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)

20. Chapter 19: A Predator's Game

Chapter 19: A Predator's Game

They were relaxed, now. With the perimeter secured, and their every flank being surveyed by a Sentry Gun, the soldiers felt free to ingest the pill of chill and lounge about. All nine of them sat or lay in the golden circle of sunlight being shone onto them by their point of entry. Even as they allowed themselves respite, they still faced outward— lazily sweeping in all directions from their small, little sanctuary of yellow radiance with their shoulder-mounted flashlights. Despite the presence of tripod floodlights flooding the entire market in harsh, white scrutiny, the soldiers still kept watch from their "camp", out of old habit.

Some would occasionally get up and sweep through some of the supermarket's aisles in search of left-behind food, but they mostly stayed put underneath the hole from whence they came. The seven synthetics, having been used as best as was required, were now uniformly "inactive"— all scrunched into awkward-looking fetal-positions and sat next to each other, the lot of them positioned in a tight "pod" some meters away from the Marines. Combat Androids were built to be expendable, with expendable parts, and thus had much shorter life-expectancies. Meaning that their power-cores lasted barely ten-percent as long as that of a "civilian" Android's. When not in use: they had to be deactivated to save "battery".

The Marines relaxed and chatted, idly, about recent promotions of their fellows and griping about ration-shortages. Some perched themselves on top of the two inactive checkout counters that happened to be within their golden circle, but the rest sat haphazardly strewn along the circle's circumference. A portable generator, what they referred to as a "Power-Node", sat in the middle of the circle's four meter diameter as it powered the floodlights.

And high above their heads, ten meters upward and seven meters north-by-northwest, watching them from his perch atop a ventilation duct, was Anteros. It had been half an hour since the dropship had flown away, and now that none of the Marine's motion-trackers were turned on, he was free to move. Slowly, quietly, but he could move. He'd spent his time patrolling and scanning around the supermarket's ceiling-mounted pipework to try and see if there was any viable path out, but to no avail. He could see no way out that wouldn't get him shot at in the process of moving those bags. A good thing that none of the Marines had gone near the frozen-goods section, or he might have had to have gotten involved— couldn't have his prize being stolen or tampered with.

Anteros was wracking his brain trying to figure out a way to escape, but nothing came to mind, and the longer he went without coming up with anything, the more frustrated he became. He couldn't afford to wait, and he couldn't afford to try anything risky. He couldn't leave without those bags, but the only usable exits were too small to transport the bags through. Ferrying the bags one-at-a-time through a vent would not be viable, and disabling a Sentry Gun to create an exit would only attract the attention of the Marines— at which point: he'd be shot at, and more Marines would be called in.

The longer this continued, the more that fighting his way out seemed to be the only option. In any other circumstance, Anteros may have been overtaken by melancholy and the desire to avoid feeding his urges. However... when he considered that thought, he was nonplussed to find that the Ancestral was not-at-all forthe idea. It only wanted to escape and run back to the Hive— to the Queen, or to the soon-to-be Queen, or whatever the Hell it thought there was to find. When the synthetics had first dropped in, it had been calling for blood, but now that Anteros was literally outnumbered sixteen-to-one, it had no desire to run in, guns-blazing.

That burn in the back of his head fizzled out like water on a hot sidewalk. He... couldn't recall any instance of it doing that, before, and it surprised him to see that his instinctual drives were capable of recognizing when he was out-numbered and likely to be killed if something kicked off. He'd never been faced with a situation where he was outnumbered by Marines with no Hive-Mates nearby, so he supposed it only made sense that the Ancestral would become especially skittish at the new reversal.

At first, this didn't mean anything to him, but as he focused on that feeling of gutlessness and fear being imposed onto him by his instincts, something occurred to him. If he got in a fight with these Marines, right now... then his instincts would probably be telling him to run... and if they were telling him to run, then they wouldn't be urging him to fight. Which meant he wouldn't be overcome with the desire to rend and mutilate. Or, at least, not very much...

It somewhat came to mind that he might be able to keep himself in control if a fight started. Perhaps his fear would give him grounding, of some sort. He'd always managed to keep himself of sound mind in battles with Marines, before, but now that he was entirely alone and completely outnumbered, he wasn't sure that that would remain the case. Unlike before, he'd be forced to actually hurt them, to some extent, rather than distract and avoid them. He... didn't know how his mental state would fare in a situation like this...

Anteros's lips peeled back and allowed himself the smallest of hisses, his fingers ever-so-slightly compressing the thin metal under his hands as they tensed.

Why was he okay with this?! Why, was he suddenly okay with possibly injuring these soldiers, just to get them out of his way?! They'd done nothing to Samantha, there was no chance that they could do anything to Samantha, so why was he fine with the idea of hurting them?! It was somewhat excusable when Samantha got shot, but even that was a stretch as far morality went! These people are just in his way, and as annoying as he found it, he had no real reason to hurt them!

Yet... the idea of possibly injuring or... killing them gave him no pause! He was more disturbed at how little he was disturbed at the idea, than the idea itself!

Why?!

Is... is this what tribalism feels like? "I've got nothing against you, personally, but I also don't want you screwing me over, so have at it"? Is that... is that okay? Humans do it to each other, all the time, apparently, and I do have a job to do— if I can't get this payload back to our ship as soon as possible, and do it again at least once, today: we might lose our chance to leave Guardian. They're stopping me from doing that and from assuring our survival. They're in my way... if they weren't, I'd have nothing to do with them, but... "wrong place, wrong time"?

Anteros unknowingly snarled to himself, tail lashing about in the air behind him.

But they're still people, dammit! They don't deserve broken bones or ruptured organs any more than Sam does! I shouldn't be ambivalent to hurting them, but I am! Why? Because I have someone to protect and provide for? Because I'm trying to secure my future?! So are they, for fuck's sake! I can't just go back on everything I've ever stood for and just shrug my shoulders and say: "welp, too bad. Luck of the draw, kiddos— wish I could help you, but Mister Anteros has a lady-friend to see to! I shan't keep her waiting!". I shouldn't be okay with hurting these people just because it's the quickest solution to the problem...

Anteros abruptly reeled up and smacked his face into the metal beneath him, in frustration, making a small dent in it.

But it really is the quickest solution, here! They wouldn't have set up five Sentry Guns at the entrances to this place, and laid about like this, if they weren't setting up a permanent camp! They won't be leaving, anytime soon, and chances are, more will arrive in a matter of hours! And if a full Platoon, or two, shows up, any chance I have of getting the meat to the hangar bay will be gone! There's no way out, and no way around... except through them, as quickly as possible...

Anteros whined from the back of throat, body going limp astride the vent and face laying on the inside of the thing. He chuffed, tail hanging from his perch a good length. He tried, over and over, to give himself reasons why fighting these Marines would be a bad idea, but... something in him just wasn't up for the effort of it. He couldn't come up with anything... and that only made him feel worse about himself!

What the Hell is wrong with me? I have a panic-attack, this morning, and can't stop calling myself a monster, I had enough "patriotism" to lament Lich's passing, yesterday, I'm fine with letting a survivor run off into an unknown, foreboding future, and now I can't give myself a reason not to seriously injure several people? Who's side am I on, for goodness's sake?! What the Hell are my priorities?! Why is this all so bloody complicated?!

Perhaps he was more Human than he gave himself credit for...

Is it fine as long as it's for a good cause? Will I be a hypocrite for unabashedly committing violence just because I happen to have something tangible to lose? Is it all okay as long as I know that it's wrong, even if it feels right? Am I in the right just because I'm at a disadvantage? Just because I have no choice, and because they can't be aware of my dilemma? Is it as simple as having a lack of alternatives?

Anteros had no answers to these questions... and he couldn't find any other solution. So, he pulled himself together... and tried to focus on how to best go about this— maybe he could find some kind of high-road to take... in the process of potentially causing several people serious bodily harm...

So... this is what those famous, uncomfortable shades of gray are like...

Anteros... didn't know what to do with himself. He didn't have the time to sift through his own, idiosyncratic nuances, at the moment, anyway. He knew what he had to do... and he knew why he had to do it. He would just have to hope that "I had no choice" would hold water in a courtroom. Not that he thought he'd ever end up in one, but... that was the standard he felt was most fair.

Besides... what he most feared and most cared for was Samantha's verdict. He knew that she'd probably exonerate him of blame, if he properly explained what exactly happened, but that wasn't quite what he was focused on. Maybe if he just told her about it whenever he did something wrong... maybe it would clear his conscience, a bit. Make things easier.

In any case, he had a job to do. And he'd have plenty of time to ruminate and brood once they left Guardian.

If he had to fight... perhaps he could do so without seriously hurting any of the Marines. He didn't care for the synthetics— he could rip and tear through those things with no remorse. If anything, the idea that something non-living could be animate or sapient... really disturbed him, for some reason. It just... made his guts churn unpleasantly. For him, the sight and concept of "Androids" was just plain perturbing. Deeply unsettling in a very... nauseating way. They made him want to cringe and find some small, dark alcove to hide— which made tearing them to shreds whenever he encountered them almost satisfying.

So, he could tear the synthetics apart, no problem, and if he kept a level-head, he might be able to simply incapacitate the Marines just long enough for him to grab his quarry and get out. Though... if he left them all debilitated, like that, they'd be helpless at the hands of any Xenomorphs that happened to show up. Perhaps he could simply knock them all out? Humans, especially the tougher ones, usually woke back up after two or seven minutes after getting a decent knock to the head. If he could give all of these soldiers a well-deserved nap at around the same time, it was possible that he could then grab his quarry, move it out of the area, quickly grab a second payload of meat, and leave one load in a safe place for him to come back to, later...

But in order to manage that, he'd have to kill off all of the synthetics, first. He couldn't do that while they were piled up, right next to the Marines. And he couldn't engage the Marines with all of them in one spot, in the open. He'd have to disable at least one Sentry Gun to open up a viable exit, anyway, too...

He would have to think about this, come up with a plan... but he felt that he was getting somewhere...

And in any case... there was something about this group of Marines that seemed... odd to him.

Anteros, in order to appear loyal to the Hive, had often spent his time examining the Colonial Marine ranking structure and modus operandi. He didn't feel too bad about sharing such secrets with Mother, as she never really made lucrative use of it, but it had proven a very fascinating thing to learn about.

The Marines below him were clearly one half of a Platoon— a Section, made up of two Squads. Typically, there would be one Corporal and Lance Corporal per Squad, as well as two Privates, or Private First Classes— one of them always being the designated Smartgunner. A Smartgun for every group of four. When two Squads of a Platoon are deployed as a Section, there is always a Sergeant to lead the whole group, and possibly a driver for an APC (usually another Corporal), where applicable.

This Section, however, seemed to be atypically equipped. None of them had Smartguns— only a Pulse Rifle and a Service Pistol for each person. One person, who seemed to be separated from the rest, had a Pump-Shotgun and a Submachine-Gun, both adorning his belt, which... was a loadout Anteros had never seen any Marine carry. Given that this same man seemed to be fiddling with a hand-held radio of some sort, one with a screen and dial on it, Anteros guessed that that was the Sergeant.

As far as Anteros could tell, there was rarely more than two "civilian" synthetics per Platoon, and these Combat Androids were rarely seen except on expeditions into the Hive Territory. Why this Section had been assigned seven of the things was a complete phenomenon... and Anteros was suddenly very curious.

Anteros slowly began to crawl along the vent, making his way toward the Sergeant's position. He clambered across onto other pipes, vents, and iron struts that formed the veritable jungle-gym of this supermarket's ceiling. The Sergeant was sitting atop the conveyor belt of a checkout counter, just about halfway between his subordinate Marine's circle and the pod of inactive Androids— the long line of checkout counters at the store's front seeming to draw a line between the groups. Anteros crawled and climbed until he was right above the Sergeant's head— the pod of Androids being behind and below him, and the golden circle just ahead; the supermarket's main exit, with smashed windows and inactive revolving-doors on his left.

Anteros perched himself atop a thick, smooth pipe. Thinking for a moment, he coiled his tail around the cylindrical railing, braced his feet, and allowed himself to fall forward, ending up hanging from the pipe by his tail and ankles, allowing gravity to stretch him tall— as close as possible to the Marine below him without being noticed.

Perhaps he would learn what exactly these Marines were doing, here, if he could tap into the Sergeant's thoughts...

---

Meanwhile, on the Hunting Ship...

2,576th Year After the Filial Schism (AFS), 53rd Day of Evening's Solace

"How did you do it?".

"I posed as bait for the creature for three days by lying on the sand and playing dead, and when it finally came close, I stabbed it".

"Truly?".

"No".

"How did you do it, then?".

"With skill and determination".

"... well, I'd imagine so, yes, but how did you do it?".

"The correct way".

"What is the `correct way`?"

"The way that doesn't get you killed".

"So... it doesn't matter as long as you don't die?".

"In summation...".

A pause. "So, how did you do it?".

Zazin-Vor'mekta shook his head at himself, holding his brow, holding back a chuckle by sighing. He gave Hul'Mei a dry countenance, at which she gave no reaction, and only continued to intently stare at him from across their table.

After waking up, and helping him re-adorn his tabū'koti-piercings, Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi had began asking an exhaustive sequence of questions. Where he'd been born, how his parents had trained him, what Titles he had, what weapons he used in his Chiva, had he ever hunted a Gro'Tye, and so on. Until now, he'd answered every inquiry, until she'd asked how he'd hunted and skinned the Vy'Drach.

In order to qualify as a Spear-Master, one must hunt, kill, and skin a Vy'Drach in the sweltering deserts of Yautja Prime (or a suitably perilous place where Vy'Drachs had already been implanted) using nothing but a Combi-Stick. Vy'Drachs, being large, flying creatures, where very difficult to engage without ranged weapons, which was the point. Once you skinned the animal, the hide would then be used to craft the outer layers of your own, personal set of Phoenix Armor, which would serve as your "certificate" of Spear-Master status.

The only issue was... Zazin' had hunted and skinned at least twelve Vy'Drachs over the years (Phoenix Amor wasn't impervious and did require repair), and had done it in different ways, each time. At this point, he couldn't quite remember how the first hunt had went, much less how he'd done it.

He decided to simply tell her how he'd hunted the last one. He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, shrugging, "I ventured near its nest and touched one of its eggs, at which point it dive-bombed me and impaled itself on my Combi-Stick".

Hul'Mei squinted and tilted her head to the side, "I didn't know that Vy'Drachs constructed nests".

Zazin' gestured with a hand, "well... I say `nest`, but they more-so just pile up sand and mud into a mound and bury their eggs in it— I had to partially destroy the thing in order to provoke the mother into attacking". He added, "I was ordered to repair the nest once the creature was skinned".

Hul'Mei thought to herself for a long moment, nibbling on a root vegetable, mandibles tapping together, repeatedly. Sensing a reprieve from the questions, Zazin' fed a naxa fruit into his mandible's tusks. Foregoing proper table-etiquette for the moment, he let his hands drop and allowed his mandibles to hold the food to his jaws— the way that Yautja were "meant" to eat things, before social stigma labeled it as "improper". He never quite understood the value of petty quibbles such as dictating the exact manner in which people should eat, but you wouldn't catch him dead eating the "natural" way in front of an Ancient. The Dark Blade Clan's High Enclave would give him a proper lashing if he made the Clan look bad.

Hul'Mei seemed too preoccupied with her thoughts to mind, in any case, and for a while, simply ate and squinted at her surroundings. Zazin' merely watched her, his mandibles deftly turning the naxa fruit this way and that as he took bites at it. She seemed very troubled, now, and had appeared somewhat urgent when she'd been questioning him. He'd told her the grand majority of the truth, throughout, so he didn't see that anything had to be done about her reaction. Half of her questions, though, were things he'd assumed she already would have asked Vo'grat-Guan. If she'd asked these questions before she'd met him, would they have met in the first place, he wondered, if this was the result?

He decided to ask, "on what path are these questions, this morning?".

Hul'Mei seemed a bit surprised at the sudden inquiry, and thought to herself a moment, apparently weighing the truth of the matter. She looked at her own hand and answered, "I suppose my mind is on our timetable". She thoughtfully rested an elbow on the table and held a scrap of meat up to her jaws as she said, "if I am to train under you, I thought that focusing on a particular few weapons would expedite the process". She looked at him, shrugging, "I don't know what weapons Paya chose for me at my inception, so... I'm trying to get a sense of it by asking you of yours...".

Zazin' nodded in understanding, and thought to himself a moment. He could guess that Hul'Mei had never quite felt the call of any particular technique or martial art— the tools chosen for her by Paya. Her thinking was sound as far as wanting to focus on what would truly work for her, but one does not simply discover their Mortal Dogma by sitting at a table and talking about it. The thing you are born to do is always found by simply doing it.

He looked at her and said, "not a poor way of thinking of it, but asking someone of their Hunt-Method is no way to find your own", waving a hand. She gave a grimace of defeat and hunched over, so he added, "the best way is to start from the ground-up, and determine your innate foundation...".

"How?", she asked, "through sparring?".

"To begin with, yes", he answered, nodding...

He suddenly got an idea, and smiled. He got up from his chair and gestured to her, "to the kehrite, then. We shall start, now".

Her eyes went wide after she blinked and shook her head.

---

Anteros... was immensely intrigued and somewhat perturbed, to say the least...

Listening in on the Sergeant's thoughts — "Sergeant Michael Deutereux", apparently — hadn't been very hard. In fact... it was surprisingly easy. Normally he'd have to have spent something approach a half hour within spitting distance of someone to hear their thoughts, but... this took little more than ten minutes. Anteros couldn't quite guess as to why.

Michael Deutereux's thoughts, due to the man being focused on his task, didn't tell Anteros much. The task in question appeared to be a matter of frustration— as far as he could tell, the Sergeant was scanning for any new comm-signals with the radio in his hand. Someone had apparently neglected to inform the officer what frequency to set the thing to, and as a result, until Mister Deutereux could figure out the frequency: they wouldn't be able to radio for help or receive their orders.

Evidently, Sergeant Deutereux was endlessly peeved at this, and... Anteros was somewhat intrigued to see that, apparently, the United Americas Allied Command had ordered that all currently-used radio frequencies be abandoned, and new ones adopted, for continued operations on Guardian-625. This decision apparently happened only this morning and was an extremely impromptu one.

Deutereux had no clue why the higher-ups would order such a thing, and not knowing why was seriously pissing him off. Anteros, though... couldn't help but think of the aliens who'd showed up, yesterday— those "Hunters", as Lich had called them. Perhaps someone, somewhere, had taken notice of the outsiders and precautions were being taken?

For about ten minutes, this was all Deutereux thought about, as he cursed to himself silently and fiddled with the radio in his hands. Anteros had patience in spades, but was anxious to hear of something useful or even relevant.

Apparently, though, the best kind of eavesdropping is done on a real conversation, rather than a single person's inner monologue. The Marines, all about three checkout-counters away, sitting in the golden light of the midday sun, were all griping about the vague and unhelpful orders given to them that had lead them all to this place. They questioned each other as to whether any of them had heard anything from friends in higher strata, but all came up short, and so one man suddenly called out, "hey Sarge!". Anteros quickly pulled himself up and onto the pipe he'd been hanging from, and slowly monkey-branched his way closer, anticipating something juicy.

Deutereux, clearly wanting an excuse to put the radio down and stop trying, immediately hopped off of his counter, stepped to the left, turned around, and marched toward the group, into the bright wash of the floodlights. Pretending to still be busy with the radio-thing, the man responded, "what is it, Private Tanner?", feigning gruffness for the sake of professionalism.

The eight Marines all sat a bit straighter, and turned themselves about to face the NCO, as Private Tanner earnestly asked, "you mind telling us what the Hell we're supposed to be doing, out here?".

Deutereux made a show of giving the Private a dry look from under his brow, and blinked, "care to explain your meaning, there, son?". Given that the Sergeant was a 6'10" muscle-tank of discipline and stoicism, Anteros was impressed at how non-threatening that sounded. The guy sounded more like a slightly grumpy, farm-owning war-vet than anything else. Which seemed fitting, given his age and (presumably) salt-and-pepper stubble...

Tanner, a skinny, sharp-chinned, clean-shaven lad, who seemed almost too young to be in the Marine corps, showing no concern at possibly upsetting his commanding officer, clarified, "well, I mean, the orders we were given were really weird, weren't they?". He looked around himself at his comrades for support, and they all nodded in agreement. He rattled off, on his hand, "usually we get told where to go, what to do, how to do it, how to do it well enough to get paid extra, what the next mission is, what the point of these missions are— and all that junk. We usually get told too much about our assignments!".

Another Marine quipped, "next, they'll be telling us how much ammo we'll need to bring", from his perch atop a checkout-counter's mini-fridge, earning a short belt of snickers.

Tanner immediately nodded, as though it were a serious assessment, and agreed, "basically", gesturing a hand at the joker without looking. The Private addressed the Sergeant, holding out his arms, "but this morning, all we get told is to secure a perimeter and wait, and suddenly we're out here, now? The COs usually talk a plan to death before we even finish breakfast, but they gave us a tenth of the typical briefing, this morning".

"Never thought I'd hear you complain about a short briefing, Cowskin", the Marine to the Private's left said, sarcastically. Tanner, clearly not fond of the nickname, gave the man a short scowl, before saying to everyone, talking with his hands, "all I'm saying is, for the past seven months, it's been the same exact shit and the same exact song and dance, every single day, without fail! Are we not at least a bit curious as to why that suddenly changes, now, of all times?".

`Seven months`? Is it September, already?

The Marines all looked to each other for a moment or two, before the lot of them uniformly turned to Sergeant Deutereux with expectant gazes.

The Sergeant frowned unsubtly and looked at all of them with a grimace, "now, what the Hell makes any of ya think that I know what's going on?". He gestured to himself with the radio in his hand.

Simultaneously, every Marine present either: gave the man a dry look, winced at him in something like sympathy with a tilted head, or crossed their arms and grimaced sardonically. Deutereux rolled his eyes and pinched his nose at the group's evident failure to "buy it". The display honestly would have made Anteros laugh if he'd had the diaphragm for it.

Apparently, Mister Deutereux (given the thoughts Anteros heard from him) had something of a "will-they-won't-they, on-and-off relationship" with one of the "brass"— one "General Mariah Fawlconer". And as such, Mister Deutereux had often been privy to information not typically distributed to Non-Commissioned Officers. This little fact wasn't much of a secret, and had, in-fact, played some key role in the especially-low mortality-rate of Sergeant Deutereux's Section.

Deutereux grew exasperated and sighed to himself, before, chucking the radio-thing toward the group, which Tanner caught, easily. Deutereux walked over to a nearby checkout-counter and leaned back on it, crossing his arms. The Marines only watched him, as he dug a cigarette out of the pack on his belt. Almost as though by impulse, one of the Marines threw their pistol to the Sergeant, who caught it, and proceeded to fire it at the ceiling with the cigarette pressed against the barrel. The bullet, despite not flying anywhere near him, caused Anteros to flinch.

Deutereux took a drag of the thing, tossed the gun back to the Marine who'd thrown it, and finally spoke.

"Well, alright...", he muttered slowly, more to himself than anyone around him, "I suppose y'all deserve to know 'bout this...".

Unbeknownst to Deutereux, a few of the Marines nudged one another and grinned, jovially, Tanner even getting a discreet high-five from the guy who'd called him "Cowskin", earlier. Anteros guessed that this was a fairly common occurrence.

Deutereux seemed to stare off into some unseeable vista, as he asked his men, "y'all 'member how Fischer saw two Bugs kill each other, yesterday?".

A slight tension imposed itself on the air, as everyone present seemed to frown and look at the one named "Fischer", who only gave everyone a steely grimace and crossed his arms. The tiniest of smirks touched Fischer's mouth— a detail that Anteros couldn't help but take note of.

Tanner looked at Deutereux, wary and confused, and said, "you... told us he was just seeing things...".

"Well...", the Sergeant took a drag of his cigarette, flicking embers off to his right, "... I lied. I saw it happen, too...". He slowly blew the smoke out of his nostrils, and Anteros could practically feel everyone below him become decidedly less relaxed. The Sergeant continued, "only reason I told Fischer to can it was 'cause I thought it was above my pay-grade... but, apparently, other squads saw the exact same thing happen all across the Territory... almost as though the Xenos are suddenly too busy fighting each other than to worry 'bout us...".

Deutereux looked to each of member of his Section and seemed to study them a moment, having to squint past the bright luminance of the floodlights. As though they could read his mind, two Marines who sat nearby the two floodlights in question grabbed and turned the things to either side to make the conversation easier. Deutereux slowly took another drag of his cigarette, before saying, "from what I hear... when news of this Bug `Civil War` fiasco reached the higher-ups, some egg-heads over at Wey-Yu headquarters threw some kind of fit— something 'bout some... `unexpected developments`". The man scanned every Marine's face as he allowed his words to sink in, finding his subordinates looking altogether confused and concerned.

He kept going, "next thing the brass knows, they're being told by Weyland-Yutani's top scientists that now's the time to launch a `full-on assault` on the Hive...".

"Now, I dunno exactly what was said... but 'cordin' to my friend, upstairs... the Queen Bug must'a somehow...", he shrugged, "up and died, sometime this week... and now that the Queen is pushing daisies, the entire wasp's nest is up in arms and killin' each other— fightin' over who gets to be the new boss...".

Deutereux pushed himself off from the counter he was leaning on and slowly strolled toward the group of Marines, flicking a few embers off to the side, watching them very closely. All around, the soldiers took on very grave expressions as they absorbed what all of this meant. Anteros was right there, with them— this... changed a lot of things.

Why does that make sense to me? Is that why the Hive-Mind's been dissolving itself? Hive-Mates just killing each other? Every female in the Hive must be fighting, then— fighting to become the new Queen...

Deutereux stopped short of the circle of Marines, standing between the two displaced floodlights and at the edge of the golden spotlight, under the hole in the roof.

The Sergeant looked down at the man sitting before him and asked, "so, Private Tanner, what's the one thing you do not do when your enemy is makin' a mistake?".

Tanner visibly swallowed, "`interrupt them`, sir".

Deutereux nodded affably, "yep. And what do I always say as an addendum to that?".

"`Don't fail to capitalize on it`, sir", Tanner replied. He seemed... not quite afraid, but very tense.

The NCO nodded, again, "that's right, son...". He pointed back and to the left, "and right now, the Bugs are makin' a pretty damn big mistake. And because this doesn't this happen very often, the brass saw fit to take advantage of it, A-S-A-P. Hence why we were flown and dropped out here, without so much as a kiss on the scrotum, `goodbye`...".

A short chorus of chuckles spelled the abrupt end of the tension that had hung in the air, by and large. The Sergeant gave his soldiers a small smile to encourage this before turning around and beginning to pace from left-to-right in front of them, clearly intending to finish up the spiel.

"So, Private Tanner...", he said, glancing at the man in question, "what we're doin' out here is to stay put and wait for reinforcements. Right now, about six other Sections are droppin' in and settin' up shop, just like us, in various parts of the Territory. This time tomorrow, we'll be joined by the other half of our Platoon, as well as Fourth Platoon— the same thing will happen at every other landing-zone...".

"Then, all fourteen Platoons, in groups of two, will set out from our staging areas and converge... on The Warehouse...", Deutereux allowed the shock of that news to play itself out— shocked gasps and sudden excitement. Marines grabbed at each other as though to reaffirm that what they were hearing was real. "The Warehouse": a large cache of weapons and ordinance, somewhere in the Hive Territory— the reason why they'd all had to enlist, why they'd been fighting for seven months, straight, and why far too many of their comrades had been killed or captured. That their goal, today, was The Warehouse told them that the "war" would soon be over, and the Marines of this Section were terrified and elated at the news, in equal measure.

Anteros suddenly felt intensely nauseous as what exactly this all meant was suddenly put on full display, in the Sergeant's mind.

"Once we secure The Warehouse, we'll keep watch as all of the goods, therein, get shipped out...", Deutereux said, openly smiling, "and once all of it is safely exfiltrated, we'll be flyin' home for the last time". He looked at Tanner, "and why, pray-tell, will that be, Private Tanner?". Everyone fell silent and seemed to hang on the lad's next declaration.

The Private looked up his leader and grinned ear-to-ear, and replied happily, making a show of saluting, "sir, because once we're outta there, the brass'll drop a nuke on the Hive, sir!".

A loud outcry of cheers erupted from the entire group, as the lot of them began whooping, laughing, and celebrating the fact that they would soon be going home, and that the long nightmare would end. The Marines hugged, high-fived, and jostled one another, shooting to their feet and throwing their helmets skyward. The sounds of their jubilance stretched through the entirety of the supermarket. Sergeant Deutereux simply smiled and allowed the celebration to run its course, hands on his hips.

And while the soldiers far below were on cloud-nine, Anteros felt the most uncanny, sickening sense of dread, in the deepest pits of his gut...

We have to leave Guardian, first-thing tomorrow— or better yet, tonight! Else we'll be atomized by a nuclear blast! How far away is this place from The Warehouse? How far away are the other landing-zones from The Warehouse? How much time will it take to load all of that cargo out of there? How much manpower are they willing to spend on this? Shit— this is bad!

"Only problem is...", Sergeant Deutereux suddenly called out, holding up a hand, immediately silencing everyone present and putting the party on abrupt and unsettling hold. The NCO gestured to the radio-thing that Tanner had forgotten he'd been holding and said, "the CO forgot to tell me what frequency to use...". All of the Marines looked to the object in question and frowned in unison, and the ecstasy of the previous thirty seconds immediately shriveled into frustration and dread.

"Until we can figure out what channel to set it to, we won't be able to hear the call to action, or radio in and tell 'em that we're ready for reinforcements...", he said, tone almost becoming sheepish. A few seconds pass, accompanied with utter silence, as everyone seemed to experience something of a rude awakening. There was a shame in it— in foolishly thinking that news this good could go without a roadblock, or two, or that anything about this war could be any less than blood-and-tears, throughout, in difficulty. Anteros could guess that such optimism had been thoroughly beaten out of these Marines, within weeks of signing up to fight the Hive... and now, indulging in it seemed juvenile to them— something that would only tempt fate into ruining your day and taking away your comrades.

Every Marine present suddenly crowded around the radio and passed it back and forth, putting their heads together to try and fix the issue, in a sudden welling of determination. Deutereux, a bit ashamed that he'd spoiled everyone's good mood, turned around and returned to the checkout-counter he'd sat on, some minutes ago. They were so close to salvation, and yet so far, Deutereux noted to himself.

"Least they're motivated, now...", he muttered, taking a drag of his cigarette. He was secretly glad that he no longer had to contend with the radio, himself.

And while the soldiers far below were arguing and discussing, frantically, Anteros felt a small glimmer of hope...

Maybe I can find a way to further halt this operation. If I can lengthen the time it takes for this Section's reinforcements to arrive, then I might be able to buy me and Samantha more time before any nukes get dropped...

Anteros abruptly clambered away from his perch atop a light fixture and started surveying the supermarket, and the positions of each Sentry Gun. Given what he knew of typical battle-field conduct for Marines, he set about coming up with a plan.

His task was now four-fold. Destroy the synthetics, disable a Sentry Gun to create an exit, incapacitate these Marines, and destroy that radio-device.

---

Zazin' was surprised that anyone else was present in the kehrite. Given the amount of alcohol that must have been funneled down people's throats, he would have expected that everyone would still be nursing hangovers, this early in the day. Though, given that there was only five-or-so others in a room this large made sense— and the fact that all of them were groggily strewn about the spectator-seats, breathing in smoke from hand-held incense-candles, made more sense. They were likely hoping to see a good bout to take their minds off of their throbbing skulls.

The kehrite, or "dojo", was an integral part of any Youngblood's day-to-day. On Hunting Ships like this one, the kehrite was about the size of a large gymnasium— circular in shape and arranged in a manner not-unlike a gladiatorial arena. Walking in, one was greeted with the sight of immense metal walls to either side, stretching up to the ceiling, ten meters above, and ahead was the view of a narrow, vertical slice of the fighting-area and the elevated seats at the other end of the kehrite. Approaching the fighting-area, one would notice small ramps to either side that allowed newcomers to enter the spectator-seats just short of setting foot in the combat-zone. Once in the fighting-area, all that separated you from the crowd was a neck-high wall— no fences or railings. Whosoever wished to enter the fray need only jump in, and whosoever tried to leave the fighting-area without a victor having been declared would quickly receive a kick to the face the moment they hoisted themselves up.

The floor of the ten-meter-wide fighting-area was metal, though dusted with an almost-invisibly-thin layer of sand to provide traction. The metal plating, unlike most of the ship, was a square-grid-patterned, where the flooring everywhere else would be, either, geometric, corrugated grating or simply a painted-over, tarmac-like material. Of course... given that this Hunting Ship was an older model, the floor was usually hidden from view by dense vapors, anyway, so... not much reason to decorate.

The kehrite, though, was one of the few places on the vessel kept vapor-free, as the observation of footwork during training was too important to forego.

"I'm surprised that Dark Blade Hunting Ships use up this much space on a kehrite...", Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi remarked, looking about the place, as she stood in the fighting-area.

Zazin', being mere meters away, counter-remarked, "this... is actually a fairly standard design of Hunting Ship. Purchased from the Silver Fist Clan".

Hul'Mei looked to him, brow quirked and bug-eyed, frowning. She looked about herself and gestured, "this is `standard`?", she asked, skeptically, as though she couldn't believe it.

Zazin' glanced about to see if anything was particularly off about the kehrite, then said to her, "I believe so— I'm not an architect...". He looked about the room with a squint, "though, I'm fairly certain I've seen bigger kehrites than this on Dark Blade vessels...".

She sort of stared at him, then stared at the floor as though an armless, inebriated Ooman were convulsing on the ground, her mandibles flexing and tapping together. He gave her an odd look, and expected some elaboration, but she just shook her head at herself and set about doing preliminary stretches. He shrugged and watched to see that she was doing it right.

It was ironic that Yautja training-clothes were more modest than typical attire, and not less. The two of them had on tough, black, armor-leather "shorts" that held to the skin tightly without chafing. She also had a similar upper-covering that resembled something of a sleeveless t-shirt, with the abdomen exposed— form-fitting yet flexible. Made of Duj'kara hide and treated with sea-water to maintain flexibility and a reliable lifespan before repair or tailoring was needed. He wouldn't need to be careful about where his attacks landed. Which was just as well, given that the next few hours would be spent training.

How do Yautja train? By doing, namely. And, in this context, "doing" meant: full-contact sparring. And for the Yautja, "full-contact sparring" is quite the event, in itself— enough to warrant spectators, at least from among close relatives. There was an old proverb that went something like: "no lesson is truly learned until you're up to your knees in blood and sweat". Given Zazin's' status as Elite, and that the point of them being here was to train, it would be understood that his job was to instruct in whatever fashion proved most effective. And conventional wisdom essentially held that the most effective fashion in which to teach was to fight, and to keep fighting until someone could no longer move.

Who that "someone" was and how long it took for them to drop would be the true judge of who and what needed improvement. And how much.

Zazin' lowered himself into a squat, touching his elbows to the floor while keeping his heels on the ground, and he began to breathe deeply. He stretched his arms until the joints cracked, and flexed his spine to rid himself of any stiffness. His ears popped, his vision blurred, and his muscles became awash in pleasant, numb tingling, as he prepared for action. Lethargy and sleepiness were shirked off in quick order.
Zazin' was abnormally, though not exceptionally, tall for a male, being the same height as Hul'Mei. Where he deviated from others, though, was in physique. His limbs were lanky and appeared to be longer than they truly were, and despite his size, he was only sightly heavier than the average. His body was pulled and stretched taut into stringy, understated muscle, which belied great physical strength. His stride and reach were deceptively long, and overall, many would consider his form to be a mass of contradictions and difficult-to-judge.

Because of this, he was unusually tricky to size-up, and it had saved him from many a fight— though, also got him into many others. People often found it difficult to reliably judge his true prowess from appearance, alone... which meant that most of the women who came his way did so because they heard of his official status, beforehand. He wouldn't complain, though. There'd been more than one occasion that some random c'jit had picked a fight with him, only to be given an extremely thorough taste of his true might, much to their unfailing shock. And his sardonic amusement.

In the Ooman spectrum of vision, his hide would appear almost completely white, in how pale it was, but his back and the outsides of his legs and arms carried in them a pale-blue tint that suggested water atop the white "sand" of his front. A series of dark, charcoal-colored stripes, running lengthways down his back and limbs contrasted this further. Not a typical coloration among the Dark Blade, which was unsurprising, given the fact that both of his parents entered into the Dark Blade Clan as adults after their union brought about some acrimony in their Clan-of-Origin— the Silent Fangs. Zazin-Vor'mekta had never asked about the how or why of it, and he couldn't say that he cared. As far as the law was concerned: he and his family were Dark Blade, now.

He stretched himself to his full height and shook out his legs, sighing and wincing at how much brighter everything seemed to be. Hul'Mei had just finished her stretches and had turned to face him, shaking her head and hands. When their eyes met, he felt his breathing uptick in pace— there was an exhilarating, empowering, cold emptiness deep in his chest, and the imminence of Combat quickened his pulse something fierce. "The love of battle never truly leaves a warrior's soul, no matter how much of it he sees". He could tell that she felt something similar, her pupils had shrunk significantly and her mandibles held abnormally still— tense, like a clenched fist.

She huffed minutely, put her hands on her hips, looking about as though suspicious of the metal under her feet, and asked him, "so... how do we start?".

He allowed himself a smile... and replied, "for now, hand-to-hand. We shall see where it goes, from there". His words, and their measured tone, made her refocus on him... and the atmosphere became alight with energy in an instant. The pair stepped closer, to within four paces between them, and took up fighting stances. Hers: wide, tense, and brimming with alacrity; his: side-on, relaxed, and radiating understated confidence.

The few Yautja in the spectator seats looked up from their incense-candles.

There was no question as to who would win, and neither combatant had anything of substance to lose. But that wasn't the point. The point, at the end of the day and in the interest of honesty, was to fight. To fight and bleed; to take and receive pain— to push yourself to the edges of your endurance and skill. To remind yourself that you are alive and that you are real— that life is not a dream, and that making it one is a deplorable sickness, born of tedium. To break down and restore; to drain away and galvanize.

Symbiotic, mutual apotheosis. It is said that no one is closer to godhood than when in the deepest pain and greatest exertion. That was the idea, at least, and Zazin' found himself craving that sensation. If she could push him far enough to enable that, all credit to her. He wouldn't make it easy, and if anything, he was looking forward to pushing her to the edge more than achieving it, himself. The window to the soul is easiest to glimpse through when the wall surrounding it is on the verge of collapse.

And if Hul'Mei could learn something by the end of it, all the better.

---

Anteros had a plan.

He had spent about a half-hour wandering about the supermarket's ceiling, making note of each Sentry Gun and mapping the area in his mind.

The massive room was easily three-hundred-fifty feet from end-to-end, and a third as wide. At a walking pace, Anteros could traverse its length in about a minute, and at a sprint: in under twenty seconds. That was on the ground, though— while he was up in the ceiling's pipe-works and vents, his speed would be greatly reduced by at least twice as much. Luckily, though, he was very much able to jump from the ground to the ceiling at the drop of a hat, and almost silently, and could fall from the same height without injury. By making use of the entirety of the room, and constantly changing his elevation, he could very feasibly move and act with complete impunity.
As long as he never stayed on the ground or up above too long, the space would be his dominion.

The supermarket itself, though, had many obstacles. Arranged laterally along the market's length were short aisles, mostly untouched and full of whatever had been in them the day the Infestation started. In the market's middle-section, though, dividing the frozen and non-frozen food-sections, were massive, industrial-sized "shelves" stocked with equipment, raw material, and various power tools, such as from a hardware store. Each towering stack of this hardware-section was a jungle-gym in itself and easily touched the ceiling. With seven of those, arranged next to the other, Anteros was provided with a very effective hiding spot— a "tower" to jump to and from in a pinch, from anywhere in the space.
By making proper use of these walls, he could likely keep himself safe from any angle of fire.

On what Anteros had termed the "western edge" of the supermarket, the aisles cut short before a massive line of checkout-counters that stretched the entire length of the market. Roughly in the "middle" of the area between the counters and the aisles was where the Marines and Synthetics had made their camp.

The five Sentry Guns had been planted at the various exits of the room— two were at the fifty-foot long span of glass doors that served as the main exit and entrance, right next to the checkout-counters, and the other three were at the three other exits, on each side of the room. Two emergency fire-exits on either end of the "rectangle" and a shutter-door opposite of the main entrance that opened up to a storage-space, which then lead to the outside.

His plan, as it currently stood, was as follows...

Step One: disable one of the Sentry Guns. Doing so should trigger a response from the Synthetics. Assuming that the Humans would follow typical procedure, this will cause the Marines to gather together in a defensive formation, while the Synthetics are sent in small groups to go and fix the problem.
Step Two: "kill" the Synthetics as they come and make a nuisance of yourself. Once all of the Androids are "dead", the Marines will be forced to sally out of their position and investigate, themselves.
Step Three: when they do, disable another Sentry Gun, preferably on the other end of the market. This will cause them to have to split up.
Step Four: take them down.

It wasn't much of a plan... but it was all he could come up with, given what he had at his disposal.

And so, Anteros made his way to one end of the supermarket, allowing himself to drop from the ceiling when he reached the pair of "push" doors. Above them was a glowing, red sign that said "EXIT IN CASE OF FIRE", in bold text. One of the few things in this world that he could read, given that it was a light-source. The Synthetics had gone to the trouble of using some nearby cardboard boxes (filled with empty egg-cartons) to prop open these doors and allowing them to set up the Sentry Gun right under the doorframe, facing outwards. Anteros crept up behind the machine, as it noisily panned its turret left and right.

All was pitch-black, aside from a distant, shadow-casting blanket of white light from the Marine encampment, blaring from over the top of the aisle of now-melting ice and frozen fish, just behind him. A single, red laser that shone along the trajectory of the turret's barrel was all the color in the immediate vicinity. Anteros crouched behind it, feeling paranoid of the contraption turning around and blasting him, despite knowing that it could only face one direction. He scanned the thing, looking for a way to suitably stop the thing from working, while not breaking it. The Marines would need it once he was gone, he knew.

Anteros decided to test something. He scratched at the panel on the side of the gun that seemingly concealed the ammunition-cartridge, trying to figure out how to open it. Eventually, he managed to find the release for the thing. When he pulled the panel free, it resulted in a thick coil of several hundred rounds of ammo slinking onto the ground. Anteros chuffed, and growled to himself, a bit worried that someone might have heard that, but confident that the sound wouldn't have carried far. He yanked at the chain of bullets, repeatedly, until he'd torn all of the ammunition out of the gun, leaving it and the panel in a small pile next to him. The glowing readout of numbers on the back of the turret glowed an ominous, blinking: "000".

He then looked about for a loose object, and grabbed a stale cod from the bed of ice nearby. He rose to two legs behind the turret and lobbed the fish down the short, thin hallway.
The Sentry Gun immediately oriented its barrel to track the sailing fish, but only whirred and beeped impotently, no shots fired.

When the fish slapped flaccidly onto the floor of the escape-route, Anteros stood by and listened, the Sentry Gun making repeated attempts to draw upon ammunition which was no longer being fed to it. The Gun's whirring ceased, eventually... and its turret oriented back to the default position, before it whirred again... and then the gun pointed downwards, its ammunition-counter blinking out of existence as the machine shut down. Anteros had an inkling that when it did so, the owners would be notified, remotely. And so, he listened...
Faintly... he heard the sound of a loud voice— emotionless and far-too-soft-sounding, almost like a child trying to imitate an adult. The echoing, garbled tones, and barks of the Marines, as they'd been trying to fix their radio, ceased... and he knew that the plan was underway.

He crouched, and leaped upwards, jumping onto the wall above the fire-exit and clambering his way to the ceiling. He slowed his pace, once among the ceiling's pipes and struts, and crept a ways toward the site of the Marine encampment.

On his way, though, he was given pause. From high above, he heard the voice of Deutereux bark, commandingly, "Pereskova! Take two Synths and go check it out!". From his perch, Anteros saw one Marine, a grim-faced woman, walk away from her comrades and toward the Androids. Her fellow Marines gathered up their weapons and grouped together, forming a well-practiced circle in the gold spotlight, gun-barrels pointed outward. Pereskova marched over to the huddled gaggle of scrunched-up Synthetics and quickly "turned on" two of the Androids, whacking them on the backs of their necks with her service-pistol, and causing them to jump to their feet like they'd been electrocuted.

Hearing a muffled "follow me", and seeing the two Androids each pull sawn-off shotguns out of their thighs, was all Anteros needed to stick around for. He made his way back to the site of the fire-exit.

... he hadn't expected for a Marine to be put into play, this early in the plan.
He would have to deal with it.

---

The fight had begun the usual way these sessions tended to.

After a few moments of theatrically-obligated circling and tension, Zazin' lunged forward with an opening haymaker, a telegraphed attack meant to be easily-avoided. Despite this, she was surprised at the speed, and only just about managed to slap aside the attack with her hand.
Her mind wasn't yet entirely up-to-pace, and so he would have to push her into greater focus.

Zazin' stalked toward her, slowly, as she backpedaled and readied herself for his next strike. He moved almost painfully slow, for a few moments too long, causing her to squint in confusion, only for him to suddenly burst forth like the pounce of animal upon its prey, launching another lunging strike with his right arm, fingers splayed open to levy his claws. She was more prepared this time, and aptly caught his offending wrist in her left hand, attempting to counter with her right, aiming the punch at his head.
His feet met the ground, again.
Possibly out of shock, possibly because she was hesitant to hurt him, the blow carried little force or speed, and Zazin' simply put his open palm in the way of the fist, catching it, and immediately pushing it forward, causing her own knuckles to be mashed into her face.

Her short, garbled hiss of surprise, and her body suddenly going lax were all of the indication he needed to know that she hadn't seriously sparred with anyone in quite a while.

By this time, Zazin' had torn his other arm free of her grip, and so, he attacked. His left hand kept a firm grip on her fist as he wrenched his left arm away from her, dragging her arm away from her. He used it as the fulcrum for an immediate right hook. His knuckles slammed into where her left-mandibles attached to her head with a loud, echoing *THACK* noise, causing her to lean to her right, hard, expression shocked and stony. Her balance was lost, and Zazin' let go of her fist, promptly driving his left foot into her gut, just beneath the sternum.
She was sent stumbling backward, clumsily, ten paces away. To her credit, she didn't fall over, and quickly shook her head to regain her footing, but she was blinking repeatedly in shock, and her mandibles kept twitching, errantly, in response to the pain.

He waited for her to pull up her guard, again, loudly taking a deep breath and rolling her shoulders.

He came at her, again, more directly, this time: stepping up and throwing short bursts of punch-combinations at her. Fast, though telegraphed flurries of hooks, jabs, and uppercuts, never the same angle twice in a row, never the same pace or force applied on each attack. He would pepper her defenses with up to ten strikes of this pattern at a time, before stepping back for a moment, and re-approaching, once more— at a different vector, with a different elevation and speed. Testing her defensive acumen.
He moved and attacked with a preternatural grace and sharpness— at no point could any observer say that he had to overly think or plan his attacks or movement. It was simply natural to him. His fists never flew at askew angles, nor did his footwork need to adjust itself. It was almost as though he were performing a heavily choreographed routine that had been practiced and repeated for years, and yet his attacks were always unpredictable. A truly captivating dance.

Hul'Mei was now getting the chance to truly bring herself back up to speed, under this taxing, though consistent assault. She moved her forearms and elbows like the windshield-wipers on an Ooman vehicle, intercepting every strike he threw at her with shunt-blocks, putting her elbows and forearms between herself and his fists. She kept her arms close to her body, efficiently and tightly stopping his attacks well before they could land. Each time his knuckles rapped against her arms, a satisfying "thuck" sound could be heard by the two of them. Her footwork was serviceable, and she took great care to move to her left or right, as much as backward, even as Zazin's' attacks forced her to retreat in order to cope.

They continued this dance for a long while, and as it went on, Hul'Mei's defense became sharper overtime. At first, she repeatedly found herself having to stretch or overreach to meet Zazin's' more unorthodox strikes, and having to hop backwards every so often just to give herself breathing room. However, the longer she spent under the assault, the better and more efficient her defensive technique became. Zazin's' offensive served as the hammer, while Hul'Mei was the anvil, as her method was refined and improved, between the two of them. Or, at least Zazin' thought so.
Soon enough, she was no longer having to backpedal as much to cope with the incoming punches, and she began to block multiple attacks with one arm, allowing her other to regain stamina, constantly alternating between presenting either side of her body to Zazin' and using the presented arm and shoulder as a shield— her defense becoming evermore deft and effortless.

Zazin', now unwittingly grinning at the improvement, began to ramp up the intensity of his assault— increasing the speed and strength of his attacks, and shortening the interval between every advance. He started strafing to either side before and after each assault, forcing her to constantly turn to face him for fear of missing the opening salvo. His breathing was now beginning to accelerate, his heart could just barely be heard thumping in his head, and the burning sensation throughout his body was intoxicating to him.
He loved fighting. Even though he stood no chance of losing this bout, and even though it was hardly a challenge: he simply loved this type of exertion. He loved the impact of his fists, and the constant movement. How and why It could so easily sap his love of this great art-form was a mystery to him. And the fact that he would likely be thinking the opposite while in It's grasp saddened him more than it should have.
For now, though, he at least had the pleasure of the moment.

He felt a tension building between them. As Hul'Mei's defense continued to improve, and as Zazin's offensive continued to intensify, the pair of them were starting to each enter a trance. Their movements becoming more and more fluid and forceful, Zazin's' attacks building in speed and force, Hul'Mei's blocks turning more stalwart and bullish. His fists struck her forearms with increasing force, to the point that each blow felt (to both of them) like the blows of warhammers. It began to be painful, but that only urged them to keep going.
Eventually, Hul'Mei's defensive technique became so seamless, that she no longer stepped backwards in the midst of meeting his attacks. Her eyes were utterly transfixed upon his arms and torso, as her mandibles clenched together in concentration. Zazin' could see that she was at her absolute peak of focus, as evidenced by the quickly building speed of the both of them. Now that she was so devoted to maintaining her shield, and she'd ceased backpedaling, Zazin' was now stood still in front of her: unleashing a never-ending barrage of hooks, jabs, crosses, overheads, and uppercuts at a blindingly fast pace, bombarding her shield with all the ferocity of an enraged animal. The display, viewed from the outside, was awash in blurred movement— the pair's arms moved so quickly that any hope of tracking each attack and block would be a taxing endeavor.

Every time his fists struck her arms, it was met with a loud smack, filling the air with a cacophony of noise that would have made for a suitable imitation of a small crowd, clapping.
Zazin's' fists, if they weren't so adjusted to pain and shock, would already be shaking, by now, as his knuckles repeatedly struck her elbows. It hurt, to be sure, but that was just fine, with him. His heartbeat was almost deafening, now, in his ears... and he had a massive grin plastered on his mandibles the entire time. Not that she noticed this, mind you. And in any case... he felt that she was now as focused as she was going to get. And so the real fight could now start...

As their pace continued to build, it eventually came to a head. And as such, that head came about with Zazin' breaking the pattern— changing the routine, completely out of the blue. As he was throwing a completely expected punch, Zazin' abruptly stopped it short before it could be carried through, and at the same time stepped forward, pushing himself within her guard, and he rammed his left shoulder into her torso. She was knocked off-balance by the blow, snarling loudly and flailing her arms, stumbling backwards to try and recover, and was promptly thrown off her feet when he spun about on his heel and kicked her in the gut.
The tension was lost, and the air seemed to "pop" in an anti-climactic fizzle.

"The most effective way to properly capitalize on feinting an attack: is to not wait and look for the opponent to fall for it. Simply do it as though they have already been fooled, and worry about whether they saw it coming after it works or it doesn't. Worst case scenario: your attack is blocked".

She landed on her arse and had an entirely-too-comical look of shock on her face. He stood over her, breathing deeply to calm his nerves. A beat passed...

And a short belt of laughs could be heard from the seven-or-so people in the spectator-seats.

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi looked to the source of the laughter, more confused than offended, and scrambled to her feet. She looked at him, registered the somewhat-manic grin on his face, and squinted to herself, as though questioning whether something had gone wrong, but finding no answer. She asked him, only slightly short-of-breath, "I... suppose I should've seen that coming?".

"Probably", Zazin' nodded, with a shrug. "But, at least for now, it is enough that you are properly warmed up".

She raised a brow, remarking, "`properly`?".

Zazin' strolled back to the center of the fighting-area, prompting her to follow him, as he declared, "the real fight begins, now".

She squinted at him, for a moment... then cracked her knuckles with a smile to match his own...

---

Anteros watched from above as the trio approached the fire-exit. He hid on top of a wide vent above said door, not wanting to risk triggering any Motion-Trackers. Both of the approaching Androids held two such devices in their off-hands, as they toted about their shotguns, scanning around the area with their in-built, eye-flashlights. As the three of them turned into the aisle, their lights flashed up and down, scanning the ceiling and walls as much as anywhere else.
They know how to sniff out Xenomorphs... practice makes perfect...

The Marine woman peeked down the hallway, from behind the door-frame, before stepping out and scanning the with her flashlight. The two Androids stepped up behind her and did the same with their own and their Motion-Trackers. Their lights and trackers found nothing, and so the woman saw fit to check the Sentry Gun right next to her. He couldn't quite sense what expression she made when she saw that the Gun's entire ammunition-cartridge had been emptied, but he assumed it was one of complete bewilderment, as she ordered one of the Synthetics to fix the thing and seemed to shake her head to herself.

Promptly, the Sentry Gun was dragged into the room, away from the fire-exit, as the Marine and the other Synth stayed in the exit hallway and walked down it a ways, keeping watch. The moment that the Synthetic charged with fixing the machine set aside its Motion-Tracker, and lowered itself to its knees, setting to work on the disabled Sentry Gun, Anteros deigned to move. He slowly crawled forward, and steadily maneuvered around onto the bottom of the vent he clung to. Once he was in position, he carefully turned around and released his hands from the metallic surface. He stretched himself downwards, allowing himself to hang by his feet and tail...
The Ancestral filled him with a... sharp, quickening sort of focus. It wanted him to run away— to escape as quickly as possible. But now that he was committed to taking the predator approach, it was summarily committed to making sure he did so without injury.

It was an odd sensation of clear, yet aggressive focus that he'd never quite experienced, before. Where he'd usually be faced with an overwhelming urge to run in, guns-blazing and teeth drooling, now he was beset by a feeling of precise and cautious concentration.

Anteros allowed his tail to uncoil from the around the vent... and his feet detached from its surface...

Like the shadow of a dropped explosive bomb, he drifted downwards in a fashion that almost seemed too slow, even to him. He knew it was just the adrenaline talking, but he could swear that he had the time to think of exactly what to do, as his body twisted itself mid-air to re-orient and land on his feet.
He landed behind the kneeling Synthetic, his weight being absorbed by the metal-reinforced linoleum with only a moderately loud *WHUMP* noise. The Android barely had time to turn its head... before Anteros's hands reached around and wrenched the thing's head from its shoulders in a loud tear and crackle of electricity— fuses and filaments popping as they were torn free, white fluid spraying outward and caking the Sentry Gun.

Anteros knew, however, that taking off the head wasn't enough to disable a Synthetic. He only did so to stop it from speaking. Which is why, as he took off its head, his tail snaked under his arm and speared itself through the Android's torso. He was aiming for the thing's power-core, as he could literally see the electricity glowing brighter where the heart should be. His tail-blade slightly missed, glancing off of the spherical "organ", but being driven in with enough force to dislodge the thing from its wires, and the Android went limp. Its corpse fell forward, draping itself onto the Sentry Gun and slumping off, to the side.

Anteros, already sensing the nearby Marine and Android turning about, quickly wrenched his tail out of the inanimate object, and launched himself upward, toward the wall on his right. He clambered upwards, taking the Android's head with him, toward the ceiling, and jumped to the same vent from earlier, just in time for Pereskova and her escort to re-enter the supermarket and see his handiwork.

Upon seeing the beheaded "corpse", Pereskova reached for the walkie-talkie on her belt and raised it to her mouth, only for Anteros to lob the Synth-head at her from above. Seeing as though the "skulls" of Combat-Synthetics held an extremely complicated computer-system, as well as various metals and wiring, the projectile that Anteros threw was rather hefty for its size, and would have likely done the job if it were simply dropped from a big enough height. As such, when it bonked loudly off of Pereskova's helmet, she instantly froze-up... swayed... and fell forward, dropping her walkie-talkie. She seemed to catch herself on all-fours, but was clearly disoriented, seeing stars, groaning drunkenly.

The remaining Synth instantly looked upwards, shining its eye-light at the ceiling, pointing its weapon, a soft, emotionless voice coming from its mouth, "hostile presence: detected". Anteros had hidden himself, and kept still, trying to think of a way to tackle this situation. He did not have to wait long for an opportunity.

Pereskova suddenly threw up on the floor and groaned, again, struggling to get to her feet through waves of vertigo, her Pulse Rifle somehow ending up slathered in vomit. The Synthetic, programmed to see to the needs of its masters above all else, looked to see if the woman required medical aid. The moment it did so, Anteros sprung.

He clambered sideways onto the vent's bottom and allowed himself to drop, again. He landed in a ball between the wall and the Synthetic, on its left, and engaged. It couldn't turn fast enough to threaten him with its shotgun, and so he ended up backhanding its face with his right hand. The thing's head came partially loose, a small tear opening on its throat, while the entire head lost all rigidity and ended up bobblehead-ing on its shoulders, forced to look upward by the bent angle of its neck, with white liquid dribbling down its front and staining its blue scrubs.
Anticipating that it was about to fire its weapon regardless of its "injury", Anteros grabbed at the shotgun in its hands and forced the barrel upwards, his tail already aiming to impale its torso. Sure enough the weapon fired, sending lead into the rafters in a loud, bright blast

The noise made him hiss, loudly, aggression flaring up. Fortunately, though, he'd destroyed the thing's power-core with his tail, by now, and it fell backward, limply.

Anteros turned to Pereskova, sensing that she'd gotten up, only to see her wipe her mouth with a hand and aim at him with her newly-decorated rifle. He, however, was already too close to be effectively targeted, and had no trouble forcing her weapon to the side and wrenching it from her grasp, and throwing it over his shoulder. The woman, upon being relieved of her weapon, gaped at the creature before her in utter bewilderment for a moment too long. Anteros, suddenly feeling very awkward as he stood there with coolant and vomit on his hands, didn't quite know what do, now.

The "body" of the Android behind him twitched and made an electronic groaning noise.

Should he just walk up and punch her? Just... like that? Right there? It felt weird to do so in plain view. It was like killing someone's dog, being caught in the act, and then having to come up with a suitable follow-up for it.
The two of them stood there for a few moments too long, to the point that Anteros was almost tempted to wave at her, just to get the ball rolling.
Clearly out of mounting fear, though, she abruptly turned about and tried to run, only to trip over the arm of the previous Synthetic and fall flat on her face. Anteros got over his sheepishness and bounded over, on all fours. Seeing that she was clearly having a bad day, he decided to give her a nap, and bashed her over the head with his fist the moment she scrambled back to her feet. Colonial Marine helmets were only as good as any other helmet when dealing with blunt force.
He knew how much force was too much and how much was needed. And he could see that she was merely unconscious by the electricity in her skull and heart.

But now, he had a choice to make...

He knew she'd wake up in a matter of minutes, and he knew that when she did, she'd cry for help...
But as he now scanned the environment around him, he found that there was a commotion coming from the Marine encampment. They'd seen and heard the shotgun blast, and the fact that they hadn't heard any response from Pereskova, as they were currently hailing her over their walkie-talkies, they were becoming concerned.
They would probably be here, soon. He likely didn't have the time to be able to properly restrain her with anything by the time they found her. She would likely be awake and fighting in too short a time...
But he couldn't afford to just take away her weapons, outright. She would need them, later, when he was out of there...
Could he just confiscate the weapons temporarily, until he'd incapacitated all of them, and then give them back? Would that take too long?

He decided that he didn't have the time to flounder over it, given that he now heard a bunch of yells ring throughout the supermarket. He grabbed Pereskova's Pulse Rifle, pistol, and radio, and deigned to simply leave her where she was. Clutching the contraband in the coil of his tail, he leapt up to the ceiling, once more. And deposited the items atop a vent.

As he took note of the Marines arguing with each other over how to address the situation, he realized that his plan would have to be re-worked. With one of their comrades missing, the Marines would probably launch a larger offensive and attempt to handle the problem before it could get out of hand. If they did that, they'd be able to fix the Sentry Gun and wake up Pereskova, putting him back at square-one.

... so, he would have to provide discouragement from doing so.

Anteros braced his legs on the side of the vent and jumped outwards. He landed on the "eastern side" of the supermarket, opposite the "Marine's side". After skidding on the linoleum for a few feet, he sprinted straight to the opposite end of the market, toward the site of another Sentry Gun emplacement. There, he found the fire-exit identical to the other one, and he gave the Sentry Gun, there, the same treatment as its "sibling". Not pausing to watch it shut down, he leapt back up to the ceiling and made his way closer to the Marine encampment.
Once above their heads, he found that just as they were about to set off and find Pereskova, that same uncomfortably-soft, monotone voice from one of the Synthetics sounded off, loudly notifying everyone present: "warning: UA 571-C Automated Sentry Gun, Number Five, has been depleted of ammunition. Recommend: immediate maintenance and re-stocking".

The news was met with stunned silence by the Marines present... before a new round of yelling and panic surged through the lot of them. Right before Deutereux raised his voice, shouting for all of them to get a hold of themselves. He ordered an immediate activation of all the Synthetics, and for the Marines to circle-up in a defensive formation.
They would search for Pereskova, later...

And Anteros's plan was still very much on-track...

As Anteros watched the Marines set about turning on the Androids and sending them to either end of the market... he realized that he was taking a strange sort of satisfaction from this. It took him a moment to realize what it was that gave him this surge of giddiness and excitement, but when he realized what it was, he found himself grimacing at it.
He was gratified that the plan was working, sure, but more specifically: he was surreptitiously pleased at the fact that he was outmaneuvering these soldiers and their pet computers. They were walking straight into his hands, and he had a laundry-list of reasons to expect a victory.
But why was he pleased about that? What does "victory" even mean, in this context? It wasn't just that by doing this, his and Samantha's short-term survival would be ensured, but it was this... pleasant swelling in his chest. Pride? Why, though? This wasn't a competition, the only reward was to continue living, and he shouldn't have been glad about hurting people...

But then again... did he not have cause to be proud?

Throughout his time as one of Mother's servants, Anteros had never directly fought the Colonial Marines. He'd killed some by way of stealth and surprise, sometimes finishing off an already-wounded one, but only ever one at a time— maybe three, at maximum. And even then, he was usually accompanied by upwards of twenty Soldiers and Rangers, in the larger battles. Xenomorphs, he'd always thought, derived their deadliness from swarm-tactics and chokepoints. Put any random Soldier or Worker in the middle of a field, surrounded by trained Colonial Marines: it'll be perforated with bullets faster than you can say "Xenomorph-XX121".
Yet, here he was, crouched atop a vent, watching a Section of Marines huddle together in fear of his presence. He was about to "defeat" eight (more) Colonial Marines, and five (more) Combat Androids, using nothing but his body and mind. No tactical oversight from Mother, no Hive-Mates to provide distraction, and no margin for error. If he wasn't as lucid as he was, he never would have even thought of trying to pull anything like this off.
Even if he was doing so in a method and place that gave him every possible advantage...

Was being proud of that wrong? Or should he admonish himself for even entertaining the thought?

I really can't make my mind up, can I?, he realized. Either way, I have to get on with it, regardless... I'll just have to put it on the shelf, until tomorrow— figure it out, later...

Anteros slowly crawled forward, clambering his way along the ceiling's pipework. The five remaining Synthetics were now patrolling around the supermarket's aisles, shining their "head-lights" across the ceiling and walls to sweep for intruders. Once he removed the Androids from play, he could then deal with the Marines.

And he had no sympathy for walking calculators.

---

Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi's swift but wide punch grazed off of Zazin's' left shoulder, as he leaned and slid to the right— his right arm expertly whipping 'round to deliver hook into the exposed ribs just beneath her left arm-pit. It struck with a meaty thump, unprotected by her extended left arm, drawing a short bark and jerk in response to the blow. She made to turn and swing her right arm to catch him, but her fist was intercepted by his own right hand. At the same time, he had twisted himself around on his left heel and sent a roundhouse kick into her side, just below where he'd punched her. It struck with a blunt "thunt" noise, but she did not budge at it.
She attempted to hook her left arm around his extended leg out of impulse, but Zazin's' grip on her right hand had adjusted to holding her wrist, his left hand joining it moments later, and just as her arm had wrapped around his leg, he yanked her wrist down and to his left with a not insignificant amount of force.

The result was the two of them going to ground in a heap. Her arm had lost its grip on his leg, and before he even knew which way was up, Zazin' was using it to kick at her gut, landing several minor impacts that made her growl in mounting frustration. Knowing that this wasn't going well for her, she rolled and forced herself to her feet, successfully wrenching her wrist out of his hands. Zazin' knew well enough to quickly do the same, and did so just in time to avoid her rapidly descending heel, her entire leg being swung downwards, aimed at his head, like an axe being brought down on wood.

Zazin' calmly stepped backwards, rolling his shoulders, as Hul'Mei openly snarled to herself, glowering at him from under her brow, fists clenched. Her short tabū'koti were as flared and raised as was possible, and he could smell the scent of rage on the air.

Shortly after the "real fight" began, the dynamic between them had reversed. Hul'Mei had taken the role of aggressor, attacking him with reliably adequate punches and kicks in continuous bursts. Zazin' did what he always did when faced with an offensive: a calm, roving tactical retreat— twisting his torso and leaning this way and that to avoid her attacks. Allowing her fists and feet to hit his shoulders or elbows where they might have struck his face. Ceding ground when there was no value in contesting it. And whenever she overextended, he would use his evasive maneuvers as the fulcrum for counter-attacks. To her credit, she did rarely put herself in a bad position... at first. However, with each time she received a blow, and the longer that she went without landing a solid strike on him, the more annoyed she became.
The more annoyed she became, the more determined she became to actually hit him, even once— pouring more strength into each attack in an effort to make herself quicker. And the more determined she got, the more annoyed she would get on every subsequent failed attack and strike received. Her jabs turned into hooks, her hooks into haymakers, and her overall method becoming increasingly less technical. She was certainly fast and strong enough to match him, to be sure, and he was glad that he had the skill and know-how to avoid taking one of her attacks to his face.
But being fast and strong wasn't nearly enough— if it were, he would have been killed on one of his hunts a long time ago. By putting everything into pure force and ferocity, her attacks were now terribly telegraphed. They were dealt out one after the other without any real thought as to deception or cunning. She just wanted to hit him. Really, really hard.

Except, it wasn't working, and he now had infinitely more opportunities to counter than he did when they started. There were open scratch wounds and scrapes pockmarked across her frame— one of her eyes was squinted shut with blood having poured from her a wound on her scalp and her arms and fists were markedly splashed with the fluid simply from the outer-skin being shorn off. And by the way she was heaving so loudly, it was clearly taxing her stamina to be burning the candle at both ends for this long. The one thing she managed to impress him with was the fact that she'd been going full-force for about eight units— impressive for someone without much conditioning.
Now, though, it was clearly running out. Put succinctly: she was prone to irritation, and was now too angry and too tired to fight him properly.

Not that he blamed her for that. He was the same way, when he was younger. He supposed it was just a shame— if she were putting thought into what she was doing, the fight would be infinitely more challenging. He wanted a challenge, and more than that, he wanted to make her give him one.
There was also the fact that half the point of this was for him to evaluate her personal fighting method such that her training could be focused toward her most apt talents. So far, she was clearly very good at keeping her eyes open and had almost never been caught off-guard by one of his attacks— not before she got pissed off, at least. He had yet to see her "real" offensive acumen, though— any random brute could bull-rush someone and start swinging. She could move and strike with a reasonable amount of flexibility and speed, if nothing else... He'd need to bring her back to a level-headed medium and start this over...

And she would give him the chance in about 3... 2... 1...

Hul'Mei snarled, and shook her head, rushing at him, again, practically sprinting up to him as she wound up for a wide haymaker. Zazin' stood there, side-on, at first, and just as she came within range, he swung up his rear leg, twisting on the ball of his right foot, and delivered a picture-perfect, thunderous side kick straight into the woman's completely exposed gut— right under the breasts and into the diaphragm. The funny thing was, he could see her face turn from stony indignation to shocked dread as she realized her mistake— milliseconds before impact.

The result was a resounding "WUMP" sound being heard, as well as a few sympathetic groans from the spectators, who had now grown in number to about fifteen. Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi gasped out the air in her lungs, mandibles splayed wide, and stumbled backward, quickly holding her stomach and making an admirable effort to draw in a breath. She groaned to herself between gasps, spat out blood, and turned to the side, a little, slouching heavily. Zazin-Vor'mekta finally drew back his leg from its kick position and faced the woman, crossing his arms, patiently.

Hul'Mei continued to heave and spit, eventually dropping to a knee as a visible wave fatigue finally struck her for the first time in about an hour. She must have felt suddenly light-headed because she palmed her forehead and fell forward, touching her face to the sanded floor and panting. She groaned.

Zazin' turned his head at the sound of something hitting the floor to his left, and regarded a thrown Health-Shard with moderate surprise. Another Health-Shard came sailing from the spectator-seats and landed near the first. Zazin' gave a nod to the ones who had apparently tossed the devices, and turned to observe Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi, once more. Apparently, their audience wanted to see more from them...
He waited for her to get back up or possibly speak, but she continued to stay where she was— even dry-heaving a few times. Seeing that she wasn't going to be getting herself back in-form any time soon, he stepped forward and carefully knelt in front of her.

Sensing him, her head whipped upwards, and upon seeing him look upon her good-naturedly, her unclosed eye (for the briefest of instants) expressed tight, restrained hatred— scowling. But then, it quickly faded and she looked away with a grimace.
She stayed where she was, and continued to stare at the ground, as though expecting to be yelled at or lectured. Her gasps and wheezes petered out in a final few awkward coughs.

"I trust you realize why that happened?", he asked, measuredly.

"You are better than me...", she toned, trying and failing to not sound bitter.

"Well, yes", he said, nodding, "but that wasn't your actual mistake".

She looked at him, again, expression unchanged.

"You got angry", he said, matter-of-factly with a tinge of chiding suggestion, "stopped thinking it through— wanted to see blood". She frowned a bit and glanced to her left before looking at him out of the corner of her right eye. He continued, "so, you went too hard and too fast. That made you lose your stamina, which then made you lose your focus". She blinked at him with her head still turned, and frowned a little, guiltily. "Causing you to leave yourself open", he remarked, gesturing at her.

The Yautja in the spectator-seats were mumbling amongst themselves and making idle conversation as they waited for the next round to start— no one was within earshot to hear any of what they were saying.

She stared at him for a few moments, expression unchanging, before huffing and slowly standing back up, with a grouchy look about her. He got up, in turn, and said to her, "we are training, Hul'Mei. I understand that it can be frustrating, and that failing is revolting to any Yautja, but the entire point of this is to improve without having to lose anything meaningful". He looked her in the eye and clasped her upper-arm to draw her attention. She met his gaze reluctantly, slouching a bit, and rubbing at her where his heel had slammed into her gut.
He released her arm after a moment, and said, "losing to me, at any rate, is nothing to be ashamed of. Not as though you'd be expected to stand against me in a Prāta-Nahmrai". A ceremonial fight-to-the-death.

She made a grumbling noise, and flicked her upper mandibles in acknowledgement, seeming to be put in a slightly better mood— no longer scowling as much, at least. "I am sorry", she said, ruefully, "I... didn't know I could get that angry about something as trivial as sparring...".
He shrugged, and smiled, saying, "no one does, at first".

Zazin' turned about and grabbed up the Health-Shards, tossing one to Hul'Mei before snapping his own in half, declaring, "one more round, and if you land a clean hit on me, I'll see about a reward". Hul'Mei raised a brow at that, apparently finding it odd, but she broke open her Health-Shard, ready to get on with it. The two of them nodded to each other, and both jammed their Shards into their own stomachs. A pair of roars shook the kehrite. They threw the spent Health-Shards off to either side.
Hul'Mei's wounds stitched themselves closed, and she quickly wiped the blood off of her face and out of her eye.

Zazin' felt what little stamina he'd spent return to him in a flash of vision-blurring pain, and his excitement built to a new high, once more.

The pair squared off... and the next round began.