really hates the Dark Blade— her ire for your Clan is... also bordering on obsessive. She is jingoistic to the extreme", she concluded, nodding to herself, seeming to think that it all made perfect sense.

An awkward silence hung in the air like a bad smell. Partly to disperse the silence, and partly to help make her point:

"So... if I give her something she loves, and then take it away, by turning it into something she hates... I'll have my revenge", she added, shrugging.

Zazin' blinked at her. "Revenge for getting you thrown out of the Clan", he clarified.

The woman's eyes darted to the left for a split second, "yes", she confirmed, with a nod.

Zazin-Vor'mekta rubbed at his forehead with a hand, leaning against the doorway, and stared at the floor. The woman's plan wasn't completely terrible, but it still had many, many holes in it. Even if she got as far as bringing her pups to her mother, what if the first thing the mother did was ask for proof of heritage? The surprise would be given away before any attachment could be cultivated. In which case, what would the mother do? Banish the woman, again? Kill the pups?

And even if the entire plan went off without a hitch, what would stop the mother from retaliating in some way?

Also: her story didn't quite make sense. He'd never heard of any female harassing her daughters into courtship agreements— surely the mother in this situation had many other sons and daughters through which to receive grandchildren. If this woman was being completely truthful, then she was likely omitting a particular detail that might prove relevant.

For Zazin', though, none of that was his primary concern. For a painfully long interval, he merely thought to himself and ruminated on what to say.

When he finally looked up at Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi, he found her wringing her hands and nervously looking back and forth down the hallway. She looked him in the eye, but seemed to be becoming progressively twitchy. A beat passed, and Zazin' gave the woman a critical look.

"So, in summation, you want to have children— you want to give birth to offspring... for revenge?", he posed, looking at her from under his brow. He'd very blatantly put emphasis on the end of that for a reason.

The woman blinked, and looked about herself as though she suddenly expected people to be watching, and replied, "yes... and so that I can return home...".

Zazin' studied the woman in front of him, as he continued his test, "what will you do with the pups?".

The woman's demeanor shifted into one of pure surprise. Her head tilted backwards and to the right, both of the mandibles on her left went slack, and her eye squinted. "What?", she mumbled, not seeming to think before speaking.

He reiterated, "what will you do with the pups when and if you succeed?".

The woman's brow furrowed, and all of four of her mandibles flexed in their sockets. The question made her uneasy. Zazin' saw that weakness and seized upon it, "do you have a trainer in mind for their education?".

She stepped backwards almost by instinct, and Zazin' stepped forward, in turn. "Do you know how to teach them to forge weapons? To maintain their equipment?", his voice became minutely louder with each verbal jab, and he purposely stomped the floor with each step he took.

"I-I... I don't—", the female stammered, her back against the wall, shaking her head by impulse.

Zazin' stopped advancing at around an arm's length from her, "do you happen to own a farm, where you can easily get them food? How many people will be involved in their rearing? If they're all female, do you plan on making them take a Chiva? If they're all male, do you plan on teaching them to rely on each other, or on themselves?", he leaned forward a bit, placing a foot between her own.

She was now completely in shock, and if her expression was any indication, she was also mortified. He continued, his voice lowering to a cruel whisper "can you teach children? Do you expect them to follow the Gods, or do you want to leave their faith in their hands? Or... are you going to put all but one of them up for adoption? Maybe give them away to a relative, the moment you have your vengeance?".

He finally got in her face and held his mandibles barely an inch from her own. "Or maybe... you didn't think of any of that?", he allowed his tone to become somewhat embittered, though not without thought. "Maybe you ought to figure out all of the details before taking for granted the one thing in this life that gives you inherent value". He didn't dare to blink or flinch.

At this point, Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi was staring at the floor— not out of embarrassment, but because she was actually starting to think of all of those considerations. He knew that to be the case, because she had a look on her face that told him just that. It was a troubled expression that he'd induced with this very tactic at least five times.

He finally stepped away after poking her in the sternum with a claw, leaving the matter with, "come back when you know more about raising children than simply how to make them...". He turned around and made to enter his room.

At least... he would have... if she didn't grab his shoulder. The tension from before returned full force, and Zazin's' scowl returned with it. She must have felt his shoulders tense, because her hand released him. He might have just stood there with his back to her until she left, if she didn't then say to him, "... I can't leave without a conception". He couldn't tell if she was being bullheaded or was simply that persistent...

Why is everyone a broken fucking record, today?!, he thought.

Zazin' sighed a bit too loudly and turned back around, in exasperation, "oh, for Paya's sake— just take the hint!", his eyes locked onto hers with a gaze that could kill, "I'm. Not. Doing it!".

"Not doing what?!".

"Sex!".

"Why?!"

"Because!—...", he closed his eyes and made an effort to gather his restraint, before continuing, "I'm not going to give you my seed, only for you to get your petty comeuppance, and then waste it!", he yelled. "What guarantee do I have that my pups won't be thrown away by you or your mother?! Your only motivation for having kids, so far, seems to be for the sake of using them as pawns!". He was now well past the point of stoicism— gesticulating with every word, while she became unusually calm. It didn't escape his notice that the roles had reversed, and it angered him, even further.

"That's not true", she shook her head. "You don't know anything about me or my motivations— I've only told you what needed to be said. You'll have to excuse me if this is the first time I've seen a male care about his offspring". Her tone wasn't altogether derisive, and was a tad more severe than would indicate an insult, but Zazin' wasn't quite listening for her tone, as the words she'd used triggered a reaction from him, as they were.

Zazin' scowled openly, "oh, don't give me that— of course we care! How can't we?!". A pause. "We spend and throw away our lives, slaving away on Hunts for the sake of cultivating legacies!".

A moment of silence between them passed, and the tension leveled out a hair. He felt his self-control return, a bit.

"The entire point of taking skulls and accruing Honor is to win the chance of having pups", he pressed, tiredly, "of gaining that measure of eternity. The only reason it seems like we don't care about anything beyond that, is because women like you assume we don't, and make no room for our involvement. A man can't spend his entire childhood and teenage years working toward something, only not to care about the result of it...", he said.

The pair of them reevaluated each other. Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi seemed to realize that the man was speaking from more than just principle... and Zazin-Vor'mekta got the distinct impression that this woman was actually taking note of his words, and not simply becoming outraged at them.

They both sighed in unison, the hostility around them deflating in the act. Zazin' rubbed at his eyes, and the female crossed her arms. He mumbled, "I cannot help you". Out of tiredness, he said so while rubbing his eyes, and she only responded when he looked back up to her- which he found surprisingly difficult to do.

She had sorrowful look about, and held out her arms in blatant plea. In that instant, he knew that she felt she had no choice, and that she couldn't leave without attaining her goal. She would not leave without a "yes". She croaked, morosely, saying the magic words that promptly tore him out of his own head: "what can I do to change that?".

He'd hoped to avoid going into that place, but it seemed inevitable. Those... were the exact words used by his first mate. Though... the tone was different. Back then, it had been coy and playful. Here and now, it was a desperate, hopeless tone that could only come from a lack of options. He could see the difference, but it reminded him of his deepest regret all too effectively.

When Zazin' had first passed his Chiva, he had been just as skeptical of women then as he was now— only, back then, it was founded purely on the abuse suffered from his sisters. So, he took pains to be... selective about mating.
His one mistake was not considering that someone happening to fit all of his criteria might be too good to be true. He couldn't conceive that a prospective female might attempt to simply tell him everything he wanted to hear.

And when his reputation as an up-and-coming Spear Master became too prolific to go unnoticed, like clockwork, that exact thing happened. And... She came along.

She made all of the promises, espoused all of the right opinions, and swore on the correct agreements... only to go back on all of it the moment their pups were born. After that She shut him out of their lives. He had to go on Hunting expeditions and train for Spear Master status most of the time, but whenever he asked to see his progeny in-between, She would make excuses of business, or just blow him off. She twisted his words, reversed their intentions every other conversation. He believed the tactic was called "gaslighting", in the Ooman tongue.

Eventually, when push came to shove, and he did get to interact with his living legacy, She always found a way to spoil it. To cut it short or turn it sour. Whenever he asked how the pup's education was proceeding, She would only give slim vagaries and excuses. At first, he thought she was simply being rotten and bitter for reasons She wouldn't share, but soon he discovered that She had something to hide.

Put succinctly, the pups were not being trained. Not properly, at least. Pauk, they weren't even being educated correctly. When he found out about it, he made every effort to help, but She wouldn't hear it— She would dismiss any ideas of further involvement. "I have it handled", She'd say. "It's not an issue". This went on for years.

He'd been such a fool... his pups learned how to read and write fourteen (Ooman) years too late, and he'd been stupid enough not to do anything to fix the problem... was he complacent? He'd had a Title to work for and if he kicked up a fuss over the rearing of children, it would have dragged everything else in his life to a complete stop. His career would be put on an indefinite back-burner and the ensuing bartering between his family and Hers would end in more than a few cases of lost Honor...

Even so... he still wasn't sure if he wasn't just as worthy of the blame...

The worst part of it was, Zazin' had had no idea what was happening when he was notified that four of his first pups had been killed in their Chiva. He'd been on an expedition to hunt Gro'Tye, at the time. When he was told, he was utterly confused as well as devastated. He'd thought that his mate had just been slacking on scheduling. That She wouldn't be stupid enough to send untrained, undisciplined teenagers off on a Chiva— he'd thought that they would simply begin proper training a bit later in life! Not that they'd be funneled through the system, regardless!

This, of course led to a decisive falling out. Neither of them heard from each other for months, and when they finally did meet again, no words were exchanged. The moment Zazin' saw Her, though, he knew that She only barely regretted the loss. And when She saw him, She only expressed fear, and paranoia— going out of her own way to leave the area. It affirmed his impression that She knew it was Her fault. Which was probably why She and Her family moved their dwelling to a colony world shortly afterward.

The sickening thing was... Zazin' never found out how or why it happened. If he ever got the chance to speak to Her, again, he wouldn't be able to guarantee that he could stop himself from attacking Her. The thought of Her face, alone, made his blood boil. Not in rage, though— his anger for Her had burnt out years ago. Rather, in bitter, acidic resentment.

The same old speech seemed to burn through his consciousness, every time he thought of it…

You killed our pups. You were killing them, and kept telling me it was "fine". Never took my advice, always refused my help. Even when you sent them to die without the remotest chance of glory! I could have taken them with me on my trips, brought them to my blood-brothers for mentorship— something, anything! But, no! It was always a "no", from you, and I have no idea why! You couldn't even be bothered to give me a real reason! I hope Cetanu curses your miserable life with plague upon acrid plague, you Honorless cur!

When Zazin's' daydreaming ended, he found himself with a question to answer. Was there anything this woman could do to change his mind? For him to put his trust at risk, and take the chance? He honestly wasn't sure. He didn't think anything could fully repair the damage that was done, and he wasn't certain that his ability to trust could ever be restored. But on the other hand... he was so irretrievably tired of it. Of making enemies with every woman he came across. Tired of constantly testing people to examine their character. Tired of being his high-strung, uncompromising self. The tree that refuses to bend will find itself snapped in two, given enough time and wind. A stone's corners will be eroded by the river's currents, whether it consents or not.

He wasn't sure if It begat his malaise, or if the malaise begat It, either! Maybe everything was simply doing it's best to make him despise his own existence.

He defaulted, "I don't know", in concession of intent, averting his gaze.

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi looked to be at the end of her proverbial rope. He felt her weight thud through the metal floor, into his feet, as she fell to her knees. Her arms held out to either side, mandibles tucked and folded tight enough to surely cause pain. His eyes widened a hair, and his head recoiled- his mind stalled at the shock of it.

She can't be serious... is she actually?...

Of all of the displays put on by the women he'd spurned, none had ever resorted to this. The Supplicant's Last Resort. He couldn't say that he wasn't impressed by the gumption that the act required, at the very least.

It was an ancient and time-honored gesture— one only ever historically used when the leader of one Clan found himself having to ask for the help of another. It demonstrated a complete and utter surrendering of agency and leverage— if no other act could convince you of a person's naked desperation, this was it. It meant, in shorthand: "I would never do this if I had any other option, and I find myself having to do so because your assistance is the only thing that can save me from Dishonor. If anyone short of the Dods can save me and my Clan, now, it is you". The entire implication being that if the person asking for help turned out to be wrong, or if they went back on their word, they forfeited the right to defend themselves, Honorably, if they were challenged in any way.

Despite it being somewhat of an incorrect context for the gesture, it still spoke volumes. Tradition dictated that the Kneeling One make their plea, and that the Standing One accept or deny it, after a deal could or couldn't be made. To eschew that procedure indicated a lack of respect, and would invite an Honor Duel. In a way, it was the woman's only guaranteed method of forcing a final decision from him— which, in itself, demonstrated her lack of any alternative. He could still refuse whatever she asked for, and by the Honor Code, the both of them would be forced to forever drop the subject and allow the choice to stand. This, in every possible sense, was her best and only option, in her eyes.

It was the best attempt at reconciliation he had ever seen. And, for the first time, he found himself thinking "maybe".

So, Zazin' sighed to himself, and stood before her, side-on, raising an open-palm (as though to accept an offered object) to acknowledge the traditional response, and inviting her to make her truest, and final case.

She didn't waste time doing so, and immediately spoke, keeping her gaze locked on the floor.

"Honored Elite Spear-Master, Zazin-Vor'mekta of the Dark Blade, I cannot pretend to know anything of your life or the trials therein. I will not dishonor either of us by claiming to deserve your hand in conception. All I can hope to do is ask for your help", she kept her tone and diction as formal as possible— impressive, given that it was all at the drop of a hat.

"If I cannot bear pups of Dark Blade blood and Elite pedigree, I may never return to my home, ever again. I have no currency of my own, no possessions beyond the clothes I wear, and no dwelling to sleep under while I am banished from my Clan. My accomplishments have earned me no Titles or prestige beyond my Inherent Blooding, and I have little to no political weight at my disposal. It is only by instance of charity from the honored Healer, Vo'grat-Guan, that I gained entry on this expedition, and it is only because I had no other choice... that I came to proposition you", her voice was... quiet and oddly humbling to hear. A far cry from the haughty, arrogant posturing of their first encounter.

Charity from Vo'grat-Guan? He'd have to take note of that, for later...

"If I had planned on being a mother, I might have considered the minutiae of child-rearing, but doing so was the furthest thing from my mind when my mother banished me. I am at the mercy of a situation where the facets of raising pups are dependent on the presence of pups to raise, rather than the opposite...", she said.

"Should I return to my mother with pups of any other Clan's blood, then she will possess an advantage over me that I will never be able to forsake, for as long as I live. My independence from her will be eternally jeopardized. By giving her grandchildren of Dark Blade heritage, I may yet have some control over my own destiny...".
That... made Zazin' genuinely reconsider the situation. It seemed that petty vengeance wasn't the only thing drove her to seek mates among her "Rival Clan"...

He could appreciate wanting to seize control over one's own fate. Throwing off any yoke, especially one imposed onto you by your family, was always a difficult task. His sisters had made that lesson all too easy to learn...

"And...", she hesitated, her hands clenching into fists as she visibly forced herself to speak, "... I have an adoptive niece among the Bright Spears. One that I was responsible for. And every day that I am away from my home, I fear for her— I fear what my mother may think to do with her, and I dread the thought of arriving home to find my niece dead", her voice cracked... and he couldn't deny how palpable the pain sounded. Silence fell between them, as the woman's shoulders slumped. It... in a way, reminded him of what he'd felt the moment he discovered what had happened to his original pups. He found himself flashing back to that moment of anguish and horror... all over again, he saw himself roaring to the stars of an alien sky...

Zazin' couldn't be sure if all of what she was saying was true... but one thing he did know was that, if he'd had the chance to save his children from the fate they'd been conceded to, he'd have done anything to seize it. He would have challenged the Black Warrior herself, if only to give his progeny another day of life, at the very least. And if this woman's niece was, indeed, at risk... he couldn't claim not to understand her desperation.

Suddenly, she was no longer some faceless, female acquaintance that he could claim not to know. Now... he had some amount kinship with her. And it, on some minute level, irritated him, because he had the feeling that that was the point.

An all-too-familiar ache settled in his chest, as Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi broke the silence and finished her piece, "please, Honored Elite, Zazin-Vor'mekta... all I ask is one night of courtship, and you will never hear from me, again. No one will know that you mated with a Bright Spear, I will do whatever it takes to give my niece and children the best lives possible, and if it so pleases, I will take on any debt that you deem necessary. You are my only recourse". She raised her head to meet his gaze.

In her eyes, he saw only a turbulent, storming ocean of fear and regret.

Needless to say, he was moved. More so than he had been in at least a decade. His ears seemed to ring, and his flesh felt cold, as though a cool breeze were blowing. He did feel compelled, on some small level, to say "yes".

And yet, still, he found himself conflicted.

Every single, minute, little nerve in his body— every muscle and tendon in his limbs, and every thump of his heartbeat told him to say "no". He felt a sickening and... malignant urge to lash out. At something, anything. Images of him slamming a door closed and stewing in his misery, purely out of spite and distrust flashed in his brain-pan. Every gut instinct and base urge he felt, at that moment, told him to run from this situation. To shut it out and prevent more pain.

It was like an instinct, in itself, now... "you've been here, before...", it said. "This didn't end well, the last time...", it said. "You have no reason to think that it will go better, the second time around…", It stressed. "Walk away, now, before you get hurt, again!...", It urged.

If he did walk away, right now... he'd feel a bit guilty for leaving the woman out in the cold, but he'd get over it. He'd be comfortable. Content. And the status quo would be maintained. It would be the easy solution.

However... he was not ignorant of how irrational it was, and the idea of the current status quo being furthered did not make him jump for joy. It wasn't any wonder that he had mental problems, on honest examination...

If his gut was telling him to run and hide, his mind was telling him to stick it out and find a permanent end to the entire mess. And the only end in sight was to tuck in his mandibles and simply take the "help" that Vo'grat-Guan was trying to give him, and hope that it didn't backfire— if only to finally put Vo-Gua's mind to rest, and put the entire prospect behind them. And if it did end just as badly as the first time around... at least he'd be vindicated.

He was stuck between the option that would prevent harm to himself, right now, and the option that would stop all harm, forever, and come at great risk. He wrestled with himself. He had to choose between, either: guaranteed safety and certain stagnation, or a guaranteed solution and potential injury. The first would lead to eternal jeopardy, and the second would end in victory, even if a pyrrhic or symbolic one. Between the shield and the sword.

His conclusion? Only one option will end the fight. And if he had to take a few cuts and bruises in the process, so be it. Anything to kill this opponent.

His only question was: "who's the opponent, exactly?". It? Vo-Gua's ill-conceived crusade? His past? His regrets? Her? His mistakes? Women? Courtship?

Himself?

He returned to reality with a shake of his head and realized that he'd been silent for at least a minute or two. Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi now had her eyes closed, and her head hung low, waiting for his response. He blinked at her and shuffled on his feet, shaking out an ache in his shin. She heard the rustle of his armor, and her gaze immediately darted to his face.

He studied her for a moment... and eventually sighed. She showed no reaction.

"What do you know of the Oomans?", he asked, tiredly. She blinked, and recoiled a tiny bit, frowning at the floor. The question was out of left field, but he had a purpose for it.

The woman responded, "they are... unpredictable and... prone to suicidal bravado?", uncertain. She now had the look of a pup that hadn't studied enough of the archives for an important exam.

"Sometimes, yes, but what do you know of their culture?", he pressed.

Her eyes darted from left to right as she mentally sought the answer to the question, and eventually answered, "they... only care for Trophies and Hunts in so far as it helps their immediate goals. They... compete with each other indirectly instead of customarily, for the sake of maintaining an illusion of social cooperation. They tend to embody their Degradation Cycle much more thoroughly than Yautja...", she trailed off.

None of what she'd said was wrong, and it was likely what she'd been taught, but it wasn't too in-depth. It was good that she knew of The Degradation Cycle— it was a semi-obscure concept in Yautja philosophy that explained the natural course of civilizations, around the galaxy.

It posited that all societies, no matter the species or technological advancement, follow a cyclical pattern of repeating Stages of Prosperity and then Decay and then Death and then Rebirth. The Prosperity is never seen as prosperous until after its passing, the Decay is tolerated and even hastened by the populous in their ignorance, the Death is never perceived as a death until well-after the society has crumbled, and the Rebirth is merely an effort on the part of those remaining to revive the society, only to split off and diverge from their original state. Which would then set off those new societies on a new Cycle, beginning with Prosperity.

Most Yautja scholars dismissed the Degradation Cycle because the Yautja themselves had never really followed it. Zazin', for one, believed that the Yautja did follow it, but it just so happened that it took Yautja civilizations about ten times longer than others to transition from stage-to-stage. Yautja can live for well over a thousand years, after all. If he had to guess... he'd say that their Decay Stage had started with the exile of the Hish and the rise of Nightstorm's dogma.

That this woman knew of The Degradation Cycle, despite having likely been steered away from it by her elders, spoke to her willingness to seek out a goal. A certain... propensity for going against the grain.

He asked, "do you know anything specific of the Oomans' courtship rituals?".

Her brows turned upwards, and she grimaced, looking to either side as though she suspected the information was being displayed by something out of her vision. She looked at him and offered, clearly afraid of losing her chance, "it... varies from nation to nation?". Blatantly clueless.

Good, he thought, then she won't know where I'm getting this idea…

He straightened up and held his hands behind his back.

"I propose a compromise...", he began, making sure to gauge her reaction, "for the duration of the rest of this ship's expedition, we will spend our time in each other's company, and if, by the end of it, I find your character fair and Honorable, I will grant your request for courtship. It will serve as a test of your patience and dedication to the task, as well as my own", he paused. She now had a concentrated look on her features, staring at him.

He continued, "if there's one thing that never ceases to draw out a person's flaws, it's being around them for more than a day. I know I have plenty...".

She squinted at the floor in thought.

"Does this seem a fair test to you?", he asked.

This proposal of his was a test, in and of itself. To see if the prospect of having to work for her meal would be a big enough deterrent to make her refuse. He wasn't blind to the fact that she was on a time-table, but as she'd said, it had only been a few months since she'd been banished from her Clan. Zazin' had been away from his pups for seven months, at a stretch. If he could stomach the wait, even knowing that his children weren't in the best care, then so could she.

If she was willing to jump through these hoops, it would go a long way to changing his mind. Which, as he thought about it, was ironic, given that it is usually the female having the male jump through hoops, in courtship rituals...

He studied her reaction. She frowned at the floor and seemed to have the look of someone doing complicated mental math. Her hands seemed to clench and unclench, repeatedly. For a long moment he thought she might refuse to answer, or refuse outright… but after seeming to go through a series of emotions and conflicting ideas, she finally uttered, "it does", in a neutral, but convinced tone.

She rose to one knee and looked up at him to press her fist into her collar-bone, before bowing, "I will take the opportunity you've given me, and I will pass your test, Honored Elite of the Dark Blade". Her change of posture indicated it was Zazin's' queue to finish the deal and bind the two of them into this agreement. From here on, they would be stuck with each other.

Zazin' extended a hand down to her, as was the custom, and said, "then by the Honor I stand to lose, I bid you to rise, so that our agreement might serve us well". She took his hand, and rose to her feet with a pull on his end.

They clasped one another's forearms with the hands they had just taken, and gave each other a nod, then released. Such was the tradition of The Supplicant's Last Resort.

The deal was sealed. If either of them went back on it, it would be a stain on the Honor of the Oath-Breaker, forever more.

For Zazin' it came with the feeling of... not quite peace, but... he suddenly had the feeling that, no matter the outcome, he had done what he could. Whatever happened, now, he had made the effort to stay the course, and his life would be made easier for it. He allowed himself the luxury of a subtle smile.

Finally... it will end...

Why he thought this, he wasn't certain. He just knew it to be true.

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi now wore the look of someone who had just received some very relieving news, and who was ready for a nap. Now that he noticed it, he realized that she'd actually looked tired since he'd first seen her, but now it was simply more apparent. She now made no attempt to hide how fatigued she was.

So am I, actually, he thought. He was very, very tired, now...

"Well...", he said, "I am unsure about you, but I'm exhausted. We can properly begin our arrangement, in the morning". He turned about on his heel and made to enter the open door to his room. Just as he crossed through the doorway, he realized that she didn't respond, and that he didn't hear any footsteps.

He turned around and found her standing still... and making no move to leave. She had a gormless, awkward expression on her face, and seemed to fidget on the spot. It was the look someone had when they had made a mistake, but only remembered it at the last second.

It didn't take a quantum machinist engineer to figure out the problem.

"Do you not have anywhere to sleep?", he asked.

She gave a sheepish look and said, "no". Her arms crossed over her stomach, and she shifted her stance to face him side-on. She squinted guiltily at him.

"Where have you been sleeping until now?, he inquired, genuinely curious.

Her eyes darted to and from, in order to hide from his gaze, and she mumbled, guiltily, "in the engine room...".

He blinked at her and slouched in disbelief. "It's been... nineteen planetary rotations since this ship left Yautja Prime...", he pointed out, "was there no room available?".

She gave him a sympathetic wince, as though he'd gone through an ordeal of some sort, even though it was in sheepishness on her end, and shook her head, "I... didn't dare ask for personal quarters, and I couldn't risk using the communal dorms...", she said. He could understand that— the communal dorms were usually reserved for the less disciplined Young Bloods, and the Dark Blade's rivalry with the Bright Spears was freshest among the youth.

He blinked, looked at the floor in thought, and crossed his arms, scratching at his shin with his boot. A silence flowed between them, one which he was certain was more tense for her than it was for him. She was clearly trying to ask to stay in his room, without actually asking for it, and doing it not-so-indirectly. Typical.

And the fact that she'd obviously not thought of sleeping anywhere else, this evening, probably had more to do with a lack of planning, rather than arrogance.

He thought about it.

He couldn't say he minded, that much. Now that there was no pressure on anyone to do anything in particular, he was rather blasé about sharing his quarters. The only issue was, he'd been hoping to be able to unwind, for this evening, and clear his head a bit. Not that he felt especially overwhelmed, but he knew himself well enough to know that he would likely figure out some very important details if he had the time to recollect himself. Apart from that… he couldn't say that he minded some limited amount of company. At the very least being around Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi would keep It at bay.

There was also the fact that he had manners to uphold.

"Well", he toned, carefully, "it wouldn't be gracious of me to deny you some shelter, when the shelter in question is in arm's reach. `Locking meat in a cage to rot`, and all that...", he said, as though it entirely made sense. She looked at him, catching the implication.

Her entire body visibly tensed up, as he slowly stepped to the side and gestured with a hand, "you may enter".

Faster than anyone with her size had any business being, she zipped into the room and sighed in relief as the door slid closed behind her. She smiled at him, "thank you, Honored Elite. I will not be a burden to you", she promised. She pressed a fist into her palm and bowed in gratitude— he wondered why she felt the need to be this formal. It wasn't as though he was a Clan Elder...

"It's no hindrance for me", he waved his had dismissively, "and I'd suggest simply speaking up and asking the leadership, next time. We Dark Blades are more hospitable than we let on", he said, offering the woman a small smile. She smiled in turn and nodded, "I will take your advice to heart, Zazin-Vor'mekta". He nodded affably, and stepped around her to approach his bed, "good. Though, I'd ask for a bit less formality between us— it will become stale, believe me".

He set about moving some of the things in his room and getting them out of the way. It would be rude not to make at least the token effort of "sprucing up", in the presence of unplanned guests. She stayed out of his way as he did, and remarked, "in that case, you may call me `Hul'Mei`".

He "hm"ed, and adjusted the row of displayed spears on the wall-mounted weapon-rack, "then you can call me `Zazin'`", he replied. He turned about and checked in the washroom to see if anything was out of order.

"Why not `Za-Vor`?", she asked. His nickname, as he'd stated it, was unusual, granted, but the only person in the Great Spiral who had any right to call him "Za-Vor" was Vo'grat-Guan, and Vo'grat-Guan alone!

He spun about on his heel and gave Hul'Mei a hard look, "don't call me that. `Zazin'` will suffice...", his tone becoming dangerously understated. His mandibles spread outward, tusks waving past the silhouette of his face.

She, signaling concession, politely averted her gaze to assure a lack of ill-intent, saying, "sorry".

He hummed in acknowledgement and looked about his quarters, once more, to see if anything else demanded tidying. He found nothing, and went over to the clothing rack to begin undressing.

"If there's nothing else to talk about, I'd like to get some sleep— it would do us both some good", he said, not bothering to look at her.

"If there is something of note to speak of, I cannot think of it", she admitted, her voice gradually accruing more and more of a fatigued taste. He heard the sound of clattering jewelry and stretching fabric, as his garments were almost completely shed. As Zazin' turned to his left to finally go to his bed, the peripherals of his left eye caught sight of Hul'Mei's nude form, but he didn't bother giving his eyes a meal.

If he wanted to keep this platonic, he would have to keep the staring at a minimum, and so would she. All it takes is a few moments of flesh-watching and the next thing you know, your scalp and maw start to project musk, and then their body starts doing the same once the pheromones touch their scent glands, and suddenly it turns awkward. And difficult to endure.

Besides, he'd left his loincloth on the floor, as well, so she'd have to restrain her optics from his sheathe, too. In any case, this wouldn't have been a new experience for either of them, anyway, so it wouldn't be a problem, even if a Human in this same situation might see it as a lot less cut-and-dry.

Zazin' crawled onto his bedding and started to bury himself under a pile of thornbeast hide, letting himself relax. He could feel the weight of the raised, wooden platform shift, as Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi did the same on the other half of the circular berth. For the first time, he noticed that she smelled of seasoned Gro'tye steak.

"These furs are well-made...", she mumbled in apparent compliment, though Zazin' was only barely cognizant enough to hear it. He grunted in an attempt at acknowledgement, but wasn't sure if she'd heard it, and fell into slumber within two minutes.

---

Meanwhile...

Yak'a-Shen the Spry caught the Smart-Disc, mid-air, as it had come back to him, only to throw it forward again— a beam of crimson light, projected from his silver, angry-eyed Bio-Mask, cut the air and targeted the head of an approaching Ahgai'Palak Warrior. The Disc shot forward, a bright, blue haze of energy following its path as it incessantly buzzed and hummed— reaching its target and slicing clean through the mouth and out through the back of the Sain'ja's skull. The top half of its head flopped to ground with a wet squelch, soon followed by the rest of its body going limp and ragdolling into a messy heap, a deluge of acidic fluids spilling out onto the gravel. The Disc that killed it flew a few more jorrens in that direction, before terminating its momentum and sending itself flying back to Yak'a.

While it did so, Yak'a-Shen had turned about on his heel just in time to catch a second Smart-Disc as it ended its journey— deftly using it as melee weapon, and swinging it one-handedly, cutting across the throat of an approaching Serpent. Yak'a back-stepped a few paces to avoid the acid-spray, and turned about just in time to catch the first Smart Disc on its way back to him. As he caught it in his left hand, he was already turning back around, and pressed a mandible onto the lower-left button on the inside of his mask, the targeting-laser manifesting once more just as he threw the Disc.

Its flight-path followed closely behind his laser's impact-point, and he used his head and neck to guide its path— cutting a debilitating gash in the side of a Warrior Serpent's armored torso, amputating an arm at the shoulder of the Warrior behind it. He turned his head slowly to the right, guiding the Disc through the knee-joint of a Drone— but Yak'a-Shen abruptly released the button, shutting the targeting-laser off, and spun about. He'd heard the sound of an approaching Disc, and haphazardly swung his arm out and down— the device being slapped into his palm, and allowing him to spin back about and swing the weapon downwards, cleaving in twain the front half of a Ka'Torag-de which had been about to strike at him after standing up from a patch of shrubbery.

He hopped backwards once more to avoid the acid-spray, pirouetted once to re-acquaint himself with his surroundings, and came back to front just as the Disc he'd been guiding the path of zipped back into his reach. He used one of the Discs he had in hand to bat it away with a wave of his arm, sending it on a second trip, off to the right— set to fly in a random direction for about forty seconds before returning to him. All around him were the bisected and shredded corpses of many an Ahgai'Palak— cut to ribbons and robbed of many a limb. Their acidic blood melted the gravel it spilled onto, turning the ground into a black, soupy sludge. More still were intact enough to continue attacking him, the one with the gash in its side charged him, unperturbed, arms outstretched to swing its talons.

With a Smart-Disc buzzing in either hand, Yak'a-Shen squared his feet, before ducking and weaving beneath the first of the creature's swings. As he straightened back up, he brought his left hand upwards, the Disc in his palm slicing off the beast's right arm at the elbow. Yak'a-Shen found himself having to twist awkwardly, however, when the creature unexpectedly thrust its tail toward him the moment its arm was removed— forcing him to hastily sweep his right arm in a circle, cutting off the tail at its middle as its business-end speared past his waist.
The creature turned about, unabated by the damage it had incurred, and swung its remaining arm with a snarl, only to be met with a boot to its chest, sending it on a short tumble backwards, across the gravel and mulch. No sooner had it begun to get back up than Yak'a-Shen had flicked his left arm in a downward motion, throwing the Disc in its hand, vertically, and subsequently shredding through the creature's face, neck, and torso before bouncing off of the earth on its way out the other side— stones and wood-chips flying in every direction. The Disc itself was sent on a haphazard, wild flight upwards and to the left, and Yak'a-Shen calculated that it would take about thirty-seven seconds for it to return to him.

The second Sain'ja, the one with the missing arm had come upon him as soon as he'd chucked his Disc at the prone Warrior, and as Yak'a had made the mental note of how long it would take for the Disc to return to him, he'd already swung his right arm at the creature's face, lifting a leg to kick at it, simultaneously. His boot struck it in the gut at the same time that his weapon removed his lower jaw, giving him breathing room, and allowing him to chuck the same Disc at the Drone as it crawled toward him— his Bio-Mask's laser guiding its path as the projectile shaved off the top half of the creature's skull.

Just as the armless and jawless Sain'ja got back up, Yak'a directed his targeting laser at its neck, as it roared a shrill cry of anger. The Disc that scalped the Drone abruptly reversed its flight path and decapitated the Warrior from behind. Allowing Yak'a-Shen to catch it and hop backwards a third time to avoid the blood. He took this opportunity to turn around and looked upwards, into the moonless, star-spangled night sky. A glowing symbol representing the third Disc appeared in his vision, telling him that he still had fifteen seconds to spare before it reach him. He smiled to himself and waited for it to arrive while he squeezed the finger-holds of the Disc in his left hand, deactivating it, and allowing it to magnetize to the armor on his thigh. As his two wayward Discs came back to him, he turned them off and holstered them where they belonged— one on either thigh, and two on his lower-back, one adhered on of the other at the small of his spinal cord.

He rarely had to use more than three Discs at once, though he could very well use six if he needed to. It was a feat of immense multi-tasking, memory, and spatial-awareness that allowed him to keep track of and juggle his use between so many flying weapons at once. Each weapon was programmed with a specific set of behavioral codes, with specific timers that allowed him to have a sense for their speed and time-table. His Bio-Mask kept track of each Disc and there was a set of digital timers counting down their return-trips, but Yak'a-Shen didn't truly need that. He'd been training with the use of these weapons almost as long as he'd been training, at all. Hence, he was a Disc-Master— qualified to use as many Smart Discs as he wanted on any given Hunt, and able to use any quality of Disc available.

The Discs he used, typically, were Poli-Nanovibronic— half-again as large in diameter as the bronze-colored, standard model, with a higher vibration-frequency, longer blade-edge, and faster flight-speed. Easier to use in melee, and safer, but somewhat riskier when attempting to catch them mid-air. Yak'a-Shen, though, had practiced with them to such a degree that he felt it was no challenge, no matter what variant he used. One might have assumed, given his stature and build, that he'd have preferred to use a large, strength-based weapon, like a mace, but Yak'a-Shen had always found the use of Smart-Discs to be... so much more satisfying. When he was properly in the thick of it, juggling between multiple airborne Discs at once— he found himself entering a state of Zen and focus. His prodigious mind, long accustomed to complex thought-patterns, relished having to calculate the speed, distance, and trajectory of so many moving objects— and being able to slay a veritable horde of assailants in the process was always a good time.

When he was fully entranced with combat... his mind could finally settle. Be at peace. In the midst of battle, his consciousness could take a break from the constant, nagging, unceasing questions and deliberation. When he fought, he could finally stop constantly worrying about all the problems he had and all the people he had to prove himself to.

He looked about himself at the ruins of what had once been a vast Ooman courtyard— gravel and mulch amidst stone-work paths, crisscrossing the width and length of what seemed to be a sort of garden. On each side, were the fifteen-nok tall walls that comprised the Infinite Roof, broken windows and shattered doorframes pockmarking the inside-walls of the pit. A convenient arena for his Hunt, short as it was.
He tapped the vision-mode button on his Bio-Mask, and switched to the thermal-setting, revealing to him the dozen-or-so figures standing atop the eastern ledge, all cloaked. Some crouched, some sitting on the ledge, some standing with arms crossed— all paying rapt attention. It was only at this point that Yak'a remembered that his own cloaking had deactivated, and he pressed the top-right button of his Bio-Mask, turning it back on, as he strode toward the wall of the garden, stepping over the acid-stains and kicking aside Ahgai'Palak corpses.

His armor was full-bodied, head-to-toe with metallic plating. A typical set for Disc-Masters, with large, pointed shoulder-pauldrons poking out to either side, and thick gauntlets closed around his already-girthy wrists. Smaller, articulated plating around his waist and abdomen, with a large, single sheet of metal covering his chest and shoulder-blades like a vest. The flaps of metal to which his holstered Smart-Discs were attached hung from his hips by discreet hinges— covering the outside of his otherwise-unprotected thighs, while smaller, similar sheets defended the groin and rear. Large, heavy-set boots made his shins and feet nigh-impervious— all the metal colored a dark gray, except for the Bio-Mask, Gauntlets, and shoe-tips, were possessed of a shiny, spotless silver color that caught the light. And, finally, as per Disc-Master custom: a set of jawless skulls, each impaled upon a spike, that were attached to his back by a mount, just between the shoulder-blades. An Ooman skull peeked over his right pauldron (pointed to the right), a second peeked over his left (pointed that way, as well), and behind his head, facing backwards: the skull of a River Ghost. The first three things he'd killed using a Smart-Disc on official Hunts, each positioned to signify his omni-present awareness— two eyes in front, two on either side, and two in back.

When he adorned his armor, Yak'a-Shen could almost forget how young he was— how much less experienced he was than most other Elders. It was... comforting.

Yak'a-Shen reached the eastern wall, crouched down, and jumped upwards, peaking at six noks above the ledge before landing atop the metal and turning left to face the Yautja who'd just observed his combat-demonstration. He, as well as most of the Hunting Ship's crew, had flown down to the plane's surface via pods and shuttles in one, large wave. All had been ordered to organize into groups of five, with a single Blooded Hunter set to lead four Unblooded on their impromptu Chivas. They had been planet-side for four cycles, and he'd already received report of ten dead Young Bloods. Honestly... he'd expected worse, given the hundred-and-thirty-or-so Unblooded that they arrived, here, with. A mortality rate of less than five percent was... rather impressive, given the typical average of twelve-to-fourteen. He'd made the right call in having the Queen killed, first, such that the Hive was in disarray by the time the Unblooded crew-members began their trials.

I pray that they died well— with thundering hearts and spite on their tongues, he thought to himself. If you can only die once, you may as well make it a good one.

He could sense the beginnings of another conundrum creeping into the back of his mind— something along the lines of "is there really any such thing as a good death, or do we categorize them, arbitrarily, as a means of making ourselves feel better?". But it was easy to put out of his mind as he marched along the ledge, toward his audience; they, quickly lining up, shoulder-to-shoulder, heels a plait-width away from the ledge, behind them. These particular Unblooded weren't here to Hunt or embark on a Chiva. They were too young to qualify, and their families had, instead, sent them on this expedition specifically so that they could learn and listen from higher-ranking Hunters in preparation for their Chivas. Yak'a-Shen had taken it upon himself to teach them, partly because he was confident he could keep them safe, and partly because the organizers of the expedition had been paid an extra sum specifically to have their pups be taught by an Elder.

As Yak'a-Shen stomped his way in front of them, down the line, he took an amount of pride in their apparent reverence for him— they were young enough that they didn't think to judge someone on their appearance, and the fact that Yak'a had the Title of Elder was enough to earn their respect. They all stood at least a nok shorter than him, and were lanky, as per their age falling in the midst of adolescence. And, at the moment, even as all he could see of them were shimmering, red-and-green blobs that wavered about their forms, he could tell that they were quite enraptured with him.

"Tell me...", he began to say, "... how I accomplished that". He stopped at the middle of the line-up and looked at them from left-to-right.

A few moments of silence preceded one of the shorter younglings reaching out an arm to indicate an answer, prompting Yak'a-Shen to gesture in the young male's direction to signal a go-ahead.

"You did it because you were fast enough that none of the Kiande Admeha could attack you without being cut down, first", the young one theorized, voice small and higher-pitched, with a distinctive croak to it that would fade away as his vocal cords began to mature.

Yak'a-Shen pretended to think on the answer, deactivating his cloak (prompting all of his audience to do so as well), and responded, "true. Though that can't be the only answer. I am hardly the most nimble among our Clan, and I would bet that at least half of you would be swifter than I, as adults. So, my success must, therefore, be because of something else, as well. Correct?", he asked them. After a brief lapse of surprise at the modest praise, the Young Bloods nodded, once, in unison at him. A cold breeze washed through the air, with a pleasant coolness accompanying the bright, starry sky.

"Any guesses as to what else made me succeed?", he prompted. He enjoyed this, quite a bit.

A second teenager, taller than most of them, with head-tresses wrapped into a bundle behind his head raised an arm. Yak'a prompted him, and the boy said, "you succeeded because you never missed or misjudged an attack". His voice was strained with what Yak'a could only assume was barely-contained excitement. At this Yak'a-Shen grunted, with a nod...

"Again, true. But I think you'll find that to be a given... when you all begin your trials", he fixed each of them with a short stare, "precision, alone, would not have changed my chances of success. It only helped me end the battle more quickly. Any other guesses?".

A long moment passed, as the students all looked at one another, shrugging in blatant ignorance... until a third boy raised an arm. This one had been entirely silent for almost the entire journey and the entire time they'd been planet-side. Yak'a-Shen gestured for the lad to speak his mind, as the rest of the teens bent around each other to see their peer speak up for the first time since they'd met him.

"You succeeded because you kept track of your environment and never allowed any vector to fall outside your notice", the boy said, voice calm and unhurried.

At this Yak'a-Shen pointed at him with a nod, pleased. "There's the answer we wanted. Well said, boy", he commended, a bit too cheerfully. The child merely nodded, modestly, at which Yak'a-Shen the Spry saw a bit of himself in the student. He grinned behind his Bio-Mask, as he addressed the whole group: "he is correct. The most important and most dangerous thing about hunting Ahgai'Palak is the difficulty in keeping track of your surroundings. A Serpent can attack you from any given angle, from any given surface, no matter the environment, and it's your task to always have a command of the arena, and to never allow anything to catch you, unaware. Kiande Admeha are cunning prey, and are far more resourceful than they may appear...".

---

Nine hours later, aboard the Hunting Ship, the next morning…

2576th Year After the Filial Schism (AFS), 52nd Day of Evening's Solace

Zazin-Vor'mekta awoke with huff. He blinked into the soft, cool pile of leathers he'd crawled into, and struggled to remember what decade it was. He reached a hand over the edge of the bed and felt around underneath for a Bio-Mask, idly...

Then he remembered what had happened, last night, and like clockwork, he heard a snort and felt the weight of the bed shift. He slowly extracted his head from under the gray-red hides, and looked up to see a side-on view of a naked Hul'Mei. She had her eyes closed as she sat up on the bed and stretched lethargically. Which... did wonderful things to her chest...

Oh, right..., he thought, we shared the bed. He looked at her, lazily, and wasn't very quick to stop— he knew that he'd be too groggy to get aroused as easily as he might have, last night.

The woman's body was, more or less, an exceptional specimen of Yautja females. Perhaps slightly lacking in muscle-mass, but otherwise fairly typical. Her skin was the dark-brown color of Earth tree bark, with the slightest tinge of red, throughout, and across her back were verdant stripes of dark green— which also segmented her arms and the sides of her legs. Her chest, stomach, and the insides of her legs and arms, were a decidedly lighter shade of brown, almost on the verge of being orange.

His eyes darted to and from the muscles on her back and arms, as she leaned backwards, yawning. He couldn't say that he didn't appreciate the view of her chest, as her (very well-hidden) pectoral muscles were quite graciously doing their best to make the globes that hid them move. And succeeded. She must have been oblivious to her audience, because she suddenly stood up from the bed and began to go through what had to be a ritual of morning "yoga". If she knew he was watching, then this would be a very blatant attempt to incite a rutting— in which case, it might be called poor form. And could qualify as an infraction on the Pact they'd made, yesterday. So, he'd assume she didn't know he was watching.

He suddenly felt and heard a hissing sensation start to leak out of invisible pores in the flesh that stretched between his mandibles. He recoiled, looking away, and covering his mouth with an arm, getting to his feet to shake himself off.

Well... it has been a month or two..., he excused himself.

Once the two of them were dressed, again, Zazin' bothered to check for notifications on a console outside of his quarters. The hunt on Guardian was, apparently, in full swing, and it was proving to be quite the haul of trophies and glory. When he read this, an idea came to him, and he proposed that the pair of them hunt together, on-planet. It would help to start off their arrangement... and he'd get to see a bit of what she was made of...

---

Meanwhile, on Guardian...

Day One-Hundred Ninety-One of Infestation — 28th of August, 2182 A.D, Earth Standard Time

Something... odd had happened. Even as he first began to drag himself to consciousness, he knew that something new and... foreboding had occurred. Why?

Because, Anteros had had a dream, last night. For the first time in his life, he had dreamt while unconscious. By the time he woke up, of course, it took him a moment or two to realize it, and by then, 90% of it was lost to him. But still... the first dream of his life...

He knew it was a dream because he'd seen Humans in the Egg Chambers shake themselves awake from nightmares and groan into lucidity after dreaming of better days...

Usually only to find themselves with a startlingly conspicuous hole in their torso.

When Anteros woke up, this morning, at first he simply lay where he was and did his best to process the how and why of it. When he couldn't figure that out, and had nothing else to ponder, he instead focused on the dream itself. This was the first dream he'd ever had, after all, and not everyone had the luxury of experiencing a "first" dream.

He thought on what he remembered of it. All that came to him were flashes of images and looping sequences of events. Vague emotions colored each disparate shard of stained memory. It was… bizarre to him that he remembered a lot of the minutiae and minor details, but not a lot of the context or greater scheme. It was as though a damaged movie reel had been played inside his head, and now he was left with torn and unintelligible scraps of scenes and set-pieces.

However, as he thought deeper and deeper into it, he found that with everything he recalled, small, little, tertiary details would creep from the woodwork of his mind. It became an affair of leaping into smaller and smaller rabbit holes until he reached a dead-end, only to double back and find two-fold as many holes at where he'd started.

As he sifted through the shifting sands of his sundered dream, the picture became more and more describable.

The "where" and "when" of the events that his dream had shown him were completely obfuscated, but a few… "stages" leapt out to him. Like set-pieces in a play production- the same props being used in differing ways to construct different scenes.

The most prominent of which… was a massive, city-sized pyramid. Or… what could be a pyramid. It was… square-ish and angular, with telescoping "steps" that were each as tall as a small house. A stairway, up the middle of the structure appeared numerous times. One that served as a battle-ground, in all of the instances that he saw it…

Then, there was a shifting interior made of stone and metal that churned and rearranged of its own will— hallways disappearing, walls shifting aside, ceilings folding out of the way, and floors raising up to realign, every so often, but without any sense to it. The very walls were just as dangerous as the building's inhabitants. The structure's visage made Anteros feel nauseous and light-headed. His stomach turned every time he thought of the walls daring to budge.

Then, there was… a forest? He thought it was a forest, at least. But… the trees were small, and there was light everywhere despite the tree canopy blocking the sun. It confused him, and… made him feel endangered. As though some great hawk could swoop down and pluck him from the forest floor at any moment.

There were other "places", as well— such as a concrete city street and sidewalk with acid, raining from the sky, and what seemed to be a basement of some sort, but none that appeared as often as the blocky pyramid, the pyramid's twisting interior, and the glowing forest.

However, the focus of his dream's scatter-brained and vague "plot" was on… things. Entities. Creatures that Anteros had never seen before, but which he felt only fear and hatred of. The sight of them made him want to scream- in terror or rage, he couldn't tell.

The Entities… didn't have a uniform shape. They appeared to mockingly resemble a humanoid, but… the number and size of their limbs seemed to shift and twist and morph and change, wildly, with every passing moment and with every errant twitch. One moment, they had normal hands and feet, then the next their arms would shift into great, swathing blades. What might be a whipping tentacle of crackling energy would soon reveal itself to be an axe made of blinding light. Where once they held a gargantuan hammer, would suddenly come a lance. Where they had two arms, suddenly they would have four. An Entity that had swords on its feet would suddenly have... cannons that shot... hellfire-pitchforks? What? None of it made any sense!

Around what might have been their heads was a swirling mass of tendrils and flagella- spinning and revolving and whipping about their skulls. Whatever texture the Entities had to their bodies, and whatever color they were, was difficult to say— all he could remember seeing when looking at an Entity's torso was a dark, galactic void. Motes of light and winking stars would shimmer within their forms, both stationary but mobile. Sheathed in twilight and bearing the visage of a simmering black hole's event horizon.

It seemed odd, to him, that he could perceive color in a dream, but not in real life...

The only thing he could say remained the same about all of them, for he'd seen at least dozen Entities in his dream, was their eyes. Their unblinking, harsh gaze was of a contemptuous, blazing, vilifying golden glow. One image stuck with him, oddly— the sight of an Entity turning to stare directly at him, it's eyes seeming to slash at his body and douse him in paroxysm, filled him with existential fear and an urge to kill the creature. To kill something— anything. It made his jaw gnash with the urge to bite— only to make him huff at the lack of a solid object to crush.

Though these Entities sat beyond effective classification, there was one thing Anteros could glean from what his dream had shown him. They were strong. Fast, too. Enough to slaughter great hordes of Xenomorphs that charged them— for that had been in his dream, as well. Battles fought on the pyramid's steps, games of cat-and-mouse in the pyramid's bowels, and hunts in the glowing forest. The Entities hunting down, killing, and being killed by, Xenomorphs- the sight of a Xenomorph Soldier grappling with one of the enigmatic creatures filled him with… with…

If there were a word for a feeling that was equal parts nostalgia and rage, Anteros couldn't recall it.

The last thing the dream showed him, however, proved the most… memorable— the most captivating. It was another Entity, but this one stood much taller than the others. Instead of being made of the void between stars, its body was a silhouette of pulsing, undulating bronze, with wisps of crimson flame licking off of the edges of its form. The mop of tentacles surrounding it's skull wavered, hovering still, mid-air, as though it were underwater, and seemed to adorn the Entity's skull like a crown of blood-shine sunlight. Just above its left shoulder, was a swirling vortex of yellow light that hurt to look at, and in its hands… was a lance made of shimmering, shining, silver-white crystal. It was the only one of the Entities that held an actual object as a weapon, and who's body never changed shape…

This Entity... the Bronze Warrior... its eyes seemed to be the same as the rest, but instead of contempt or harsh judgment... they seemed to exude an aura of calm... and regret... and sorrow... and conviction. Looking into the Bronze Warrior's eyes made Anteros feel altogether morose and afraid, at the same time, and for some reason, the Bronze Warrior was the most terrifying of the Entities, despite doing nothing but standing atop a stone pillar and observing the chaos around it...

For a good few seconds, as Anteros thought on the Bronze Warrior, he was struggling to interpret why the first dream of his entire life seemed to show him things he had no knowledge or experience of. He'd never seen an Entity, before, but thinking of them made him... it felt like an omen of death was tapping and scratching at his heart. It gave him an overpowering urge to run, hide, and kill.

The only time he'd felt anything similar was during fights with Human marines... but these Entities evoked desperation as much as adrenaline.

Wait a minute..., he realized.

Why does any of this matter? It was only a dream, he asked himself.

There had been... whispers of Human legends in which people received prophetic visions while they slept, or were visited by powerful spirits and demons. The scientific consensus, though, was that dreams were purely figments of the mind. Granted... that was all Anteros knew— the barest theoretical concepts with no real examination of the how and why. He'd never had a dream, before, so he'd never investigated it to any significant length...

It did seem all too convenient, though, that the one time he had a dream, in his whole life, just so happened to be the very night after Mother died.

... and now that he noticed the current state of the Hive-mind… there was definitely something wrong. Something was off— off enough for him to suddenly start feeling paranoid. Like a... constant, mournful, panicked wailing, that sung throughout Guardian's superstructure.

Was the rest of the Hive having the same dreams as him? Or was something actually bad happening?

Anteros consigned himself to simply file it away for later rumination.

When his senses shifted from his inner self, he found himself curled up on the bed of the captain's quarters. And when he "saw" the thumping glow of Samantha's mind and heart, pulsing away with renewed vigor... all other concerns didn't seem to quite matter, as much.

He reminded himself that he had something to live for, now. Someone to care about... to invest in... to talk to and confide in, and to be confided in, himself. The thought gave him a pleasant bubbling sensation in the pit of his sternum— a sensation the Ancestral was utterly unfamiliar with. She was sleeping deeply. Peacefully. He was so very tempted to simply let her nap the day away, but his internal clock told him it was around ten in the morning and there was a lot of work to be done. Especially for her, since he couldn't read those papers. Or the labels on all those buttons in the cockpit.

But I don't want to wake her up..., he lamented.

For a good ten minutes, he silently, motionlessly watched her sleep— counted the rhythmic thumps of her heartbeat, and the vague little sing-song noises that chirped from her dormant mind. It seemed she was going to wake up soon, given that she seemed to be dreaming. He could never quite make out what she was dreaming of, never could, but he could tell that it wasn't of anything, in particular. Maybe just... poignant memories of places from earlier in her life, or echoes of voices and songs she'd heard and forgotten from years ago.

Eventually, though, she transitioned into consciousness, seamlessly and without any change of mental state. When she finally cognized the fact — "oh, I'm awake, now" — at first, she seemed to think that she was still in college. After that came an instantaneous remembrance of all of the years since those days, and the events leading up to now. Her heartbeat kicked itself upward in rapidity for a split second, only for her to remember that she was safe, and that Anteros was nearby. She never moved or even opened her eyes as all of this happened, but afterwards, she smiled and snuggled herself deeper into the mattress.

Her first committed thought of the day was: holy fucking shit, I love this bed so damn much.

He allowed her another five minutes of rest, before he deigned to move. When his tail slid across the crimson quilt with a muted "tfffff", and when the weight of the mattress shifted as he put weight on his hands, raising himself up: she experienced a few moments too many of a primal fear reaction. Initially, her breath caught in her throat and her mind went into panic mode as the muddled reactions of "something's here, with me" took over. Then she remembered that it was only him, and her lungs loudly deflated in relief, her face burying itself deeper into the pillow.

He kept still for another two minutes, allowing her to calm herself down, despite his arms aching in the process. Her thoughts registered his presence, but she seemed still too groggy to cognize what that meant.

Humans are a whole different species when they wake up in the morning...

When all was calm, he moved again. She was laying on her right side, tucked into a fetal position. Given the size of the bed, he'd had enough space to lay down just south of her feet, and there was still enough space for at least two other people to hop on. He slowly monkey-crawled his way around to behind her back. The blanket(s) were pulled taut by his and her weight wedging the fabric and pulling it in two different directions, so he moved his tail into the recess between the bed-frame and the mattress, uprooting the quilt from where it had been so stubbornly tucked by some unknown pair of hands.

Anteros debated with himself on how to go about getting her out of bed...

His hand reached forward, clasping the woman's concealed shoulder, and he gave it a gentle shake. His voice projected into her mind, "Samantha...".

She simply grunted and curled in on herself, clearly averse to the idea of getting up. He rocked her shoulder forward and backward, repeating "Samantha" a few times. She didn't respond in any way, but he could tell that she was frowning, a bit, and wanted to stay in bed to relax.

His hand squeezed the woman's arm, "Samantha~... Sam~... Sammy~...", he cooed in a sing-song tone. "It's time to get up, Sam...". His tone was kind and coaxing, but not without a degree of firmness.

She grunted, again, so he continued, "... Sammy-Girl?~... Darling?~... Honey?~... Sweetheart?~... Light of my Life?~...", he rattled off as many terms of endearment as he could think of.

He could tell that she was smiling, now, and that her eyes were opened, but she made no move to emerge from her little cocoon. It seemed she was now fishing for more pet-names.

"It's time to get up, sweetheart...", he said, shaking her shoulder a bit more. She frowned a little and mumbled something unintelligible, not truly thinking of any words to say. He sighed into her head, theatrically, "tsk, oh, fine— I'll praise you a bit more, shall I?", he asked. Her only response was to pout into her pillow, as though to suggest petulance. Mentally, though, he could tell that she was plenty ready to get up, but was dragging her feet out of a somewhat childish desire for theatrics.

If it's theatrics you want, it's theatrics you'll get...

He raised both of his arms into the air, orienting his head upwards, as though to supplant himself before the totem of a god. He sung into her head, "oh, great gorgeous sphinx of Guardian, bless us with your luminous, enchanting beauty, that we might prosper, this day! We beg of you, glorious Samantha! Grace us with your presence, if you will!", as though he were begging the aid of a goddess. He could tell that she was now struggling not to chuckle.

In short order, Samantha got up onto her hands and knees and made a nice show of slowly lifting herself up and letting the blanket fall from her body. She slowly turned around to look at him, a grin and a laugh hiding just beneath her appropriately stony expression.

As though he'd planned it all along, Anteros let the moment hang there for a few seconds, before "glancing" to the left and right, awkwardly, and saying, "I, uh... I would pretend to be blinded and dumbstruck by your beauty, but, uh...", he waved a hand in front of his face.

Samantha snorted and chuckled to herself, holding her face in her hands as she lost all ability to keep up the "act". She sighed, ran her hands through her hair, and smiled at him, remarking, "well, I'm not quite that pretty, anyway, so...".

If Anteros had had the required facial muscles, he would have frowned at her. Because what she'd just said seemed objectively incorrect, to him. From everything he knew of Human attraction-dynamics, she was practically Olympian.

"We'll see about that, if we encounter a Human bloke, at some point", he said. "I think you'd be surprised".

She didn't respond to that, and simply smiled, again, before letting herself fall backward, down the length of the bed— at which point she languidly began stretching and yawning to herself. He didn't need telepathy to know that she was taking immense pleasure in the warmth of the bed. He'd never seen a human wake up after such a long period of sleep, so the sensation of being especially well-rested was a new one to him. Well... the sensation experienced by a Human when they're well-rested was new to him— he'd just had a particularly long nap, himself, after all.

Sam sighed after cracking her neck in both directions, stretching her arms up and out in front of her to pop her fingers and knuckles. "It's been so long since I've had a genuinely good night's sleep", she admitted to herself in an enriched voice that could have been coated in honey, "first time in years that I've been able to just relax in a bed for a while...".

He probably should have pointed out that there was work that needed to be done, but he didn't have the heart to spoil the moment for her. He simply laid himself down, perpendicular to Samantha, and draped his head and neck across her stomach, tucking his arms under his chest and letting his back legs sprawl out behind him— his tail lazily strewn across the floor.

Initially, she twitched at the new weight on her gut, but took in a long breath and closed her eyes. Almost immediately, her hands set about stroking the length of his head, by sheer force of habit. Her nails lightly grazed the shiny carapace of his dome and he was gratified to see that he didn't have to try and be pleased by it— the impulse came naturally this time. A bubbly, pleasant warmth in his stomach and something that felt similar to an itch being scratched, wherever her fingers touched, even though he hadn't been itching, at all. He relaxed, almost feeling himself want to go to sleep, again.

It allowed him to mentally focus on his and her mind— the thoughts and emotions that sprouted up, hung around, and faded away like waves on a beach dropping seashells on the sand, only to draw them back to the ocean's depths at high-tide.

She didn't consciously trace where this habit of hers came from, but he knew that it was derived from similar positions with her dog, Charlie. Given how nice it felt, right now, he could only bring himself to think of how lucky Charlie must have been to get this kind of treatment every day.

And there, the pair stayed for a good, long while. Maybe... thirty minutes? Forty? Neither of them knew— they lost track of time.

---

We are now, officially, in the "Toil Arc" of this story. Or something to that effect— we can talk about a better name, later. But this is effectively the half-way point.