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)

19. Chapter 18: SDPP

Chapter 18: Strength Derived from Pain and Penance

It was now late at "night", aboard the Hunting Ship. Two hours since their meal in the mess-hall, five since they'd departed the planet. And, at this point, Zazin' was beginning to grow tired.

Beginning to. He had no intention of going to sleep, for another few hours, at least. And neither did Hul'Mei, apparently.

The rest of the Hunting Ship's crew were beginning to trickle back aboard. Zazin' didn't care to welcome them, and he wasn't looking forward to the volume and boisterousness that would undoubtedly ensue. Given that quite a few of the people returning had just become Blooded, there would be many a celebration and many drinks to fuel them. The only thing worse than loud people, in his mind, was loud, drunk people. So, he went back to his quarters. Hul'Mei commented that she didn't feel enthusiastic about being a Bright Spear in clear view of hundreds of intoxicated, Dark Blade warriors who'd all just gotten their egos fomented by a recent Hunt, and Zazin' was all too glad to provide a hideaway for her.

So, they locked themselves in Zazin's' room, to wait out the night. She'd discovered the alcoholic beverages hidden in a wall-cabinet of the washroom, and suggested they drink to celebrate her theoretical, somewhat-Blooding.

Zazin' only ever drank to stave off It and sleep, easier. Given that he'd be accompanied by Hul'Mei for more or less the entirety of the duration of their Pact, he couldn't foresee It dredging itself from the depths of his psyche. So, he declined, but told her that she was more than welcome to it.

At which point, she admitted that she had next to no experience with alcohol and had only brought it up in case he would have liked it...

... he liked Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi. She was proving more and more delightfully atypical the more time he spent with her.

Whether he would grant her a night of consummation by the time their Pact ended still remained to be seen. He had to be certain. Beyond the slightest shade of a doubt.

He asked her what she'd like to do, in lieu of drink. Her response was that she wanted to see the Bio-Mask-recording of when he'd killed the Queen. He saw no harm in it, so he went outside his quarters to a nearby console and requested said recordings from the bridge-computers, using a wire to download the footage into his Bio-Mask. He gave the Bio-Mask to Hul'Mei, who quickly put it on, and sat by while she watched his exploits.

The bridge-technicians weren't just responsible for maintaining the ship and piloting it. Part of their job was to sift through each warrior's recordings and edit or shorten them, such that the relevant parts of it could be called up with ease, without having to fast-forward or rewind to find them. They would also "tag" certain segments of recordings with short descriptions, wherever a "good part" was. The technicians had to sculpt the footage in such a manner that the viewer would receive a cohesive and "riveting" retelling of the Hunt, without it being so long as to bore, and without reducing it so much that it became a mere slide-show of killing blows on the prey-animals in question. As such, the recordings Hul'Mei watched were relatively short, given the hours he'd spent on-planet.

At one point, she asked why it had stopped, and he said to play the next recording. What with his previous Bio-Mask having been broken in the fight against the Praetorian.

It shouldn't have taken particularly long, but she must have been replaying the recordings, a lot, because he had enough time to clean all of his Phoenix armor and all of his weapons. Maybe an hour, almost. And she just sat on the bed, atop some Duj'kara hides, cross-legged, just... watching it.

Eventually, he ran out of things to occupy himself with, and just sat in front of her, on the bed, reading reports on his wrist-projector. When he ran out of reports to read... he resorted to playing a small, digital "game" on it.

Even the Yautja find themselves with nothing better to do, sometimes.

When that began to become stale, he considered playing music from the device, but... he didn't know that he wanted to deal with the questions about it, this late at night. The few times that he'd put on Ooman music in the presence of others, their reactions usually ranged from perplexed to disgusted.

He was without entertainment, and Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi was tensely rocking back and forth as she watched the footage being displayed to her by his Bio-Mask. Clearly, any interruption would be unwelcome...

So... he straightened his posture, threw his "sandals" off to the side, pressed his bare heels together, rested a hand on each knee... and closed his eyes. He listened to hum of the ship. The distant, echoing laughs and roars of elation. A war-chant drumming through the metal walls and floors and ceilings. And beyond that... nothing. No wind.
Meditation was a tool imposed on Youngbloods to impress the value of inaction and patience. Sometimes... by simply waiting and listening... one comes across exactly what they need...

Or... that had been the purpose of it, in the past. Zazin' used it to relax himself and pass the time. He found that it gave him... peace, in its absence or lack thereof. Oddly enough, it only ever worked while he was in the presence of other people— if he tried it while he was alone, It would overtake him.

No thinking. No wondering. Simply listening. Becoming hyper-aware of the things around you, and of your place in relation to them. In relation to the universe. The polar opposite of "dissociating", as it were. Blissful yet surreal awareness of everything around and within you. Pleasant detachedness and comfortable inaction.

He didn't know how long he meditated for... but it felt like a while.

... he hadn't felt so at peace in weeks. Maybe months.

What brought it him out of it was the sound of a Bio-Mask being taken off— a pop and a hiss of air. His eyes opened, the rest of him remaining stock-still. Hul'Mei had a... dazed look about her— as though she'd just spent a year in darkness and someone had turned on the lights. She stared at the Bio-Mask in her hands. Her mouth was agape and her mandibles, loose. She blinked. Looked at him.

"You...", she said, absently, "... are terrifying". Despite her words, she looked more surprised than afraid, voice turned breathy in something akin to wonderment. He raised a brow at her.

She abruptly dropped his Bio-Mask on her left side and crept forward, putting her hands on his shoulders and leaning extremely close to his face. She stared into his eyes, her lower mandibles blithely touching his own, "how are you so attractive to me?", she seemed to ask no one in particular, face and voice contorted into wistful dismay. He could see that her pupils had expanded, and arousal-pheromone was heavy on her breath.

Good thing that he'd been meditating deeply for the past... twenty units? The display and the scent did little to him.

He gave her a dry, skeptical look, his right hand discreetly reaching forward to poke his claws into her stomach. The moment they touched her, she recoiled by a nok, breath hitching. She blinked, her pupils beginning to return to normal... but one of her hands gently pushed down his extended one. Her eyes closed, and she frowned to herself for an instant, before whispering to him, "please, just... let me feel this, for a moment...".

He obliged, returning his right hand to his knee. He squinted at her, as though she'd said that plasma tasted of naxa fruit, "is it that good? I've... never quite seen any woman take such a liking to it...". Hul'Mei leaned in, again, her left hand braced on his arm, and her head lowered to his left shoulder, her mandibles tapping against the fabric of his robe— smelling him. He kept still.

At his question, she visibly shuddered, "it is... intoxicating, but... also surreal...", she said, her voice surprisingly in-control, "I had heard of how powerful our hormones can be, but I never imagined the stories were quite so literal. I am... overcome with urges I have never felt, before... I want to...". She retracted from him, a bit, and looked him in the eye, "you are certain we must wait until the end of the expedition?". She seemed saddened at her own question— she already knew the answer.

He decided not to mention that he wasn't yet sure of her as a mate. He also chose not to bring up that their hunt for Weyland-Yutani would likely throw off their time-table. Instead, he said, "we are both held to the words of our Pact". She leaned back, further, leaving his personal space and releasing his shoulders, hands hovering in the air as though she didn't quite know where to put them. Disappointed, but not surprised.

"Admittedly, though...", he added, as his right hand deftly wove its way under her arm, without her notice. His claws slipped under the dominant sash on her torso, leading his hand under it, where it cupped her breast through the leather "bra". At the contact, she froze and went comically wide-eyed, mandibles awkwardly mashing together, and not quite looking at him. He smiled benignly at the funny look she pulled, and said to her, "... you are doing quite well, thus far, to sway my decision in your favor. I don't yet see many faults with you".

The moment he said that, though, her eyes darted to his and took on a decidedly... innocent look? Heartfelt appreciation at his praise. The sight of it made him pause, and the two of them held themselves there for a few moments too long to avoid awkwardness. He suddenly felt very crude— him fondling her chest, while she was giving him such a... plain expression. It was as though she'd killed her first Quatza'rij and was called "daughter" for the first time by an estranged parent. Yet her arousal wasn't at all stymied... it was perturbing.

Did she admire him that much? Was she so surprised at how well she'd acquitted herself?

Perhaps not very confident in herself..., he thought.

Wanting very much to dispel the sudden weirdness, he pointedly looked down, at her chest, and waited for her to notice as much. When she blinked at him, confusedly, and looked down at her chest as though wondering what the fuss was about, he leaned forward to apply pressure. His hand gave a slow, calm squeeze of her breast, taking time to admire the softness and warmth, at which she shook a little and wheezed, pushing her chest forward, her eyes rolling back, languidly. She produced a trill— that clicking, clattering noise from the back of the throat, only made in times of extreme eagerness, focus... or pleasure. Her right arm lowered to her side, and her left hand clasped his extended wrist.

He... seriously considered leaving his hand exactly where it was and continuing — so firm and round! — but he also didn't want to go too far. His hand left her chest, only seeing minor resistance from her grip, and surreptitiously lowered to her stomach. His claws lightly grazed across those somewhat-abused nerves that he probably should have left alone, at this point. The moment she noticed where his hand now was, and looked at him, he gave her a very pointed countenance in return. The moment she saw this, and registered it with a blink, she seemed to instantly revert back to normal— her pupils compressing and the smell of arousal dispersing from the air, seemingly at her will.

He gave her a chance to exhibit self-discipline and she did so, immediately. He smiled at her with something almost approaching pride.

Another good show. Well done...

He retracted himself, and he nodded at her. He could tell that she was halfway between being gladdened by the praise and disappointed that he'd stopped touching her. She ruefully looked down at her own chest, her left hand unabashedly squeezing the organ he'd abandoned, as though it was hurt, "I sincerely hope that we can do more of that, soon...", she commented, smiling at him.

He shrugged, mandibles flicking outward in indifference, "I am not against it...", he said, "though, `foreplay` is not quite the same as learning of one another".

She returned her hands to her lap and tilted her head coyly, "it is not terrible for us to entertain each other, in the meantime, no?".

He pretended to consider her question, before pointing out, "... there are ways to do that that don't tempt us into breaking the Pact". She squinted, curiously, as he said, "and better ways to bond and learn of each other".

"Like what?", she asked, genuinely mystified.

He, in response, reached over his back and grabbed at his own tresses, bound together as they were by the decorative rings, and hoisted them over his shoulder and onto his front as though to show off a captured fish.

He saw her eyes brighten with enthusiasm at the idea, nodding, and he turned around, facing the other way.

With his back turned to her, his four-nok-long cable of scalp-tendrils laid on the bed in front of her. Each compressed together by cog-like rings of bronze— making the assemblage thick enough around, in the hands, to feel like it could be an industrial pipe. It hung from the back of his head as though in summation of tail, tapering to a point at its end with the tips of his tresses.

What he was suggesting, by lending her his plaits, was... not quite something that one would ask a friend for, but also not quite intimate enough to only be done between mates. To an Ooman understanding, he supposed it was similar to a back-rub or massage. Things that the Yautja also engaged in, but were considered to be something only done in exchange for payment.

Each scalp-tendril, the word for them in Yautja being "tabū'kōti" ("tabū'kot" for singular), was a vestigial hold-over from the ancestor-species that came before theirs. The feature was quite a common one on aquatic and semi-aquatic animals, on Yautja Prime, and was used to detect vibrations in water. Hence why the creature that the Yautja had derived from had been a crocodile-esque reptilian that hunted prey in and around lakes and swamps. In the modern day, they were... not quite useless, as they did somewhat aid in proprioception while underwater, and could soften a blow to the back of the neck or head, but... they could often get in the way, as well.

Or, they did for male Yautja— in their ancestor-species, having longer "dreads" was likely a sign of virility in males. In females, then and now, they were short enough not to be much of a hindrance.

Among other things made difficult by such appendages was hygiene. Usually manageable, but the older a male gets, the more laborious a task that washing each, single one of the things becomes. So much so that some Clan Elders pay others to do it for them. Zazin' simply sprayed some soap onto the back of his head and scalp and let water rinse it off— he'd never gotten any complaints.

That he was letting Hul'Mei handle his tabū'koti was more than just a matter of keeping clean, though.

It was theorized that, while the Yautja were a young species, and still lived in small, familial groups, cleaning and scraping each other's tresses was their method of "grooming" and bonding with one another. Picking parasites and mites off, and such. It was long-proven that such a ritual is therapeutic for both involved... and could be pleasurable, given the correct environment.

Each tabū'kot is connected to the very bone of the skull via a ball-and-socket joint, covered up by cartilage and skin. When enraged or especially aroused, each tendril would involuntarily flex upwards, causing the entire mass of the things to flare outwards from the head, not unlike the hood of a "cobra". Another holdover from their genes— they'd lost most of the ability to ambulate and move each tress, but there was still some involuntary muscle-reflex.

Zazin' had to stop himself from shivering, as her hands very slowly began removing the cog-rings from his tabū'koti. If she were too rough, in any way, or if she somehow damaged them, the pain would be excruciating. He couldn't help but remember when she'd yanked on them, yesterday evening. And now, here she was, treating them like they were made of fragile silk. He'd be lying if he said that the drastic difference between then and now didn't heighten his affection for her.

She slid each cog off of the mass of tendrils, placing them... well he couldn't see, but he could get the gist of what she was doing. Probably putting them off to the side. She did this with something almost approaching reverence— extremely careful. Almost too careful, and slow. It made him suspicious, until she spoke, morosely, "I never apologized for yanking on them... did it hurt, much?".

Zazin' turned on his wrist-projector, bringing up that game, again, and said, "you... technically did apologize, actually. And yes, it hurt".

She removed two of the five rings, "well... I don't think I quite meant it, in the moment. So... I am sorry", she said.

"Forgiven", he said, easily, before asking, "what was your plan, by the way? Not in general, I mean. What were you thinking when you grabbed them?", his tone almost humorous.

She removed the third, "I don't think I had a plan in either case...", she said, ruefully— he imagined she shook her head at herself. "I was... simply desperate".

He "hm"ed in acknowledgement. When she removed every ring, his tendrils remained somewhat stuck together by the compression and by natural oils covering each appendage. She gently stuck her claws into the tangle of tendrils and dragged them down its length to separate them. He had to resist sighing at the... freeing sensation.

Next was each decorative bauble and piercing adorning his tresses— over twenty, in all, each signifying one of his achievements. They were stuck onto his tabū'koti by friction and by tiny, pricking barbs that, when initially put in, had hurt quite a bit. Now, wherever a piercing belonged, there was a small hole in the flesh. It didn't truly matter on which tress each one was placed, or how far up or down the length of it they were, so Zazin' had had his "trinkets" affixed to near the end of his tendrils, where they'd be easier to remove and replace, and where there were fewer nerves.

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi deftly removed each one— pulling the barbs from each bauble and painlessly shimmying them from his tresses, going through them fairly quickly.

As she did, he asked, "why did you wish to see that recording, from my Bio-Mask?", briefly looking at her, over his shoulder. "I would have asked, earlier, but apparently I'm `terrifying`", he added, quoting her, focusing once more on his wrist-projector.

She stopped for a moment, possibly trying to remember herself, before continuing her work, "I wanted to get a sense for what it takes to be an Elite... I...". He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, as she was slow to speak, finding her frowning at her work in thought. She eventually looked to him, "I... believe I wish to become as great a Hunter as you...", she said. He blinked, after a few moments, a bit surprised.

Zazin' straightened up, to turn his head more easily, and asked, "any particular reason?".

She seemed to become abashed at his gaze, and focused on her hands as she removed one of the last five remaining piercings, "when I said that I believe women should have to collect Trophies, I... I meant it...". She looked at him from under her brow, "it feels...", she winced, "... it would seem to me that mating with you without first meeting your standard would be... hypocritical of me...", she said. She looked back down at her hands and seemed to become saddened.

He suspected he knew why this made her upset, "that would take many years— decades even", he commented, "... time that you can't afford to spend while your niece is still in trouble". He looked back down to his wrist-projector, knowing that the topic was a sore one.

"I know...", she said, "I... suppose, now, I simply feel ashamed for not having to earn one such as yourself...".

... of all the things he thought he'd hear a female say to him, that was not on the list!

He snorted, "am I truly that exceptional?", he asked, laughingly.

He felt her remove the last of his piercings (it always surprised him how much of a difference that made), and frowned to himself as he felt her move his tresses out of the way and over his right shoulder. She brought herself closer to his back— her legs abruptly appeared on either side of him, framing his own, as he felt her press herself into him. He unknowingly stiffened at the sensation of her breasts pressing against his shoulder blades. Her arms hooked under his own... and hugged him around his waist. He felt her breath on the back of his neck, and he... he didn't know why, but he suddenly became very paranoid. He had no cause to be, as far as he knew, but... something about this... reminded him too much of his blood-sisters and their... bullying of him...

He could feel his heart-rate kick up a few too many notches and his breathing becoming erratic. Then, he heard Hul'Mei speak... and his "panic attack" immediately disappeared as though it had never occurred.

She whispered to him, tone thickened by... he couldn't tell if it was lust or amazement. She said, "I watched those recordings fourteen times, Zazin'. You were... when I said the word `terrifying`, I was not being facetious". He felt her forehead and brow press into his back, "your technique was flawless from top-to-bottom and you slaughtered the Royal Guards as though they were mere Oomans...". He relaxed a bit more, now... and touched one of her hands. "I never understood what hunting Ahgai'Palak demanded, until I did so, today...", she said, her voice becoming an octave deeper, "...and now that I know how easily you can dispatch the best of their species... I can see how much you deserve the Title, `Elite`... and it shames me to know that I won't be made to earn you, as a mate...".

That... was also on the list of things he'd never thought he would hear women say to him... she felt Dishonorable?

He felt her hug him a bit tighter, for a moment... before she abruptly pulled herself away. He felt her turn herself to the side and gently pull his tabū'koti onto her lap. She was still very close to him... just... not as close— her side and shoulder leaning against his back as she began the next part of her work.

I, uh... I have issues about being approached from behind, don't I?, he realized. He frowned, deeply, before nonchalantly asking her, "you realize the entire point of our arrangement is precisely for you to `earn me`, yes?". His tone was jovial, even though he didn't feel jovial.

"I suppose...", she said, sounding dejected, "but... it still feels wrong of me to do so without putting in the work that you did...".

He... didn't know how to respond to that...

For a while, they both fell quiet. She worked on his plaits, in earnest, now. Picking out one tress at a time, she gently scratched around the base of it, probing for any scabs or blemishes, with her claws, and picking them off. After that, she would gently twist the tendril between her thumb and forefinger, all the way down its length, as though to feel for abnormalities in the texture of an iron rod. In the wake of her fingers: tiny, deadened urtication-hairs and small flakes of necrotized surface-skin were shed from the tendril. She would repeat this process thrice in a row on a single tendril, before wiping away the debris from her thighs, and doing it all again on another. Zazin' found himself unable to focus on his wrist-projector, and turned it off, leaning himself back and lowering his chin. He relaxed as pleasant, tingling sensations were sent through each tress and directly into the back of his head— like a thousand itches being scratched, at once. He sighed.

She's really good at this...

For a very long time, the pair were hypnotized, utterly, by the process— him in pleasant sensation, and her in content satisfaction. Twice, she left him a moment to wash her hands, but apart from that, this was proving to be quite the therapy-treatment for them.

The second time she'd washed her hands in the washroom, just as she came back to him, he suddenly asked, and for no particular reason that he could cite, "do you think that, if it weren't for my Trophies and accolades, you would still find me desirable?". He already knew the answer, but he was interested to hear her response.

She didn't answer for a long moment, "I would guess that the physical attraction would still be there... but I suppose most of it would be gone, if I were ignorant of your skill and achievements...", she said, honestly, a bit sad at the idea.

"Is there anything about me that you find pleasing apart from my achievements?", he asked, sportingly, "perhaps things that might have endeared you to me, in lieu of Trophy-count?". Her answer to the question wouldn't exactly sway his opinion of her, he was simply curious if she could think of anything.

She stopped working for about half a unit, as she thought on his query, before she finally spoke, "you are... you are wise, and capable of sharing that wisdom, without coming across as arrogant". She idly rubbed at the tendril in her hand, in apparent thought, "you are far more prone to laughter and jokes than most, without overdoing it...".

She went silent and still for a long enough that he almost thought of speaking up, just as she said, "and... you have made me experience new things. New challenges. New feelings and urges... and you somehow take me through these things in such a way that... I am not afraid... I should be afraid of these things— I always was before meeting you, but... there is something about your manner that makes me... braver than I am...". She said this last point in a tone that was somehow equal parts lustful and heartfelt. How in Paya's name she'd managed to convey both of those in equal measure, he had no clue... but he did deeply appreciate the sentiment, given that he hadn't been expecting much by way of response.

He, before having much chance to process her words, then felt her lick at the tabū'kot in her hands... and he almost shuddered at the abrupt warmth and... slickness. "You make me very brave...", she said, much more on the sultry side, now, "... case in point, that—", she halted herself... and suddenly coughed, loudly, sputtering, as though she'd tasted something foul. "Ach!— I shouldn't have done that...", she said to herself, voice made raspy, "... should have cleaned it, first".

He suddenly chortled to himself at her antics, surprising himself. She only chuckled by way of acknowledgement, before saying, matter-of-factly, "you, Zazin-Vor'mekta... are certainly no ordinary man. I've not met many, mind you, but... I simply get the sense that you are... rare... valuable...". She wiped away the dust on her legs, "I dare say... I am glad to know you, Zazin'. And eager to have you, when and if the time comes...", she finished, tone becoming a bit shier near the end.

He nodded to himself, "I can't say that I don't think of it, myself...". He then added, "I could train you to Hunt and fight better, if you would like? Perhaps to begin to meet my standard, as you say?".

"Would we have time for that?", she asked.

He canted his head from side to side, "most of our time spent hunting Weilahnd-Yootahnee will be taken up by travel, given how widespread they are. I see no reason we could not train in a kehrite, as we do so...".

She paused, having finished on the tendril in her hand, and said, "... I think I would like that, very much, Zazin'". He felt her mandibles grasp around his tabū'kot, hugging it close to her jaws, where she gently (very gently!) bit into it, and... he groaned a bit too loudly. At the sound of approval and the sight of his shoulders hunching, she gave a playful laugh, releasing the tress from her maw and starting her work on another.

"You are...", he said, shaking his head, "you are too good at this". Better than Vo'grat-Guan, now that he thought of it.

"I aim to please", she said, lightly, with a laugh, "my mother may have been an Honorless witch, but at the very least, she was a decent teacher...". Things such as this "grooming" were usually taught to females upon reaching adolescence, by their mothers. Given how Hul'Mei's mother had apparently pestered her about having children, he could guess that properly pleasing a male in this manner would have been a point of great importance.

He decided not to ask who her mother had made her practice on, and realized that he wasn't sure how much older she was beyond physical maturity, and asked her, "how old are you, by the way?".

"One-hundred-seventeen", she said, a bit confused. His brow raised at that.

"And... you've never mated, before?", he asked, only doing so to point out the oddity of it, in spite of him already knowing the answer. Mostly.

She stopped her work, "how did you?—", she stopped herself. She seemed to think to herself for a few moments— he guessed because she was remembering that she'd made it fairly obvious, throughout their interactions, before she said, "well, no... my focus was always on my adopted niece. What gave me away?". She finished with a tress, giving it a nibble, as before, and earning another groan from him.

"Among other things...", he said, admitting, "the `line` you used when you first spoke to me was somewhat amateurish, as propositions go".

A pause... before she conceded, sheepishly, "I... can see the truth in that... I don't know what in Cetanu's name I was thinking...". She suddenly asked, seeming to realize, "do you get propositioned by women, often?".

"Mm— too often...", he admitted, distastefully.

He heard her tone become a bit cold as she said, "you must have many mates, then...".

He thought on how to respond to that for a long moment, considering how she might react to the truth of the matter, and said, "two". She stopped her work, and he glanced at her over his shoulder to find her looking a bit surprised, "I have had two mates— Vo'grat-Guan being the second". He watched her as she confusedly glared at the furs she sat on, apparently finding that fact perplexing. A man of his age and standing only having had two previous relationships was an oddity, he would grant, so he simply gauged her reaction to it.

First she was confused— suspicious even. Then doubtful— second-guessing her own judgement, before reaffirming it with a shake of her head, as though to assure herself that she wasn't crazy. Some more moments of contemplation, eyes squinted and mandibles twisting in their sockets. Then... she seemed to become ambivalent to it— even somewhat pleased with herself, and she looked at him with a smile, dryly declaring, "I must be in esteemed company, then!".

He resisted the urge to wince at the irony of that comment, and simply said, "you are well on your way, yes", and turned back around. Her treatment on his plaits continued— she was actually almost done, at this point.

"Will...", she started to ask, timidly, "does mating hurt?".

"As a rule, yes", he said, honestly, shrugging, "uncomfortably so. But... it is the sort of pain that motivates. And after that, comes... well, it depends, but in my experience, the pain is always followed by... fifteen... twenty units of euphoria? It is taxing, to be certain, especially for the first time, but... mostly enjoyable, after two or three rounds".

She went quiet for quite a while, after that, finishing the second-to-last tress.

"I... are there ways to mitigate the pain?", she eventually asked.

He shrugged, "a few. Though... I am likely making it sound worse than it is".

"What is the euphoria like?", she asked.

"Indescribable", he said, no hesitation, whatsoever. "It... sunders the body and shatters the mind... it does not stop until the male is drained... and only then does the Binding release its grip", he said, voice becoming distant, even as he chose his words very deliberately. "The man thinks he has been tapped dry, but without fail, he finds himself more than ready to do it, again, two units later. And on each consecutive mating, it becomes less and less painful... until there is only bliss...". He wasn't surprised to smell arousal-pheromone by the time he'd finished his description...

He added, "I can have Vo'grat-Guan describe to you how it would feel on your end, if you are curious...". Just as he finished saying that, she gingerly gathered together all of his tabū'koti and draped them over his right shoulder, onto his front, as though to show off her finished work. He reached up a hand to feel them, and indeed, they were much shinier than before, and were now smooth and oily to the touch, and... he felt so much more relaxed, now...

Another point in her favor...

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi pulled herself close to him, once again, pressing herself into his back, and hugging his waist. This time... he did not experience any... shadow-pain... and instead, he leaned into her, enjoying the warmth and contact. She rested her chin on his left shoulder, whispering to him in a deepened, wanton voice, "I think I should very much like to speak to Vo'grat-Guan, in that case...".

He rubbed at her thighs, what with them framing his own, crossed legs, and pointed out to her, as though surveying crop-yield statistics, "you are very easily excited...". At this, she giggled (which was... surreal to hear, from a grown woman), and her mandible's tusks tapped and scraped the back of his neck.

"Apparently so!", she replied, almost drunkenly, before a deep, thrumming purr vibrated in her chest and into his back. A mating-thrum. A stimulating jolt shot through his innards at the sound of it...

Dear Cetanu, that's attractive...

Each thrum from every female was unique. Hul'Mei's began very small, and almost quiet enough to go unheard, but then quickly built into a resounding, loud, and galvanizing roar of vibration, before going quiet, again. Each peak of volume made very specific organs in his body tense up— buck against his self-control, and every low silence caused him to crave hearing the next height, again. She produced this sound, singing it to his ears and applying its rumbling pressure to his body by way of grinding her own against his, seemingly without strain, and kept doing so with no intent to stop. While it wore at his resolve, and drove his mind into the gutter... he allowed it in order to become more accustomed, and because he wanted to see if she would have the discipline to reign herself in...

There was also the fact that a very prominent part of his soul reliably remained stalwart— utterly focused on retaining his Honor, and not about to let himself lose it by breaking the Pact...

It was also the same part of him that still didn't trust Hul'Mei, and that still seethed in agony and spite, even with countless decades having passed since that old wound had healed over. A wound, if grievous enough, will find a way to scar you... and perhaps aid you, if you come to terms with it...

So, even as he closed his eyes and allowed her to "sing", he remained absolutely still. Even as his own arousal became deafening to his mind, and her claws drew droplets of blood from his chest in her zeal, he made no reply to her song, in deed or words. And even as the scent of her readiness permeated his sinuses and made his blood assault the walls of his veins with its speed, he never felt the compulsion to turn around and loose himself upon her. Even as he temporarily forgot his own name, forgot what Vo'grat-Guan looked like, and forgot about It... he never lost sight of himself or his wounds...

Not yet, he told himself, over and over, again, not yet.

Part of her, he knew, was aware that this was a tantamount breach of their Pact. Part of her knew that, if he wanted it, he could choose to take this blatant courting display as an infraction of the terms of their agreement, and discard her. But he also knew that she was simply not in control, at the moment. That this was a mere lapse in mental vigilance, and that she would end up feeling worse about it than he would. He knew that by "outpacing" her at her own "game", by enduring the course of her thrum in its entirety, instead of up-ending the situation and making a battle of it: she would come to realize the blunder on her own, and she would be made stronger for having been denied the satisfaction her body craved.

So, eventually, the longer he rode out the "storm", the less enthusiastic her mating-thrum became. As units wore on, her movements became less lively, and her song became less vibrant... until it was reduced to a fraction of its former power— quieted and tamed. The mating-thrum was a very taxing thing to produce, after all, and it left her exhausted.

As her thrum finally died out... Zazin' smiled...

He... had won. Through resolve unflinching, and spite unrelenting, and pain insurmountable, he had endured the storm, rose above it, and forced it into silence without speaking a word or moving a muscle.

I am who I am, and no one else, I wish to be; despite my pain, and despite my trials; all that I own, all that I have, and all that I know; never to be lost, and never to be forsaken, he thought, repeating it thrice-over in every corner of his mind... an old Yautja poem. One that could only rhyme when spoken in Yautja, mind you, but... there you go.

Neither of them moved. She still hugged at him from behind, though loosely, now, and without a sound or twitch. Absolute stillness settled around them, and complete silence haunted the room, punctuated by an occasional roar or belt of laughs from elsewhere on the vessel. He did not open his eyes, and did not move, whatsoever. Tension made the air turn thick with anticipation... and regret.

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi abruptly extricated herself from him, cutting short the overwhelming peace, crawling backwards, away from his unmoving back— almost as though touching him burned her. He felt and sensed her shift on the bed, just behind him. He waited, breathing deeply to dispel his residual lust.

Without a word, he opened his eyes, and got up, turning himself around and kneeling, upright. He found her kneeling, herself, though bent over at the waist and hands on her knees, not looking at him.

"I...", she eventually croaked, in obvious pain, "I have broken the Pact...". She seemed to shake her head at herself, whispering, "I have Dishonored you...", in a voice that bordered on silent. He heard it well enough, though.

He calmly "walked" forward on his knees, across the bed of furs and skins, and stopped close enough to her that he could reach over her and touch the furs just behind her backside. His proximity seemed to make her shrink in on herself, her mandibles touching the bed. "I am sorry...", she said, shakily, "please... don't cast me out, yet...".

She has an odd fixation with abandonment..., he noted, struggling not to laugh at the notion of kicking her out over something so petty.

He reached down, gripping her shoulder with his fingers, and lifted her up. She obliged his guidance, though when made to hold herself upright, she still hunched over and kept her eyes on the bed beneath her knees. Taking a cue from his studies of Ooman behavior, he reached with both hands to grasp the back of her neck. She flinched violently at the movement... but when his hands only held her, gently, she looked up at him. Fear, confusion, and overbearing regret rife in her face.

Her pupils were still fluctuating in size to and from both extremes. The mating-thrum, being as costly to produce as it was, had some adverse effects when the call to breed went unanswered. Nothing that could not be solved with some sleep and food, though the fact that she was, in a way, hurt by this somewhat bit into his conscience.

He knew that she felt as though she'd just made a colossal failing, and that she had jeopardized her entire future. She felt entirely to-blame for having, apparently, broken the Pact. To see that she was taking The Supplicant's Last Resort this seriously, even in the wake of losing control, as she did, filled him with... an unexpected amount of pride, for her.

Zazin-Vor'mekta smiled at her, as though all was right as rain, "you have broken nothing", he said, with a shrug, releasing her.

Her mouth dropped in shock, mandibles going slack, before she looked about herself, hands coming to her head, "but... I tempted you. I...", her breathing became ragged, "... I initiated a rut— showed contempt for our agreement...", she looked at him, desperate, confused, not knowing what to say. "I... I failed...", she said, arms held out as though to plea for agreement.

Zazin' shook his head at her, still smiling, and dryly pointed out, "we did not mate".

She blinked, and stared at him for at least a unit, trying to process how what she'd done hadn't constituted failure... before she slumped back on her heels, going limp. "I...", she said, shaking her head at the ground, hands gripping the sides of her skull. "I couldn't stop myself... and yet you remained strong", she glanced at him, before covering her eyes, and saying, angrily, "... I am not worthy to be your mate! I... I am ashamed!". Ah... so it wasn't just the loss of Honor, but also that she felt she wasn't measuring up...

Without warning, Hul'Mei found herself being pulled, by her wrists, into a hug. She tried to shrink away from it, but the recent exertion had left her normally-respectable strength sapped, and she was embraced around the shoulders. She kept still for a full unit, refusing to be comforted... and eventually returned his hug, full-force... a long whine peeling from her throat. Zazin' met it with his own soothing purr, rubbing her back, until the cries stopped.

"How do you forgive, so easily?", she asked, calmer, now, but shaken, "why are you not ashamed of me?".

"Because you have nothing to be ashamed of, and have done nothing for me to be ashamed of...", he said, chin on her shoulder, "I could have stopped you before it started. I didn't because I had faith that all would be well, and that you would stop yourself long before it ever became problematic...".

"You have much more faith in my abilities than I do, then...", she said, with a rueful laugh, shaking her head, "... I... I feel ashamed at myself for not showing the control that you do".

He chuckled, "Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi of Devoted Hearth, you are two centuries and six decades my junior. So, I ask that you trust me when I say that a woman your age cannot be rightly expected to have any more than control than you've already exhibited". He added, "in fact... you have more self-control than a lot of centennial females... and besides, as I said, I could have halted you, and I didn't, partly because I believe you needed this experience".

She didn't respond for a few moments... before she tentatively asked him, "did... did I... did I do it well, then, at least?".

He pulled away from the embrace and blinked at her, believing he'd misheard the question, "pardon?".

She glanced left and right, "my, erm... my mating-thrum, was it... was it good— would it have worked?", she asked, not sure of herself.

A beat passed...

And Zazin' promptly began laughing his head off! Mandibles, wide; eyes squeezed shut; and tabū'koti flaring outwards— no effort, whatsoever, to contain it. All of that— all of that melodrama and angst worked through, and her first question — straight out of the gate — was: "did I do it right?"! After all of that tense, deliberative effort and stoicism on his part, and after she had thought herself dishonored and destitute: the end to all of it... was that?!

You really can't make this shit up, with her, can you?!, he thought, lapsing into English and winding himself up even more.

To Zazin', it felt so damn good to just laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. So he did! His laughter completely drowned out any noise from outside his quarters, and he even had to lean on Hul'Mei for support, just to stop himself from going limp. After a while, he felt as though his head was going to explode, and his chest began to ache with the effort of laughing for so long. And even still, it was quite a while before his chortling finally ceased— a stupid, moronic grin stuck to his mandibles.

He sighed, loudly, placing a hand on the woman's shoulder, as she gormlessly stared at him, a bit concerned, "Oh, Paya... I apologize— I don't mean to laugh at you, but—", he chuckled, then sighed, again, "I, uh... I think I needed a good laugh". He rubbed at his forehead with a palm, tiredly, and released her shoulder.

"But...", she said, wringing her hands together, anxiously, and leaning toward him, as though afraid someone would hear. She suddenly grabbed at his hands and held them, moving closer to him, "in all seriousness, was my thrum... adequate?". She seemed genuinely concerned, and the sight of her pupils still expanding and contracting inconsistently made him rethink himself.

He smiled at her, "of course, it was", with a nod.

She scanned his face, her right hand releasing his left and clasping his right hand with both, "you are certain? I... I've never tried it, before— they don't exactly teach us how to practice it, on my homeworld, and—".

"Hul'Mei!", he interrupted. She froze. "I would not lie to you... if I hadn't endured, just now, it would have worked, perfectly", he assured her. "It was... beautiful", he admitted, somewhat awkwardly.

She stared at him... looked down at his hand, held aloft by the wrist in both of hers. Her eyes blinked at it a few times. She then dropped her left hand, intertwined the fingers of her right with his, and squeezed it, closing her eyes for a few moments... and reopening them to reveal her pupils returning to normal. She seemed to reach a new Zen.

"Thank you", she said, smiling at him. She leaned forward, tipping her head to press her forehead to his, which he returned. Their lower mandibles hooked their tusks together, made easy by hers being much longer than normal.

The notion of a "kiss", among Yautja, would be called, frankly, "moronic"... but that didn't mean they didn't have a few equivalents to it, such as this.

Soon after, he gave her some privacy to work off the side-effects of an "unsuccessful" mating-thrum. They remained awake some time longer, as the rest of the Hunting Ship crew began to retire to bed. Eventually, the pair undressed and went to sleep, as well...

---

Eleven hours, later...

Day One-Hundred Ninety-Two of Infestation — August 29th, 2182 A.D, Earth Standard Time

He hadn't slept very much, that night— maybe two or three hours. He'd spent the majority of the time awake simply scanning for incoming threats, monitoring Samantha's mind and body, and thinking on the day before— the advent of non-Human aliens and the apparent death-nell of the Hive. He remained still, embracing her, despite the boredom and stiffness it brought. With her body heat being absorbed by his frame and trapped by the blanket over them, the temperature quickly rose to a relatively high strata. At one point, he had to throw the blanket off of them, simply to allow her to cool down— she'd began to stir as she slept, from overheating.

The Hive-Mind maintained its paranoid aura throughout the night, becoming worse with every hour. Though... as morning came (he simply had an innate sense for whatever time of day it was), he began to sense something else from the Hive-Mind. It was... he couldn't quite tell one way or the other, but it was almost as though the entire "web" was disappearing. Slowly fading out of existence, becoming smaller and smaller. Large "chunks" of the telepathic fabric just... blinking out of existence, and leaving the edges of the "hole" frayed and worn— more fragile. This would have been a massive cause for concern, if he were still part of the Hive, but... instead of feeling any sense of impending doom, as he had when Mother died, he felt... building excitement?

Why "excitement", though?! That can't be right...

He found that odd for mainly one reason: these instincts were all from the Ancestral. Why it was suddenly so active, despite his fugitive status, and why it felt invested in the Hive, again, completely eluded him. But there was... he didn't know why, but he felt the compulsion to return to the Hive— to find the Queen. As though there was a Queen to begin with, or as if he would benefit from doing so, despite the Ancestral being well-aware that returning to the Hive was a death-sentence...

No..., he suddenly thought to himself, as he studied the state of his instincts and his urges. That was... that wasn't correct. He wouldn't be endangered by returning to Hive— not anymore. How he knew this, he wasn't certain, but... it felt like that was the case...

And no... there isn't a Queen... but there will be one, soon?...

Mother had been a female Worker, or "Drone", before molting into a Praetorian, then into a Queen. He knew as much from what she'd told him, but... he was suddenly reminded of an old question he'd never gotten the answer to. "If any female can molt into a Queen, why don't they?". Mother hadn't had much of an answer for him, at any rate— she simply told him: "so long as I live, no daughter of mine shall rise to oppose me". At the time, he'd taken that to be mere bluster and arrogance— it wasn't the first time that Mother had exhibited unearned confidence in the face of hypothetical notions. But now, as he thought of the Hive-Mind seemingly dissolving itself, and his newfound urge to return to his Hive-Mates... he wondered if Mother had meant her words literally...

"So long as I live", she'd said... does that mean a new Queen is rising? But even if there is, why is the Hive-Mind shredding itself to pieces— why isn't that alarming, to me? Why do I feel the need to seek out the new "Mother"?

It was these quandaries that kept him from boredom, as he stayed by Samantha's side. Eventually, though, he could come to no clear answer, and discarded the issue, for the time being.

As Samantha began to first rouse from sleep, and making its gradual steps back to consciousness... she began to toss and turn. Her snores became interrupted by groans and whimpers— blurbs of distressed gibberish and whispers of "no". As the stirring only increased, he found himself having to release her and back away to avoid hurting her— such was the extent that she thrashed and spasmed. He sat on his haunches, near to her...

She's having a nightmare... a bad one...

He knew not to try and restrain her— Hosts who'd gone through seizures and similar fits of this sort often found themselves with sprained joints and torn muscles from thrashing in spite of the Hive Resin constricting them. He had to simply sit by and wait...

Her heartbeat was far too fast to be healthy, and the winking lights of her brain-activity became staccato and... violent, in their pace and direction...

There was nothing he could do to help, that he knew of, so... he waited. Even as the sight of her in distress made him and the Unknown chafe at the lack of options.

Eventually, Samantha's fit ended quietly, without much fanfare, and she woke up. He'd long-since removed the quilt, leaving her lying on her back, spread-eagle. When her eyes opened, she froze and stared off into space— her thoughts were confused and disorganized. She scanned what of the room she could see in a daze— she didn't quite remember how she'd gotten here. Didn't remember the past three days, in fact. Much worse loss-of-recollection than yesterday morning... and before she could remember, her head turned to the right, and she saw him.

The instant her gaze registered his form, she screamed and jolted, scrambling and ending up falling off the side of the bed in a tumble.

... it, uh... it hurt him, to see such a reaction... even knowing that she was addled by a nightmare, and couldn't help it, it... all too adequately reminded him exactly what he was. And though he found the term a bit trite, he could not find much, in himself, to dispute that he was a "monster". Only monsters get this sort of reaction from people...

Evidently, though, the fall caused her to quickly re-remember all that had happened, and she immediately scrambled to her feet, somewhat drunkenly swaying in the process, and looked at him, again. She stared as though she wasn't sure that he was real— she glanced at the entire captain's quarters, even, as though it was all an illusion and she was trying to find the sorcerer responsible for it.

He could sense that her mind was struggling to interpret any of what was around her — the ship, the bed, him, the safeness — as reality. It was as though the nightmare she'd just been ejected from seemed more real to her than what was currently before her eyes. Over and over, again, her mind shouted the phrase "it's too good to be true"— or something like it, that doubt and the fear of hope consuming every other notion. She was afraid that everything positive she had had all been a dream... because the nightmare had seemed all too realistic...

Anteros spoke, not wanting to bare hearing it, any longer, "it's all real, Samantha...".

Her thoughts ceased, utterly, and her gaze fixated on him, solely. Hearing his voice halted her mind, completely, from its ravings.

He dipped his head down, a moment, and he raised a hand to his chest, "I'm real. I'm your friend...". He said it as though he wasn't certain of it, himself... and for some stupid, nonsensical reason, he wasn't sure, at that instant. Friends don't give each other panic-attacks at mere sight...

When she heard that, registered it, she blinked, rubbed at her face, violently, with both hands, stared at him again... and immediately climbed onto the bed and approached him. He remained as he was, sitting on his haunches, as she wordlessly hugged him around the shoulders... her face pressed into the crook of his neck to hide a sudden welling of silent tears. She breathed shakily, already having a massive headache, and simply held him, still trying to gather her bearings... but at least convinced that he was, indeed, real... and not a monster.

Somewhat...

"You had a nightmare...", he told her, keeping himself still, at all costs, "a bad one, by the looks of it. I'm sorry I scared you".

At this, and the entirely-welcome sound of his voice, her mind flooded with no small amount of relief and reassurance— she sighed into the softer folds of his neck, desperately willing her own tears to cease, and for the sudden, mental stress to fuck off. She really didn't want to start crying, even as resisting it made her guts churn and her chest hurt... even as she didn't know why she didn't want to.

"Everything is good. Everything is okay" became the mantra of the morning, for her, as she reminded herself of that, aloud and in her head, to the point of obsession. She released him and crawled backwards, sitting up against the headboard and hugging her knees, trying to remind herself to breathe deeply. She didn't quite look at him, for a while...

He heavily detested seeing her like this... but when he got to his feet to try and help, in some way, her eyes fixed onto him with a cautious look, mantra ceasing— her mind, seeing him move, sent a slew of alarm-bells ringing through her subconscious. He stopped... held himself still, again. After a moment or two of staring at him, she blinked and realized, again, that he was Anteros... but he could see her mind and memory make a conscious effort at trying to recall the things about Anteros that made him good— that made him safe, and real, and reliable... and she kept blanking, over and over, even as she tried repeatedly to remember the good things about him.

She was trying and failing to remember why he was her friend...

Anteros couldn't take this, anymore. He abruptly turned about, leapt off of the bed, onto the ceiling, and crawled into the open vent with a loud hiss. Seeing him run away, so quickly, and hearing the loud clanging of metal drum through the ship's structure must have jump-started her mind, because she immediately called out to him— begging him to wait... but he didn't bother.

He stopped in a small, box-shaped alcove, where many vents merged together... he impotently stamped around, clawing at the metal, not knowing what to do with his body...

His fingers tore into the fragile sheet-metal around him— snarled and hissed. Frustration and hate consumed his mind. He roared — screamed — cried as loud as his lungs could accommodate— the mourning call finding its way to every corner of the vessel...

He hated this! He hated the way she'd looked at him— the way so many had, in the Egg Chambers! He hated that he could nothing to help— that the slightest movement from him would only arouse further alarm! That no matter how calm she looked, he would always be able to smell the fear and stress and distrust from her! That even now, after all they'd been through, said to, and done for each other, she still had cause to be afraid of him! However irrational, however unsubstantiated, she was afraid! And it hurt him... more than he thought it could...

His hands tore into the metal, ripping off a sheet of the stuff, and he threw it around— crushing it, ripping it apart, throwing it, again. His howls and screeches wouldn't stop coming— wouldn't stop tearing from his maw, even as it hurt his throat.

Anteros hated himself. He hated the way he looked— hated that merely seeing him could cause so much grief and terror. And now, he couldn't stop thinking of all of those people he'd watched suffer and die— the people he'd killed. A man kneeling at the corpse of his best friend and begging— crying for forgiveness and salvation from a god that never answered. Somehow convinced that this fate of his was some form of damnation.

A mother weeping as she tried to tell her five-year-old daughter everything would be fine, even as a Newborn punched through the child's sternum— compassion stunted by horror. A young man, wailing into the darkness and screaming for help, only to be silenced by a Parasite— fear and violation. A man screaming in a hatred and grief: unable to do a thing as his wife is torn apart and ripped limb from limb; he wishes desperately for the power to slay these demons and protect what he loves, even as he is ran through with a blade of deepest black— loss and defeat. A young child... abandoned by his parents... left to hide in a closet... shaking, crying, worrying, hoping he wouldn't be found by the "big bug-spiders"— innocence torn away, in the gravest of terror.

All of these things, countless multitudes and variations of them, he had witnessed, and none of them he could do a single thing about. And even when he tried not to cause these horrors, they happened anyway— all around him, every day; never hindered by his inaction! He couldn't run away from it, couldn't stop it, couldn't stand it— only endure and remember. Desperately trying to remember every person— every face, even as the sheer amount of it strained his recall.

And eventually... when he was exhausted and deprived of distraction... all he was left with, when all was said and done, were faces and screams. His was a life surrounded, eternally, by fear and dead people.

Anteros hated himself. He hated the way he looked...

And he hated that Samantha had to be on the receiving end of it...

He couldn't blame her. She was right to be afraid of him— perfectly justified in not trusting him, evenif it were just because of a bad dream. He should have just let her run away— he should have just found a way off of Guardian without involving her in his idiocy! Better yet...

He... he should have just ran head-first into the sentry-gun blockade around the territory— poked his head out into the light of day for a sniper and been a nice, easy target, for once... he should have ended it, a long, long time ago...

Everything about him and of him was hatred and fear, made flesh— everything the Ancestral represented was a legacy of horror and pain that he wore on his sleeve, forever, no matter what. No matter how good a joke he told, he could never laugh; no matter how sorrowful a tale he spun, he could never cry. And no matter how much he wanted to play the part of a person... he could never change the fact that he wasn't one. He was built to be a monster. And monsters are meant to be slain.

In a world of black and white, anyone who tries to stop something truly evil is a hero...

And he hadn't "stopped" a Goddamned thing— despite living in it every second of every day of his life...

---

Samantha had tried finding him and calling to him. She even tried to climb into a vent, but ran into a dead-end. After an hour, long after his howls had ceased, she... accepted that Anteros simply didn't want to be found. She felt really bad... and she kept worrying that she'd seriously hurt his feelings. So... she went to the kitchen and got breakfast ready for him— heated steak and a bowl of water. She... didn't feel hungry, so... she sort of just paced around the MRE closets, worrying and waiting for him to show up.

God, I feel like such a massive bitch... I promised him that I trusted him, yesterday— I said that he was worth putting up with! I didn't think it would actually take any effort to put up him with him, but still, I told him this wouldn't happen! God— why did I just stare at him, like that?! What the Hell is wrong with me?! He doesn't deserve that kind of treatment! I fucking hate nightmares! Why am only having one, now, when throughout the Infestation, I was fine?! Why did it... why did I lose the plot, so badly?

Another hour passed, and there was no sign of him. She eventually went to check the laundry room and brought the cleaned clothes to the captain's quarters.

She took stock of everything in the kitchen, again, though didn't truly internalize it— she just did it to spend time. She broke open an MRE and ate her breakfast— more-so stress-eating than out of hunger. She reheated the steak, when it got cold. She brought some of the instruction manuals down to the kitchen to read as she waited for him. She hoped he hadn't left the ship...

She hoped he wasn't angry with her...

Anteros didn't announce himself when he came to her— trying to occupy herself with the manual, she didn't realize he'd even entered the room until he suddenly hopped up onto the counter-top. The moment she saw him, sitting on the opposite side of the marble table, she immediately got up off of her chair and rushed around the island to get closer to him. Secretly pleased with herself that she didn't panic at his sudden entrance, Samantha stopped in her tracks, halfway around one end of the island, when she saw that he was distancing himself from her— creeping further onto the counter-top to stay out of her reach.

Samantha, not realizing how stressed she was, and becoming irrationally angry at his evasiveness, shouted at him, "come here!", in a tone that bordered on harsh. For an instant, she was shocked at herself for the outburst, but then quickly registered how worried he was making her— how much she didn't like this behavior from him. She stood where she was, hand on the counter-top, and holding back angry tears.

Anteros seemed to freeze, on the spot, and hunched over, a bit... before slowly stalking his way to the end of the island— head hanging low and tail dragging the entire way. She was too focused on addressing the issue to wonder if this was in submissiveness or shame. When he reached her, his hands gripping the edge of the marble, she reached for him with open arms... only for her to step back in a wounded manner, when he recoiled out of her reach. Like a stray cat that didn't want to be cornered.

She finally lost it, tears flowing unbidden, and stamped her foot, impotently, begging him, "Anteros, please! Come here! I don't like this— this isn't you!", her voice torn between anguish and anger.

Anteros remained still... though he seemed to shrink in on himself, and she heard the smallest of whining growls from him.

She took a step backwards and dropped to her knees, holding out her arms to him, begging, "please, just come here...".

Anteros waited a moment... before he obligingly slinked off of the island and trudged toward her. The moment he stopped and sat on his haunches, she threw herself forward and hugged him with the force of a kidnapped child reuniting with a parent. She wept, quietly, into his neck... and Anteros eventually hugged her, back.

His head hung over her shoulder as he crouched on the floor, arms around her waist. She adjusted herself to a sitting position, not daring to let go of him for even a moment. She felt his tail coil itself around her hips, thrice over, and decided it meant he appreciated the effort to drag him into her affection. For five minutes, they simply held each other. Once the tears stopped, Samantha rested her chin on his shoulder and sighed through her nose, rubbing his leathery back with both hands. She felt his tail lap around her waist for a fourth time, and tighten around her, in response.

Peace, regained. Reconciliation, now...

"I'm sorry for shouting at you, Anteros...", she said, croaking, "are you alright?".

He didn't respond for a bit, "I should be asking you that question. You're the one who had a nightmare". His tone was abnormally neutral, and it disturbed her— he was usually very emotive when he talked.

She shook her head, "that doesn't matter, right now. Why are you upset?".

He audibly exhaled and made a long, quiet hiss, "it's nothing, Sam".

She winced and hugged him tighter, "Anteros, it's okay if you're angry with me. I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have done that, to you", she said.

"I'm not angry with you, Samantha...", he said, now sounding very tired and sullen, "I just... I got a bit sad, that's all...".

She frowned, her grip on him tightening ever further, as though she were scared he'd run away as she contradicted him, "it sounded like a lot more than `a bit`, Anteros...". The howls and wails, echoing through every room of the ship, she realized, had scared and worried her to the point of mania. She'd simply ran on auto-pilot while trying to get to him, only to go stir crazy...

He didn't respond for a long time, but eventually moved, easily flexing out of her grip, displacing her arms from his shoulders. His hands gently cupped either side of her neck, fingers interlocking across her nape, thumbs framing her jaw and collar bones, and he pressed his forehead to hers. She closed her eyes, leaning into the contact, and idly clutched at his elbows.

"What's wrong, Anteros?", she whispered. "Please, just... tell me what I did wrong...".

She felt his grip around her neck stiffen by the slightest degree, as he told her, "it wasn't your fault, Samantha. You couldn't have helped it... it's just a... I just... reacted poorly, and I'm sorry if that scared you. In hindsight, I probably should have just kept a lid on it, honestly...".

Her eyes opened, focusing onto his chin in lieu of eyes, and she reached her hands to his neck to hold it the way he held hers. She pleaded, dismayed, voice cracking, "but what's wrong, Anteros? I've never seen you act like that, before. Please! I'm worried about you... I hate seeing you upset...". She genuinely did— she always hated upsetting people, and doubly for those she cared for. Especially when it was her fault, and until he told her what was wrong, she would have to assume it was her fault...

Idio-Galvanists do not run from responsibility.

Anteros's maw opened, releasing a quiet, drawn-out hiss. She didn't flinch at it, despite how it brought back bad memories. She only moved her hands up to stroke his jaw, in reaction, imagining it was his way to express hesitance.

He didn't answer her for a while— holding himself still. She patiently waited, stroking his head and chin, mentally wishing for transparency from him.

Eventually, he deigned to respond, "Samantha... I hate what I am. I hate where I come from and how I came to be... I hate everything to do with the Hive and with my species... I've always hated it...", he told her. "When you... looked at me like that— when you forgot how and why you came to trust me, since we met... it reminded me of everything I hate about myself. It reminded me of what I am... and I...".

From his throat came a croaking, pained growl— it reminded her of a distressed cat, "I'm not Human. But I keep pretending to be, because I can't stand being the alternative... and I keep failing at it...", he said. "It... seems like I have to accept that I'll always be a monster— if not in deed, then in reputation... it saddens me, Samantha... and I don't know to fix it".

The only time she'd ever heard him sound this downtrodden was when he told her about his revelations in the Egg Chambers. His voice wasn't small like yesterday, when he'd thrown a tiff over "biting" her— angsty and submissive. It was simply a voice that carried utter despair on its tone... and as she heard it, she was overcome with the very feeling of hopelessness that he meant to convey to her. The feeling of a hollow, emptying lack of options, in a situation that desperately warranted solution.

Knowing that the flames around you will destroy your home, but having no fire extinguisher to put them out, and not willing to use your own hands to beat back the flames.

Anteros lowered his hands to the floor, leaving her neck uncomfortably bare. Samantha got the sense that he did so knowing what her next compulsion would be, and he was right.

She leaned to the side and pulled him into a hug, kissing the side of his dome, and stroking his head and back. She thought of what to say to him— what might help, but didn't know if anything could. At least, though, he was talking to her— at least he was emoting and telling her about the problem. She knew, now, that a lack of expression and forthrightness indicated a serious issue, from him. That he was willing to meet her halfway told her that the problem could at least be addressed— perhaps, later fixed.

She held herself close to him, chin on his shoulder, and asked him, "is, um... is this a new problem? Or is it something that's come back from before?".

Anteros's tail tightened its grip around her hips, and he hugged her around the waist, replying, "it is... it's a new spin on an old problem...".

She allowed herself a small smile— he was open to hashing it out. "Is it worse, now, than before?", she asked.

"Yes...", he said.

"Is it worse because I'm here, or because it has something to do with me?", she asked.

He didn't respond for a bit, but eventually said, "I think it feels worse because... you are the first Human being that I've been able to make a connection with that won't be cut short. You understand me... and because meeting you and making you understand me was something I've always wanted, in some form or another, I suppose it just... hurt more when you looked at me the way every Human ever has...". Anteros chuffed, tone becoming more sober, now, "I suppose seeing the work we put into this... bond be undone, even for a moment, just... makes me feel powerless— makes me feel like no matter what I do, I'll always be feared and hated for what I am. Even by the woman I've come to confide in... and admire".

She felt his arms pull her into him, lovingly squeezing her into his frame, as he nuzzled the side of her head. She laughed a bit, and smiled at the affection, blushing slightly at his regard of her, asking him, seriously, "Anteros, you know that you could never do anything to make me hate you, right?".

"I know...", he agreed.

She kissed his head, again, "this is just a hiccup, okay! I promised I would help you with this kind of thing, and I will, yeah? I'm not about to throw away what we have over a little nightmare...", she said.

"I know you won't...", he said. His hands moved up her back and held her shoulders, squeezing them, and he asked her, "what was it?".

She frowned, "hm?".

"What was the nightmare about?", he asked.

She shook her head, "that doesn't matter, anymore—".

"It matters to me", he asserted. "I want to know why...".

Samantha sighed, and buried her face in his neck, thinking. After a moment, she pulled away from him, saying, "come on— I'll... I'll tell you while we eat...". Anteros released his grip, though as she got up and moved around the counter-top, his tail remained tethered around her hips. Her left hand idly clutched at it as though it were a loose belt, as she put the steak she'd gotten out for him back into the microwave. Once it was heated up, again, she put the plate on the floor, just next to the stool she'd been sitting on before he arrived.

Samantha retook her seat upon the stool, leaning on the marble, and no longer paying him direct attention— only staring off into space, as she recalled what her nightmare had shown her. The minute, little squashing and tearing noises at her feet offered little distraction, and she absently asked him, "you wanna hear all of it, or just the relevant parts?".

"Whatever you feel matters", was his response, "though... I can hear your every thought, so... I'll probably see about ninety-five-percent of it, by the time you've finished, anyway".

Samantha snorted to herself with a rueful smile. She then rubbed her eyes and began, "well... the nightmare was about us— or... something to do with us. Not much of it made any sense, but the parts that I remember clearly, all involve you".

"I didn't think dreams could involve specific people...", he remarked.

She shrugged, "sometimes, they do. Anyway, I um... I think a lot of it was just a... really bizarre retelling of everything we went through in real life, just after we met— except with a... really weird sexual overtone?", she grimaced to herself, shaking her head. "And not just us pretending to flirt, but rather like there was something... lurid about all of it. It was... very surreal, honestly, and... I'd really like to just forget about it. It was like the... the drug-induced fever-dream of a sexually-frustrated teenager with a psychotic streak and a fixation on... mouth-parts...", she said, wincing and nervously scratching at the back of her neck. She almost blushed at the knowledge that he could likely now see the more... classless and unsubtly lewd portions of the nightmare, as she recalled them.

"Not so cheerful about `fucking like rabbits`, then, huh?", he pointed out, more than a little sarcastic.

Samantha snorted to herself a bit too loudly, barely containing a very silly giggle, and hid her face in her hands, despite the fact that Anteros was on the floor, behind her. Talking to him often felt as though he were everywhere in the room, at once. She ran her hands through her hair, and sighed, ruefully, "oh, boy... I probably shouldn't have said that— that would not look good on a transcript!". She laughed and shook her head at herself.

"In that case... a bit unfortunate that I'm pretty much a walking tape-recorder", he remarked.

She made a show of making a toothy grimace, hissing and then groaning, as though she'd witnessed something extremely painful happen to someone. She broke the theatrics with a short chuckle, admitting, "yeah... guess I just have to live with it".

Anteros brought them back on track, "evidently. But... I sense that none of this is the worst of it... nor is any of this the reason we're talking about it, now".

Her good humor dissolved, noticeably, and she agreed, "yeah... I... guess I'm just stalling...". She took a deep breath, and straightened up. Gathered the resolve to tackle the source of the problem.

"Near the end of the nightmare, you and I were making our way to this hangar...", she said, gesturing around herself with a hand to indicate the hangar that the shuttle sat in. "I... guess we were looking for a way off-planet, like we are right now, but the dream didn't really... `establish` that, beforehand?", she shrugged and frowned to herself at the oddness of it. She shook her head, "so, we walked to the hangar without incident, broke down the door, and got inside". Her expression saddened, immensely, "but, when we did, instead of finding this ship, all that we found, here, was a... literal mountain of Xeno Eggs...".

She didn't notice that Anteros had already finished his steak and had moved on to drinking the water, and kept talking, "when I tried to run away, because of course I would... you — or, the nightmare-version of you — stopped me. Grabbed me and kept me from moving— started dragging me toward the Eggs. You, uh...". Her tone became somber and distant, as she confessed, "you told me that I was an idiot for trusting you. You said that everything you told me had been a lie, and that it was all just a ploy to lure me into an Egg Chamber. I struggled, screamed, tried to get away, but my body wouldn't respond— it... felt like my bones turned to lead. And while an Egg hatched, nearby, you, uh...".

She stopped, closed her eyes, and frowned. She rubbed at her eyes, palming her forehead. She took a deep breath, and just about managed to keep her voice from cracking, "you... strangled me and... ripped out my tongue with your inner-mouth-thing... you said to my face that you hated me and that... and... I woke up, just before the Facehugger pounced...".

She knew that he knew that she had been about to say: "you told me that you killed my dog", and she also knew that he knew that she knew she couldn't lie to him about it. She just... couldn't quite bring herself to say the words. In a way, it relieved her that she didn't have to, in order to be understood...

Samantha slumped on the stool, curling in on herself. She felt... shame and... didn't really want to talk about it, anymore. Luckily, Anteros understood that, and did the talking for her.

Anteros's face popped into view, on her right, as he leaned over her from behind. His chin hovered just above her right shoulder, and her hand idly drifted upward to touch his jaw. She heard him suggest, "so, when you woke up... you took the nightmare on its `word`, so to speak. You accepted that it had shown you reality...".

"Yeah...", she croakily whispered, still staring into space, scratching a finger on his chin.

"Because it seemed more realistic to you than our real-life circumstances...", he said.

She nodded to herself, sadly, "I guess I just... always expect the worst from everything, nowadays...". She glanced around at their surroundings, "all of this— everything we have... it feels too good to be true, I guess". After a beat, she abruptly smiled and looked at him, reaching her hand up to clasp the top of his head, "you're too good to be true...".

Anteros wrapped his arms around her shoulders and gave her a hug in response, making her laugh. She pulled his head down, his chin being pressed into her collar-bone, and she happily nuzzled into his neck, her other hand idly rubbing the tail-blade currently held flat against her abdomen.

"You know I'd never do anything to hurt you, Samantha, right?", he asked, seriously. "The thought of being anything like that nightmare disgusts me...".

"I know", she said. "It's just that... part of me doesn't know that. A very small part, but it's there. Just like a small part of you probably wants to rip my head off— but, hey!", she joked, with a giggle and a shrug, "we wouldn't be here if we didn't plan on ignoring those little voices, would we?".

"No...", he replied, "I suppose we wouldn't...".

---

One hour, later...

Anteros... felt a bit better, now.

Samantha had a way of... imposing calmness, on him, he thought. Something about being around her— interacting with her and listening to the beautiful music of her mind just... made everything feel okay. With some time to think on it, now, he was... less suicidal.

He, uh... he still carried a hint of that self-loathing on his back— it tore at him, and had always done so, but... he felt that he could reliably ignore it, again. He had things to do— things to keep himself occupied with. And as long as he had Samantha, he didn't plan on throwing himself off the mortal coil. Doing that would only hurt her, immeasurably. Besides... he still had to figure out where the Unknown had come from... and from where his evident connection with Samantha had arisen...

Perhaps if he cracked the case on those mysteries, he'd find some peace with his existence... maybe a point to all of it. And if not... he'd simply have to make one— for her sake.

For the first time in his life, he had something good to look forward to enjoying, and something to lose. The adjustment from a previous lack of those things would likely take him some time— it was entirely possible that he was still acclimatizing to the change of paradigm. Every other good thing in his life would have been torn away from him, by now. Lapsing into self-hatred, as he had this morning, may be a symptom, of some sort. Just something else to deal with— to overcome.

And Hell... he'd probably get bored of hating his own existence, if he did it for long enough...

After they'd taken stock of the food he'd gathered, yesterday, Samantha concluded that they would need two more loads of a size similar to the one he'd already brought in. So, he'd left, once more, to go and do so— now knowing the quickest route to and from the locations he had to visit.

Currently, he was loading packages of meat into the last of a pile of plastic bags— stood in the middle of the aisle of a large supermarket. The place was powered by some emergency generators to keep everything refrigerated, and so the lighting high above his head only kicked on when it sensed movement. He'd been confused to find that they were already on when he arrived, but a Human survivor of the Infestation immediately rushed out of the store and ran swiftly away from him, carrying cardboard boxes of indiscernible foodstuffs. He... couldn't exactly vocalize without telepathy beyond hisses and roars, so he just ignored the straggler and set about his task.

The thought of trying to catch the person and bring them to the ship occurred to him... but there were too many variables to contend with, when weighing the pros and cons of such a prospect. What if they didn't want to leave the planet? What if they and Samantha didn't get along? What if the additional mouth to feed couldn't be tolerated?

Anteros, for a moment, felt that by not pursuing the person, he was condemning them to an uncertain fate, but... he also really didn't want to spoil his and Samantha's chances of escape. A tad odd that he was entirely willing to let someone potentially get shafted if it served the ends of himself and his Human. Maybe in attaching himself to Samantha, so fervently, his empathy for other Humans had waned? In any regard, he didn't truly dwell on leaving the survivor to their own devices, for very long. In truth, he felt more guilty about the fact that he didn't feel much guilt, than he did about his inaction.

It... somewhat bothered him that his mood and headspace was flip-flopping so much, today. First suicidal self-hatred, and now not-too-bothered about the potential death of an innocent? Perhaps another part of the paradigm-shift... perhaps simply a product of the last four day's stresses.

He... felt as though he couldn't think straight, and he discarded any attempt to figure himself out, for now. All he chose to think of was the task at hand, and how to most efficiently go about it. He didn't want to think, too much, right now... he'd have plenty of time to think once they left Guardian.

Anteros finished loading up the bag with packages and was about to pick all of them up for the trip back to hangar... but the sound of a very large, very close-by explosion made him pause. The entire superstructure shook with the force of it, and the sound was enough to make his world go blurry for a moment, or two. He even dropped to all-fours, with the entire floor shaking the way it was. He had to dig his claws into the linoleum to keep from slipping! The lights flickered once, twice, then cut out, completely, submerging the entire market in darkness.

From above, the sound of a very loud, high-pitched engine made itself known through the supermarket's pipework ceiling. The explosion, itself, was enough to make his heart-rate peak, but that sound... it was a dropship. A Colonial Marine dropship...

Before he had time to think through his options, another explosion, smaller but unmuffled, sundered through the air— it came from the other end of the supermarket! As the pressure-wave of the blast rolled through the massive room, and passed over him, he knew that he could only hide if he moved, now. They'd blown a hole through the roof of the superstructure and into this place— likely to set up a staging area. They probably knew that this abandoned store was ideally-sized for an "FOB" and were sending in a squad to set up shop.

That meant they were here to stay... and that meant he couldn't leave the place with his cargo.

Anteros leapt up and forwards, perching atop the shelving. He crouched low, gathering the strength in his legs, and launched himself straight upward. His mass slammed into the exposed, metal vent ten feet below the ceiling, thirty-five feet above the ground, and he dug his claws into the surface, letting the skin of his palms and toes adhere to it. He crab-walked onto the vent's top, allowing its silhouette to hide his own, and sat still— absolutely still.

As he took up his hiding spot, he scanned around himself. About eighty feet away, a sizable hole had been punched through the ceiling, creating a decent-sized spotlight of yellow radiance, sending charred pipes and bent sheet metal all over the ground surrounding what would have been the "check-out" area. As he watched the point of intrusion, his echolocation caught slivers of vertical movement, flitting downwards from the hole— cables, he realized. For soldiers to rappel in, on. The distant, buzzing drone of the dropship told him it was hovering above the superstructure, and air-dropping its personnel.

Anteros slowly "army-crawled" along the vent, toward the site of entry. He waited for sign of movement, and needn't wait long. Through the ceiling, he sensed electrics- non-biological, yet still moving. Synthetics— seven of them.

The constructs dropped into the room, carrying deployable floodlights and motion-trackers in their hands– dormant Sentry Guns strapped to their backs. Typical procedure— send in the replaceable work-horses to scout ahead with the preliminary equipment.

The synthetics, looking to be identical, bald, nondescript, heavily-muscled men dressed in what looked to be hospital-scrubs, immediately turned on their motion-tackers. Simultaneously, their left eyes produced long, powerful beams of light, and they began to sweep the area around them, swathing at the dark gloom with their skull-embedded flashlights. Anteros, by impulse, held completely still, listening to the consistent, muted "thunk" sounds of the motion-trackers as intently as the androids were. Beyond the groans and creaking of metal and the buzz of the dropship's engines, all was silent and still— punctuated by arcs of light being thrown in every which direction, and especially across the ceiling.

A suffocating burn rose in the back of his skull, and it was only his fear of being caught that stopped him from throwing himself at the walking computers and tearing them into off-white shreds of wire and plastic. He resolved to simply wait and listen and watch— any hint that he was in the area would only provoke the arrival of more soldiers. The Colonial Marines did not run from danger— they only tackled it from a different vector when faced with a roadblock. If he attacked, now, the retaliation would be completely unpredictable.

He wasn't sure that attacking anything, right now, was a good idea, anyway! He simply didn't have the time to think...

The synthetics, upon watching and waiting for hostile movement for at least three minutes, began moving the debris from their entrance out of the way and off to the side— tossing most of it at the glass, automatic doors of the exit. They started setting up their floodlights— tall, tripod-supported apparatuses that were promptly hooked up to a mobile generator they'd brought with them. A good chunk of the supermarket was elucidated by the devices— set up in an outward-facing ring from the spotlight of the hole in the ceiling.

As the synthetics began to sweep the massive room for entryways and exits, his electroreception caught wind of Humans, dropping in with the hanging cables— three soldiers at a time. They wordlessly took firing positions around the spotlight, kneeling and scanning, waiting for the rest of their group. In short order, six more Marines entered the room, and once they were all gathered together, they awaited a signal from the synthetics.

Anteros had to hold himself entirely still, hiding atop the not-very-wide vent, for fifteen straight minutes, as the constructs went about their work. They looked for any point of entry into the supermarket and planted a Sentry Gun at each once that they found. And given that the room was easily three hundred feet long, and a third as wide, their work took quite a while.

A very tense, very nerve-wracking while. It was all he could do to keep himself still, and the present threat only served to make his maw drool. The Ancestral was going fucking berserk and the effort to stay undetected made his every limb ache with the desire to move.

Why, in the name of everything a man can hold holy, did Marines have to show up here?! Why at this moment— exactly when it was entirely inconvenient for him?! This situation could only be any worse if they all suddenly knew he was there and started shooting at him!

Why does everything have to be a fucking ordeal, today?!, he resented. He tried to make himself see the silver-lining, in this, but couldn't. He would not be able to grab and move the bags of meat while these soldiers were around— if he tried, he'd get shot to pieces, if not on his way out, then by the Sentry Guns guarding every exit. He couldn't remove the Sentry Guns without the Marines or synthetics noticing, and if they noticed it, they would go to extreme lengths to route him out and kill him— he'd seen squads of Marines call in airstrikes for something as manageable as a single blip on their motion-trackers.

Marines do not take chances and they do not leave anything to fate— the moment they catch the slightest shadow of evidence clueing them in on his presence, here, avoiding them would be almost impossible. There weren't any other vents or exits large enough to feasibly drag many several large bags through. He would not leave behind his quarry.

So... his only option was to sit and wait, and even that seemed ridiculous. Best-case-scenario: he sat up there for, at minimum, maybe several hours and waited for the Marines to move on. That was not very likely, in his experience— this looked to be the beginnings of a large-scale invasion into Hive Territory. Soon, there would be several more squads arriving, here, and once multiple squads were present, this place would be the site of a prolonged siege. He'd seen Forward-Operating-Bases, like this, last days before being overrun or retreating.

Anteros didn't have days.

He would have to find a way to get his quarry out of the area without alerting these soldiers or their much-more-vigilant synthetics.

Anteros... didn't know how he was going to do that.