Chapter 20: The Beast Focuses
Three blue-clad Combat Androids marched down the aisle, brisk in pace and stiff in gait, hefting shotguns in their right hands and thumping Motion-Trackers in the lefts. Two walked forward, toward an unconscious Marine, lying face-down on the linoleum floor, while the third was just behind them, walking backwards to cover their rear.
Each of their right eyes shone like the midday-sun, casting their gazes with a bright, stark, whitening glare. They scanned about themselves, shining their lights upwards, to the side, and across the wall on their right— ever-vigilant for stalking Xenomorphs. If this were any other normal day on the job, their tactics might have served them well, and made them prepared for any attack.
What they weren't ready for, however, was an enemy who knew these things about them.
To their left, and just behind the wall of shelved, on-ice fish-products, Anteros padded along, keeping pace with them in the next aisle over. He was waiting for a decent chance to strike, and he anticipated that one would come just… about… now—
As the three Androids came within chucking distance of the comatose woman they'd found, the rear-guard turned about on its heel and was about to step around its compatriots to approach the body. The moment that it did, it left a gap open in their array of light, and that was the chance Anteros needed. All anyone might have heard (separated from the ambient hum of refrigeration-systems) was a minute, unnoticeable, inconspicuous "kha-thack-thack" sound…
In the next instant, Anteros fell upon them from above.
The instant his four limbs touched the ground behind the three foes, he moved to attack. The third Android, still behind the forward pair, became his target. He grabbed at its head and squeezed, twisting and crushing, wrenching its cranium from its shoulders in a spray of white. Its body convulsed and thrashed about as though electrocuted, throwing the Motion-Tracker in its left hand off into a tray full of rotting prawns. Anteros tossed its head over his shoulder, came up behind the ambulatory torso and he hugged the thing to his chest, stepping on its heels, grasping its shoulders and holding it steady.
He'd seen it happen a few times before— without the higher-functioning computers in the head, the torso's rudimentary protocols and drivers could only make poorly-informed guesses as to what to do. And the response to the head being violently torn off was typically to just run and shoot.
And with his grip on said Android's arms being as steady as they were, he could direct its imminent shots, however amateurishly.
Just as the two Androids in front of him were turning around, having registered a spray of liquid hit their backs, the shotgun in the hands of the beheaded synth fired, barking a bright flash of yellow. The blast smashed into the side of the head of the Android to the right, tearing away scraps of "flesh" and revealing metallic "bone" and wires. The android in question was sent reeling from the force of the buckshot, while the other blithely projected: "hostile Xenomorph life-form: detected".
Just before it could raise its weapon, though, the captive Android's shotgun barked again, and Anteros had turned his captive's shoulders at just the right time to have its gun point at the offending synth.
A peppering of bullets, like the fist of a giant, smacked into the left Synthetic's face, tearing holes in its head and neck and knocking its torso off-kilter— making it stumble backwards. At this point, though, the Synthetic on the right had recovered and was aiming its weapon, one-handed.
On impulse, Anteros ducked and retracted his arms, letting the synthetic go, curling into a ball on the ground, and putting his new "friend" between him and the shooter— just in time, as well. A third bark of gunfire preceded the beheaded Android being knocked backwards and flopping over on top of Anteros's crouched form.
It stayed there, draped atop his head and back like a thrown towel, gurgling a final, deepening electronic groan. A bullet must have struck one of the wires of its power-core.
Less than two moments, later, the pair of functioning Androids found themselves knocked off of their feet and onto their backs by the "corpse" of their brother being thrown at their face.
Anteros pounced upon the heap of non-living limbs, crouching atop the thrown body to keep the two beneath pinned. He wrenched away the shotguns and Motion-Trackers from the grasps of their owners and surgically impaled each of them with his tail— destroying their power-cores.
When the deed was done, Anteros found himself having to move, immediately— two more Androids, the last ones left, were running down the length of the supermarket, toward the site of all of the commotion. He stepped off of the pile of artificial limbs and leapt to the ceiling, hiding atop the very same vent from when he'd ambushed Pereskova.
The two approaching Androids were waving about their Motion-Trackers in the general direction of the altercation, but as they came around the corner of the aisle, they found nothing but their five deceased brothers and the knocked-out woman, in question.
Upon seeing the devastation— a puddle of vomit, spreading, shallow pools of white coolant that stretched almost the entirety of the aisle, spooling lengths of frayed wires and unmoving bodies, the computers in the synthetic's heads must have surmised that going any further would have been ill-advised. The pair of them took positions on either side of the aisle, lowered themselves to a knee, and waved about their Motion-Trackers, scanning the darkness and ceiling with their cranial-lights.
They were waiting for an attack, obviously.
And Anteros certainly delivered one... eventually...
He carefully, slowly, crawled forward along the vent— daring not to make any sudden movement, lest their Motion-Trackers detect him. Looking at him, one would almost assume he was being filmed in cheap slow-motion. It took him at least three minutes, alone, to get to where he needed to go, but once he got there, it was simply a matter of getting poised for the ambush… and waiting for the right opportunity…
Mere meters above the synthetics' heads, Anteros hung from his tail, coiled around a low-hanging pipe. He looked almost like he was imitating an opossum or spider-monkey, fore-limbs stretched long by gravity and back legs tucked into his stomach. Of course, he was also shrouded in darkness. All that anyone might have caught if they looked very, very carefully... was the ever-so-slight, orange-ish glint of his head... a small trickle of color in a void of endless black...
He... he could feel the Ancestral starting to make itself known again... now that he was evening the odds, it was getting more confident and was urging him to be more aggressive, now. With each synthetic disabled, it pulsed a little less quietly, feeding him bursts of adrenaline a little more freely, pushing forward that old, familiar rage ever-more fervently. He supposed that that should have concerned him, considering that the Marines would be saved 'til last, and he'd have to go easy on them...
Though... he wondered if he could keep himself cool-headed by taking his time and getting accustomed to each higher strata of aggression...
... in any case, it hadn't proved an issue, so far, and if he was being honest with himself... he was kind of having fun, in a way?
At no discernable signal, and at no noticeable interval... he allowed himself to drop—
... it wasn't as though these walking calculators had souls, and tearing them to ribbons was half the point...
He landed just behind the pair of Androids, almost utterly silent, but for the whoosh of air and a dull smacking sound. By the time either of them began to turn around, he was upon the one to his left— the one up against the wall. He swung his right arm, claws outstretched, jamming the tips of his talons right into the thing's face— rending artificial flesh like paper. He squeezed— crushed part of its "cheek" in his grip, yielding a satisfying-sounding crunch, and yanked his arm backwards.
The entire front of its head came free with a hair-raising, metallic screech, and just as soon as it did, Anteros spun about to face the other direction, letting his left arm swing out in the same movement.
The result was the Android's head being whacked straight off of its shoulders by his fist, sending the cranium bouncing and skidding down the aisle to join the rest of the detritus. Its body, meanwhile, found itself being knocked over by Anteros's tail coiling around one of its legs and yanking, like the rip-cord of a lawn-mower— also resulting in the shotgun in its hands going off and firing a spray of buckshot into the ceiling.
... besides, if he could indulge himself while dispatching these things, maybe he could "get it out of his system"...
The other synthetic had now had ample time to register his presence and raise its gun, about to fire. No sooner had the beheaded synth's back hit the floor did Anteros find himself instinctively ducking and crawling to the side— taking a leap and throwing himself sideways, further down the aisle, as a strong influx of fear gripped him. A short, clumsy flight later, and he was sliding across the liquid-stained linoleum. His maneuver must have been enough to throw off the Android's aim, though. The shotgun of the offending synth yelled a deafening bark, and a spray of pellets smacked the coolant-coated floor just to his right, sounding like rocks being thrown down a pipe.
Anteros turned to the left and jumped, landing atop the shelving, quickly crawling forward and disappearing from the synthetic's view, retreating into the frozen dairy-goods aisle and finding himself atop a waist-high freezer full of tubs of ice-cream.
... though, perhaps he shouldn't count on that. It wasn't as though he'd experimented with situations like this, before...
Anteros could feel himself panting, and drooling, and snarling... but there was also... pain?
He scanned himself, sniffing through his teeth... and found the source. A deep gouge in his right forearm. One of the shotgun-pellets must have grazed it. Minor... would heal with time... but still far too close for comfort. A trickle of acid crawled down his arm and dripped from his fingers...
Anteros found himself getting an idea, just as the same synthetic who'd shot at him strolled around the corner, up ahead, and raised its weapon at him. It walked forward, apparently wanting to get the most out of its gun by getting within the most effective range.
Just before it could come within five meters of him, though, Anteros gathered pressure in his throat and spat a globule of yellow-ish liquid straight at the synthetic's face. Given the bright-as-Hell flashlight beaming from its eye, Anteros had a pretty easy target.
And he was a decent shot, as it turns out, given that the acidic projectile slapped directly into the Android's face, causing its light to pop and sizzle out. As though by impulse, its shotgun fired, but it hadn't quite been aiming at him, nor was it quite in optimal range.
Plus, Anteros had also jumped straight upwards the instant after he'd upchucked the acid-ball.
Anteros landed on the floor of the dairy isle, like a feline after having been spooked, and he cautiously padded toward the, now, very blind Android. Acid was continuing to eat away at the thing's face and neck, dirtying its pristine white "blood"— turning it into a bubbling, brackish mess, while turning its insides to unflattering shades of black and brown. Anteros waited a few moments… careful not to make any sound to alert the synth… only for said synth to go stiff in the joints, fall onto its face, and begin to convulse and gurgle, loudly. The acid must have started eating away at its processors, because it suddenly declared, "Seegson Synthetics thanks you for choosing it for your military and personal-protection purposes. Have a nice day", in its usual monotone, entirely-too-soft voice.
Why exactly these things could function without their primary computers, but suddenly broke the moment that said computers became damaged, was beyond him.
It then began twitching and making very pathetic attempts to get to its feet, only to flop back onto its stomach, so... Anteros walked up and stabbed its torso with his tail-blade.
He then went to go find the last synthetic, and found it turning about on the spot, pivoting with its shotgun held up as though to aim with it. As though it thought it could keep itself safe by spinning around and holding up its gun. He went up and killed it, too.
... these things kind of suck once you get the drop on them, he thought to himself. That all was rather anti-climactic, wasn't it?
And so it was that with all of the Combat Androids dead, Anteros was faced with the task of tackling the tricky prospect of tangling with the tenacious Human soldiers on the other side of the market…
They were still all kneeling in a circle with their weapons pointed outward. None of them, it seemed, had Motion-Trackers, as all of those had apparently been given to the Androids to deal with.
As he thought of what to do, he went to check on Pereskova. He'd noticed, earlier, that the synthetic "blood" had pooled on the floor of the sea-food aisle quite thickly, and he worried that she might have not been breathing— what with being face-down, and all.
He found her still breathing, thankfully, though the left side of her face was stained with off-white liquid. He took the quiet moment to quickly slap some Hive Resin onto the wound on his arm— wash off the acid in the liquid beneath his hands.
He noticed that she was somewhat close to reawakening, judging by the increasing pace of her heartbeat and the slowly-building amount of electric activity in her head.
Not knowing what quite to do, otherwise, he turned her over to have her lie on her back and quickly set about using some Hive Resin to glue each of her limbs to the floor by the wrists and ankles— putting her in a spread-eagle pose.
As he was gluing her last foot to the floor, though, she began stirring, so to stop her from moving the aforementioned leg before the Resin could set, Anteros… laid himself on top of her (as though it were missionary), with his tail coiling around the leg in question to keep it still.
As the woman beneath him was urged to come to by the sudden weight atop her body, Anteros quickly clamped his right hand over her mouth. Well… more accurately: around the entire lower half of her face (his thumbs pressed onto her right cheek, his fingers on her left) given the size of his hand, but whatever works.
When she finally woke up, she froze for an instant, her eyes not quite seeing, properly, before she registered the fact that she couldn't move, and promptly began to squirm. A pained, fearful groan forced its way out of his palm, and Anteros (purely out of the fear of drawing attention) grabbed at her throat with his left hand— squeezed and shook it a little, and snarled aloud to discourage any noise.
Her eyes focused onto his shadowed silhouette, finally, finding his drooling maw a mere foot away from her face... while he had her pinned to the floor with his body... and Hive Resin restraining her limbs...
... if he were honest with himself, there were probably at least ten other ways he could have done this to not make it seem so... disadvantageous, but it was what he could most quickly think to do, in the moment.
The woman stared up at him, beginning to hyper-ventilate through her nose. Fear and despair wrought through her eyes— tears beginning to well up. She shook her head side-to-side as though to beg for mercy, but Anteros squeezed her throat and snarled, again. He was trying very hard to resist the Ancestral's will— chomping at the bit for him to snap her neck or lobotomize her, as it was...
She whined... and sobbed a little, a few tears joining the puddle of synthetic coolant under her head.
Why am I torturing her like this?, he thought to himself, I should have tied her up while she was still knocked out...
The look she gave him brought up that same, awful nausea that had made him run and sulk, back on the ship. In her eyes, now, he saw the same terrified visage of frightened children and adults, alike, in the Egg Chambers...
What thoughts must have been running through her mind, right now? What was she wishing she could have done differently? Who or what was she wishing she'd said "goodbye" to? What was she begging to be able to see, again? All because of him— despite the necessity.
... he decided that he should try to make this less stressful, for her. It was least he could do, right? It wasn't as though anyone was watching him... and he owed it to himself to walk his talk, for once…
After she kept still and silent for a few moments, still crying into his hand, Anteros released her throat, and raised his left hand to his mouth, holding a finger to his bared teeth, as though to say "be quiet".
The moment he did, the sobbing halted with an abrupt hiccup, and her gaze widened in shock. She became completely still, and Anteros could see her mind swirl in completely different direction than before.
He would have grimaced, nnnnnggg— shit, that may have been a bad idea...
As Pereskova's eyes (having fully adjusted to the darkness) studied him as the seconds wore on, there was something else beginning to emerge in her gaze, other than fear...
Anteros's hand lowered from his face, and as he placed it on the floor next to her head, he must have bumped the lamp mounted on her right shoulder, because it chose that moment to turn on— washing him in a dim glow, hindered by coolant having been smeared on the bulb.
There he was, revealed in all of his odd, underwhelming glory: hands and arms slathered in white liquid instead of crimson stains. Her eyes quickly adjusted to the change in lighting, and when they did, any fear in her expression was chased out by sudden confusion… and recognition.
It was then that he suddenly remembered seeing this Marine, before. Two days ago, in fact. She was in that squad of Marines that Samantha had run into! The one that Anteros had attacked… and killed Gorm, in doing so...
How he hadn't already recognized her, by this point, he'd never know. And why he wasn't able to hear her thoughts, by now, was also a mystery, to him...
Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me! I know they say `it's a small world` for a reason, but come the fuck on!, he thought. Being reminded of that little failure of his wasn't what he needed, right now...
Anteros, by now, estimated that the last bit of Hive Resin on her ankle had dried, and uncoiled his tail from her leg. Pereskova, though, didn't seem to notice, and continued to stare up at him— still confused, to be sure, but her expression now carried something of an "are you fucking kidding me" look.
Yeah, you and me both, sweetheart...
Anteros again gestured for her to be quiet (not that she had any choice, with his hand locked around her mouth), before using his left hand to grab and yank off the flashlight on her shoulder. It came off without much hassle, and winked out almost immediately, so he dropped it and allowed it to stay connected to her pauldron by a wire.
He was about to get off of her and be on his way... but he couldn't have her calling for help... that might push the Marines into coming to rescue her... and if they all arrived at once, he'd be put back at square one, at best... or he might be pushed into getting more violent than was necessary, at worst...
Anteros very carefully shifted himself to move his feet, crouching above her hips instead of putting any weight on her. At this, she tensed up and flinched, her eyes darting to and fro after the return of darkness. Anteros waited for her to calm down before very slowly releasing her mouth and retracting his hand.
At this, she blinked repeatedly and searched for him in the dark with her eyes. She looked so confused... and afraid...
Anteros felt himself pushed to act by a sudden welling of pity in him. It all came back to him— all those heartbreaking moments where he had wanted to show compassion to those scared and distraught souls in the Egg Chambers. All those times that he'd wanted to show his respect to a dying soldier— to just let them know that someone would know of their sacrifice and remember them. The fact that he never could, before, would have brought tears to any eyes he may have possessed...
Anteros wiped his right hand on his thigh to dry it of liquid and extended it to Pereskova's face. When he touched her, she flinched, hard, but as his fingers and palm gently brushed off the thin coating of white coolant from her cheek, a thumb brushing the fluid from her forehead, she became even more confused... but he could see hints of something else— months of pain and a wellspring of appreciation beneath the surface.
He held her like that for a bit, stroking her face as gently as he could manage— trying desperately to get it across that he meant her no real harm.
The woman looked up at him, as though she were a homeless man being given the keys to a house, and quietly she whispered, uncertain, "I... die, now?".
Anteros found himself repeating that sound in his head, over and over— her voice was heavily-accented with an Eastern-European tenor to it. It was... nice. He wondered about that choice of words, though. Did she think that he was hunting down that entire squad, after killing Gorm?
Knowing that she was watching him for any sort of response, even if she never really expected one, Anteros very slowly shook his head, side-to-side, at her, no, he thought, you won't die.
Upon registering his reply, and presumably replaying it in her head to make sure she wasn't seeing things, she stared at him for a few moments, not quite believing her eyes, before she sighed and closed her eyes, letting her head rest on the floor. A single, tired laugh forced its way out of her chest, and the tiniest of smiles graced her admittedly plump lips. Overwhelming relief, he guessed.
Anteros knew for fact that he would have been grinning like a moron, at this point, but he didn't care. It felt really fucking good to be able finally do something right! Finally, he was doing as he'd always wanted!
But I do have to shut you up...
Anteros gently tapped her cheek with a finger to make her look at him, before using his right hand to pinch her lips closed with a thumb and finger. He slowly used his left hand to try and indicate to her to stay like that, but she just looked confused. He then removed his hand from her mouth, and when she obediently kept her mouth closed, he began.
His Piston Jaw slowly stretched out of his mouth, and a small river of Hive Resin came forth from it, beginning to cover and pool over her lips as he cupped his hands on both of her cheeks.
To her credit, Pereskova didn't squirm, much— just flinched like a crackhead, winced, and groaned in disgust. Understandable.
Once the job was done and the Resin began to dry, the woman was left with an oblong stretch of crusted-over material gluing her mouth shut and covering parts of her cheeks. She, in all fairness, looked utterly confused and a bit disgusted, but Anteros merely waited for her to look at him, before once again putting a finger to his teeth, and patting her cheek one more time. At which point, he turned, leaped, and disappeared into the darkness.
Sorry, darling— I'd love to get to know you better, but I have to go and beat the shit out of your friends, now. No hard feelings!
Like most Hive Resin, the stuff covering her mouth could probably be pulled off with intermediate effort, and would become brittle by the time half a day had passed, so he didn't feel too bad about leaving her like that.
Anteros jumped up to ceiling... and two seconds after doing so, remembered all of those Androids he'd just killed, and the fact that he'd left all of those Shotguns and Motion-Trackers lying around. So, he gathered all of those up and left them right next to where he'd left Pereskova's rifle and pistol. As he did so, seeing all of those synthetic heads lying around gave him an idea as to how to make the Marines come to where he wanted them...
About two minutes later, he had the heads of all seven synthetics he'd killed placed equidistantly on the floor lining the "eastern" half of the supermarket's length. On the other side, was the Marine encampment, and the Marines themselves still dug in in their circle of early-afternoon sunlight.
Anteros picked up a synth's head — the one that he'd torn the front half of off — and lobbed it as hard as he could manage. From the far right corner of the market (mere meters away from Pereskova), all the way to the Marine encampment, he tracked the head as it flew. And when he heard the distant crash as it presumably smashed into one of those mini-fridges at the checkout-counters, Anteros turned and ran to the next head, a good distance down the way.
Six more times, the head of a synthetic sailed the distance over the width of the supermarket, each one from a different angle, all the way to the far-left corner.
Seven heads of Combat Androids, all returned to sender. A very blatant and somewhat banal challenge, if he was honest with himself, but it seemed to be doing the job, just fine.
As Anteros watched from high above, seeing Deutereux sternly lay out a plan-of-action, he felt himself getting that same swelling of pride in his chest. Except now… he didn't quite feel the need to be as downtrodden about it. He knew he wouldn't kill them. And he knew it was just what was necessary.
But as the Ancestral suddenly bucked and filled his head with images of prey being slaughtered… Anteros also saw the need for caution.
Eight Colonial Marines moved through the aisles of the abandoned, pitch-black supermarket. Four in front, four in back, all of them on high alert. Their fingers never more than an inch away from the triggers of their Pulse Rifles; their shoulder-mounted flashlights casting eerie beams of light in a multitude of directions. Each soldier scanned their surroundings independently, small flashlights attached to the barrels of their guns being waved around as a means of keeping an eye out. They all moved as one, never needing to speak to know where to step and where they were going— only a tap on the shoulder and a nod in a certain direction.
They constantly directed their lights upwards and to the sides— never letting any one square-foot of their perimeter go without light for more than four seconds.
Sergeant Deutereux had judged that splitting up was the last thing they wanted to do, and had surmised that their adversary would be given an advantage should they attempt to find Pereskova or fix either of the Sentry Guns. As he had remarked, they weren't dealing with any kind of Xenomorph— not a normal one, at any rate.
And so, the Section's current objective was to find and kill whatever was in here, with them.
Anteros had to admire the courage being put on display, here. Especially given that the Marines didn't really know where to go, and were really just aimlessly wondering through the aisles of the supermarket. Deutereux seemed to think that their assailant would come to them, soon enough, and all credit to the man, Anteros wouldn't have called him "wrong".
The Marines turned a corner, entering the middle-section of the supermarket. On either side of them were immense walls of industrial-grade equipment and raw material, stacked on metallic shelving that stretched well up to the ceiling. The scent of saw-dust and lubricating-oil could only have been missed by a chronic smoker.
Tanner nudged the Marine next to him and pointed to the left with his thumb to indicate their direction, off-handedly whispering to the group, "so, uuuuhhh... anyone ever heard of a Bug pulling some guerilla-tactics shit?". The grip on his Pulse Rifle retightened itself, as he swept the light of his gun up to the ceiling, "'cause, uh… I dunno about you guys, but you could'a fooled me into thinkin' that we were up against a black-ops team, here…". His tone was suitably nervous for the circumstance, but otherwise, he was holding himself together fairly well.
They turned around another corner, entering the next aisle. Tanner and Fischer made sure to sweep the ground-level of their path ahead, while Sergeant Deutereux and a woman named Eriksdottir kept an eye on the ceiling. Behind Tanner, on the rear-guard, Private First Class Samson remarked, "if it were a black-ops team, we'd be dead already. Ain't no professional soldier 'gonna pussyfoot around like this".
Fischer grunted in agreement, momentarily leaning out and checking around the next corner, before giving Tanner a tap on the arm, which Tanner then passed down to Eriksdottir to his right, who then did the same to Deutereux on her right as he was checking in the other direction. Fischer added, "only reason we wouldn't be dead, by now, is if they wanted some or all of us alive. Can't think of a reason they'd kill Pereskova but not the rest of us, though".
Tanner responded, "we don't know that she's dead, yet", while briefly checking behind himself to see if everything was good on the rear. His tone didn't sound all too committed.
The group moved forward, turning the left corner and entering the next aisle— shelving replete with cardboard boxes and tool-boxes. Each of the forward-guard lifted a leg to tap the shin of the Marine behind them to let them know they were moving.
Fischer asked, "arh you villing to bet that she isn't?", his minute German accent peaking through as his nervousness increased at the sight of white liquid on the floor, ahead of them— synthetic coolant. No one addressed it— no one wanted to address it.
Lance Corporal Eriksdottir mumbled something in Swedish before Tanner could reply to the question, and thought out loud, "not like any of us care. She was kind of a bitch…".
Samson and Private First Class Smithson audibly snorted, and were suppressing laughs at the thoroughly unsurprising revelation that the only two women in their Section didn't quite get along.
An awkward silence reigned for a few beats, taken up by a pair of small wheezes and chuckles, before Tanner remarked, "I thought she was okay…".
"Zhat's because you kept trying to get a date wiss her, Cowskin", Fischer said, earning a short chuckle from everyone else. Tanner was about to deny the claim, but Deutereux commanded, calmly, "volume"— reminding everyone to keep their voices low. The laughs immediately ceased.
The group set up to turn the next corner, Deutereux checking that the coast was clear on the right while Fischer checked down the left, Eriksdottir and Tanner watching the ceiling. Once all seemed well, they moved ahead and started down the next aisle, coming to about a quarter of the way through the hardware-section of the supermarket.
As though there'd been no interruption, Tanner off-handedly claimed, "I tried to ask her out exactly once, `Private Caviar`", sounding a bit bitter as he referred to Fischer by the man's former stage-name, from back when the man had been a stand-up comic while serving in the Navy. "'Least I tried to be friendly with her. You guys all gave her the cold shoulder from the start", he said.
Lance Corporal McCann, behind Eriksdottir, mumbled, "the lass barely spoke broken English, mate".
Eriksdottir deadpanned, grouchily, "she had resting-bitch-face, to the max".
Corporal Perez, behind Fischer, mentioned, "she stole my whiskey…".
Private First Class Smithson, behind Deutereux, said, "her damn music kept us up all night".
And as though to sum it all up, Fischer pointed out, more to the whole group than to Tanner, "she replaced Niko". He said it with a sober tone— appropriate for a sobering fact.
At that, everyone present shared a moment of silence for the memory of a fallen Marine, even as they all kept walking— their former teammate, Corporal Nikolai. Everyone had had a fond relationship with the man, and his death at the hands of a Praetorian, the previous week, had hit all of them a lot harder than any of them could admit. Pereskova had been the first and best replacement for Niko's position in their Section, and not everyone had been pleased about it.
After a minute or so of silence, Deutereux said, "none of that is Pereskova's fault, ya know?".
Nobody dared to comment— as usual for the rare occasion when the Sergeant deigned to speak up.
Deutereux said, after a moment, or two, "she transferred to our Platoon after her entire Section got slaughtered by Bugs. She was the only survivor…". He allowed his words to sink in for a moment or so, as the group prepared to turn the next corner. Pereskova had been assigned to their Section barely a day ago, and none of them had quite been told of her reason for transfer.
"There's a reason she kept to herself an' pilfered `Pezos's` off-brand whiskey", Deutereux added, allowing the matter to end on that note. All involved were silent, and one didn't need a sociology degree to know that the Marines were reevaluating their impression of their newest, and possibly late team-member (not that a degree of that sort would actually be useful for anything, at all, in the first place, mind you).
They got half-way through the next aisle over before Perez protested, weakly, "my whiskey is not off-brand…".
Deutereux sighed, "well, it tastes like overnight club soda and it barely gets me buzzed after four shots. Believe me, son, that shit's cheap— if not completely amateur bootleg. I've had Mexican whiskey, before, so don't try ta tell me it's a traditional recipe, or some other bull. For all of our sakes, I suggest you kneecap the motherfucker who keeps sellin' you that cra—".
Just as they were nearing the end of the aisle, the "crack-ada-kak-kak" of what sounded like an empty tin can being thrown against a brick wall echoed all-too-loudly through the supermarket. They all rushed out into the lane and spun toward the direction of the sound, pointing their guns and flashlights at the source. The beams of their lights revealed nothing… except a single, empty can of cat food rolling toward them, on the floor, at an oblique angle, maybe six meters away.
The Marines shined their lights upwards, to the sides, scanning the rows of hardware shelving and the wall to their right…
Nothing made itself seen and no sound met their ears…
They grouped together, putting themselves back-to-back in a circle, slowly turning and scanning in all directions.
They waited for a sound, a sign, a sight— anything.
And they waited...
And they waited...
Twenty Mississippi... thirty-two Mississippi... forty-four Mississippi...
Nothing but the cold, and beat of their hearts in their ears greeted them. And as beads of sweat began to roll down their faces... they slowly came to realize something.
Deutereux probably would have told them to get back in formation, by now...
They looked about themselves, at each other, at their surroundings. Indeed, they weren't mistaken: where once they'd been eight in number, now they were seven. The Sergeant had disappeared. In the rush to find the source of the noise, they'd lost track of him.
Tanner gulped... and looked to Eriksdottir, who's job it had been to watch for Deutereux in their formation, and asked her, "where's Sarge?". Dread and a bit of distress crept up in his tone.
She blinked at him, looked around... and shook her head in dismay.
Surprising himself, a bit, Anteros's ploy had worked. He'd managed to snatch Deutereux from behind the corner while the other Marines were distracted. A quick knock to the head made the man see stars enough to not scream, and another knocked him out. Anteros had already dragged away the Sergeant's body and weapons (as well as making a quick application of Hive Resin) by the time the other Marines had noticed the man was gone. He'd left Deutereux in the same aisle as Pereskova, and put the Sergeant's weapons with all the other ones. He snatched the hand-held radio device from Deutereux's person, as well— tore that apart, right quick. Scratch that task off the to-do list...
... and then he gave Pereskova a wave "hello" before he got back to it.
His approach to the situation had actually made the Ancestral easier to deal with. It had been pushing him to go rushing in the whole time, so he supposed that taking the careful, subversive approach did wonders to help him keep his rage in check.
And now... he just had the rest of the Marines to deal with. He'd assumed that removing their leader would make them less coordinated and easier to manage, but as they were now huddled together close enough to give each other sugar, he wondered if it might have just made them turtle-up, more than anything.
Honestly, the only reason he hadn't tackled them sooner was because he couldn't figure out how to start... and partly because their conversation interested him.
... and so did this one, actually.
They were talking amongst themselves as to who was supposed to call the shots, now that the boss was missing. The protocol was for the senior Lance Corporal to take charge, but Eriksdottir and McCann were arguing over which of them had joined the Marines earliest. They both graduated boot camp on the same month of the same year... but neither of them could remember what day they'd graduated. And because they'd each been born, raised, and trained on different planets, it soon became a debate over planetary rotations and how the calendar worked.
... Anteros clambered down from his perch amongst the pipework and crept his way down to the floor by using the hardware-section's shelving as a ladder. He padded up to where the aisle ended and estimated the distance between him and them.
Seven Marines, seven Pulse Rifles. That buckshot pellet grazing his arm, earlier, was the first time Anteros had ever been shot, in his life. He didn't really have any clue how much punishment he could actually take from as little as pistol— much less several military-grade assault-rifles. He'd seen fully-developed Soldier Xenos shrug off shotgun blasts to the chest, but Rangers and Sentries faired less well.
Anteros pawed at his own chest and stomach, trying to estimate how much of his chitin was properly armored...
And, if he was honest with himself... he didn't have the best clue how well his strength and speed would serve him, here. There wasn't exactly much space to work with... unless...
Anteros probed the area with his echolocation— taking note of the distance between the end of the supermarket and the Marine's location. If he could get a run-up while they were still standing in the middle of the lane… maybe he could avoid getting shot at, altogether— 'least at first.
Anteros turned around, ran to the other end of the aisle, and sprinted down the line of checkout-counters to Pereskova and Deutereux's position. Once there, he put himself in the market's corner and faced down the lane to the other end of the room. A straight line, completely open and devoid of obstacles, and right there at the supermarket's middle, were the Marines still standing around and arguing.
Anteros wiped his feet and hands of synthetic blood, breathing more deeply to prepare himself. His tail flexed itself and lashed about, vigorously, like a sprinter shaking out his limbs to stretch. He spaced his feet more widely apart, dipped himself down, gathered power in his back legs...
The Ancestral made itself known. It filled his head with the idea of pouncing on the Humans— just really lAyInG iNtO tHeM with his ClAwS aNd FiStS. A bash over the head. Talons tearing out a throat. Tail spearing itself through an abdomen. Grabbing and thrashing one of them by the head— snapping the neck and throwing the body around like a ragdoll. Grabbing one of their faces and crushing it until bLoOd CaMe OuT oF tHe EyEs...
A part of him, larger than he'd like to admit, really wanted to do all of that. It just... felt like it would be so damn satisfying. Like completing a puzzle by adding the final piece, times a thousand. Like tearing into a large meal. Like working out your anger by HURTING someone you hate looking at— breaking their fucking face! Because you wanted to, and nothing else— wanted to see them SuFfEr! The force, the exertion— the feeling of something DYING by your bare hands, and the POWER-RUSH that came from it! He could feel adrenaline begin to pump through his veins, his lungs expanding, heart beating faster, that burn in the back of his head— oh so familiar, oh so seductive...
Rage was like a drug to him. Bloodlust was like an encouraging yes-man. And his own Heart wanted all of it so fucking badly...
Rage, Bloodlust, and Heart. That was what he was, at the core of his being...
Deep down, in some long-abandoned cell of his gut, he wanted to indulge in that feeling. More than anything else.
He never had, before...
... but that was nothing new.
The rest of him, even as much as he wanted it, couldn't bring itself to give in. And it wasn't just the Unknown, who didn't want to hurt anyone anymore than he did. It wasn't just his sense of morality, which he couldn't get rid of even if he wanted it gone. It wasn't just the memories of all the people he'd ever listened to the thoughts of. It wasn't just the faces of everyone he'd ever watched die flashing in his head every time he even entertained the notion of killing. And it wasn't just his ever-present guilt...
It was Samantha, he realized...
Now that he knew for a fact that his urge to kill could be completely nullified by simply spending enough time around someone... he found himself simply telling the Ancestral "no"! Before, he'd have to have wrestled with it and mentally beaten it into submission, but right now... it was almost as though all he had to do was refuse and... the Ancestral almost acquiesced?
And so, even as the rage and lust and fire flowed around and through him... avoiding taking it into himself was as simple as refusing to look at it! It pushed him, to be certain... but he no longer felt in danger of losing control of the wheel, to it.
Anteros pushed off and ran— ran as fast as he could, toward the Marines, who were none the wiser. He felt and heard nothing as he sprinted onward— only the rush of blood and the thump of a heartbeat in his mind. It was as though he weren't moving his body, merely directing something else on how to— such was the depth of his focus. He was hyper-aware of everything happening around him— his claws striking the linoleum beneath his feet, the flawless, spring-like motion of his spine and legs, where each Marine stood, whether they could hear him, yet. But none of it ever... touched him. He was conscious of everything while never being subjected to it...
And so, as he came within ten meters of the Humans, and he jumped toward them, high and fast enough to sail over their heads... managing to hook his tail around one of their arms as he flew by was a trivial matter. Perez (he believed was his name) lost grip on his rifle upon being yanked off of his feet.
By the time anyone registered the fact that Perez had just been yoink'ed from their midst, Anteros had already landed on his back twelve feet away, catching Perez before the man could so much as yelp. Anteros slid across the linoleum, grasping the Corporal by both shoulders and holding him up with his feet braced on the soldier's armored stomach.
Just as a barrage of flashlights focused onto his position, Anteros lightly kicked the Marine off of him, over his head, and let go. By the time Perez landed on his back, dazed and seeing stars, even further down the lane, Anteros had already scrambled to his feet and jumped to his right, down the nearest aisle of the hardware-section. He bounded down the aisle, a ways, before clambering onto the lowest shelf on his left, hiding amidst a wall of cardboard boxes.
The rest of the Marines came running over to Perez to see if he was okay, three of them going to tend to the man, and the other three stalking their way down the aisle Anteros had disappeared into, searching for him on the ceiling and "walls".
They weren't sticking together, anymore— getting sloppy with their coordination.
Anteros slowly shoved his through the boxes on either side of him, careful not to let his claws tap against the metal frame-work too hard, silently making his way to the end of the shelving. As he stalked his way back into the lane, pushing aside a bag of fertilizer onto the linoleum, Perez was just beginning to get back up with help from his peers, and Anteros took the opportunity presented to him, what with three of said peers having their backs completely turned.
It took him one bound to reach them, and as he came up behind the three soldiers, he rose to his feet, wound up his right arm high above his head, and brought his fist down onto the helmet of the one in the middle— Smithson. He'd been the one helping Perez up, and when Anteros's fist bonked off the man's helmet, he ended up going limp and falling on top of Perez, knocking both of them prone.
Anteros barely registered the sound of the strike or the grunts of pain as they waved over his head.
The Marine to the right, McCann, just about managed to turn and utter a bewildered "oh, shit!", before Anteros swung his arm again in a backswing— his knuckles bashed into the Irishman's right cheek and sent him spinning, stumbling backwards— a spray of bullets from his weapon being unloaded into the floor as his trigger-finger went off out of impulse.
Anteros sensed the Marine on his left, Samson, beginning to aim his rifle, and he raised a leg— almost kicking backwards, not needing to see to know where to aim. The ball of his foot slammed into the Marine's torso-armor, causing the darker-toned man to fly backwards— right into the head-high, metal shelf. Samson was rendered dazed and, Anteros guessed, momentarily blind by the blow to the back of his head, and so the man's Pulse Rifle yelled a wild spray at where he estimated the threat to be.
Anteros was forced to drop to all fours, turning to face the threat, in evasion as a bullet snagged his left shoulder— Samson's impaired aim had been a little high, luckily. Unluckily, Perez had, by this time, managed to get a hold of the pistol on his hip, even underneath the unconscious Smithson, and was taking aim at him... and McCann to the right was just about getting his bearings back... and the three Marines down the aisle had turned about and where also taking aim— hesitating at the sight of their two downed comrades...
In the spur of the moment, Anteros dashed forward, quickly coming up and slamming his left palm against Samson's shielded forehead, subsequently slamming the man's head into the same shelf behind him. He didn't stop to see the man go limp (he knew he was knocked out) and Anteros leapt upwards, climbing the shelving. He stopped halfway up the structure's height, turning himself around to face downwards by the time McCann's rifle-lamp tracked him to his position. The moment the light struck him, Anteros spat a ball of acid at the source of the light— not waiting for the projectile to land, and immediately jumping outward toward the opposing wall.
He knew that his acid had struck the barrel of McCann's rifle, and though he was distracted with throwing away the weapon long enough for Anteros to take advantage, the three Marines in the aisle had caught sight of him on the wall of and were about to fire their guns.
... so Anteros allowed himself to detach from the wall, and drop to the ground... just behind McCann.
Just as the Marine was about to grab the pistol on his belt with his left hand, Anteros came up and put the guy in a headlock with his right arm. Anteros grabbed McCann's left arm by the wrist with his left hand and wrenched it behind the man's back.
The three offending Marines stopped short as they approached the opening of the aisle, aiming their rifles... but not shooting. Anteros heard himself hiss long and loud, his chin going past McCann's left shoulder. The man struggled in Anteros's grip, huffing and squirming against the forearm at his throat. The three riflemen, looked to each other as confused as they were terrified. For effect, Anteros's tail waved in a wide arc above his head, and aimed its blade at McCann's face.
In all honesty, Anteros had no real clue what his plan was, but whatever this new "bullet-time him" was thinking, it seemed to be working. At this distance, a good six meters away, the three Marines couldn't risk firing at Anteros's admittedly-very-exposed head without potentially hitting their comrade, and they couldn't risk getting closer with Anteros threatening the man's life as he was— however empty.
The Marines were bewildered, utterly— no Xenomorph had ever held one of their friends hostage in this manner. They'd never been trained to know how to deal with this.
But Anteros realized that he'd made a mistake as Perez finally shoved Smithson's body off to the side, and aimed his pistol at Anteros's head, from on the floor... from a measly six feet away...
The bullet grazed Anteros's left jaw— cutting a deep gouge from his chin to the back of his jawbone. Anteros himself barely felt it, but he heard himself roar in however-feigned fury, and in response, McCann was picked up by both shoulders, lifted up and sent flying toward the three riflemen with a kick to the Marine's lower back. Anteros was gone and out of sight by the time the trio caught/fell under their friend, but Perez kept track of him as he sprinted off to the right, running toward a far-off aisle. The Latino scrambled up to a knee, turned around, and screamed primally, spamming the trigger of his pistol and firing at least six times at the fleeing Xenomorph.
A second bullet struck Anteros on the inside of his right thigh, but again, he hardly felt the blow, continuing to run and disappearing from view into an aisle of plywood and hand-saws. The only reason he hadn't been hit by more of those shots was because Perez's shoulder-mounted flashlight was only so good for properly aiming.
Once he was safely down the aisle, he suddenly stopped and turned around, trotting toward the end of the aisle to where he'd just escaped through. Perez was already running to follow his target, pistol in hand.
It seemed even Humans could be overtaken by piss and vinegar...
So, the moment that Perez came around the corner of the aisle, he was met with Anteros's left fist already swinging down onto his head. Evidently, though, Perez was too hopped up on adrenaline, and took a clumsy step back just in time... for Anteros's fist to instead bash into the man's right shoulder-pauldron. Perez grunted in pain, a snapping noise signaling the dislocation of his shoulder-joint, and his pistol dropped to the floor. Perez clutched at his disabled arm, yelling loudly and stepping backward.
Anteros grabbed at the cuff of the Marine's armored cuirass with his right hand, and heard himself snarl as he spun himself to the left, violently wrenching Perez along with him and tossing the guy, one-handedly, further down the aisle. The man went tumbling down the way, knocking into a taped-together pile of 2x4s, four meters away. A bit impressed at his own strength, Anteros stood there for a moment or two too long, and he sensed the four other Marines running over— looking down each aisle to try and see where Perez had gone.
Anteros crouched down and power-jumped straight to the ceiling, clambering to an out-of-sight spot... and checked over his wounds. Acid trickled down his right leg, left arm, and the left side of his neck, and he hissed to himself as the pain of each of injury came to him, finally. A persistent, aching sting in each location. Not too much blood-loss, considering, though the fact that he'd kept a relatively cool head throughout that entire ordeal meant that his blood-pressure wasn't forcing the liquid from the wounds at too great a speed.
Anteros quickly picked the bullets out of his left shoulder and leg, applied Hive Resin to his thigh, then slathered it onto his shoulder and jaw using his hands. The stinging was enflamed for a good few moments, but then subsided into a mild itchiness. While he was wiping the acid off of himself, he listened carefully as the Marines found and tended to Perez.
"My arm!", the Spaniard yelled, "it broke my fucking arm, man!".
Flashlights waved about the ceiling around Anteros's ventilation duct, scanning for any movement. They were keeping watch for their adversary. Not that they could ever find him.
"Settle down, Pezos", said Tanner, fastidiously, apparently checking his comrade's injury, "it's just dislocated. I can't fix it while you have your gear on, though. Can you use your left hand to shoot?".
"Jesucristo— no, I can't use my left hand, you fucking idiot!", Perez screamed, voice cracking from the pain, "I have nerve-damage in the left half of my body— you know that!".
A short silence, before Tanner hesitantly asked, "...could you try?".
Perez hissed and groaned in pain for a good long moment, before grinding out through his teeth, "maldita sea... it's no use, anyway. You saw what that thing just did! Twitchy aim won't cut it, for this...".
"You hit it, didn't you?", Eriksdottir asked. "It can't be in too good a shape, at this point...", she said, trying her best to sound confident.
"Oh, I hit it!", Perez ground out, bitterly, "but that just pissed it off, chica!". The Spaniard, almost sounding a bit manic, by now, suddenly howled in bitter laughter— the kind that almost didn't sound forced and seemed supernaturally loud. Perez laughed a bit too long than was comfortable, for everyone... before having a coughing fit and coming down from his high with a wheeze, saying, croakily, "we... we're fucked...".
The only reason Anteros didn't quite feel that bad about all of this melodrama was because he knew that they'd all be fine, by the time he left. If anything, it was kind of amusing to hear them overreact, like this.
... does that make me a nasty person?, he wondered, for a moment, before throwing the topic out of his mind and putting it on his mental to-do list.
No one deigned to contest the declaration of their doom, and instead, Tanner and Fischer helped Perez to his feet, who apparently now had a limp due to twisting his ankle— the tumble after Anteros had tossed the guy. The flashlights ceased patrolling the ceiling, and Anteros set about moving to follow along, as the group of five moved back down the aisle toward their two, unconscious friends, down the lane. Tanner and Fischer placed Perez down next to the wall, nearby to the knocked-out Smithson and Samson.
McCann checked the pulses of the two downed Marines, and looked at his teammates, remarking a bit too casually, "knocked out, cold. Y'ever heard of a Bug doin' that? Not killing, at the outset?".
They all looked at each other, confused, and shook their heads, no. No one was keeping watch, oddly enough, and Anteros had to wonder if they believed it was pointless, at this point.
McCann seemed to think to himself for a moment, stroking his auburn goatee, before sighing and standing back up, looking down at his unconscious friends, "well... we're clearly dealing with something different, here. You lot saw it, yeah? All bronze, no spikes on its back?".
Eriksdottir replied, "yeah. I think I've heard of Xenos like that from a friend, or two, but...", she stared at the ground and shook her head, "they never said anything about them being like this. Faster than usual, sure, but...", she trailed off.
Tanner monotoned, finishing her thought, "it kicked our asses", in a tone that one might call "ashamed" if they chose to read into it.
The long silence at his assessment was quite telling. And Anteros suddenly felt kind of guilty...
Eventually, Fischer, ever practical, demanded to the room, "so, what do we do, then? Wait for it to come and get us?".
At the question, everyone else suddenly looked about themselves as though to search for something, before simultaneously fixing Fischer with uneasy looks— McCann adding in a shrug.
The Marines looked to each other for a long few moments, and Anteros might have been imagining things, but... something passed between them. He wasn't sure what, though. He might have been able to pick up on it if he were closer, but from his perch atop the pipework, he couldn't really see the most nuance in body-language. All he knew for sure, though was: after almost a solid minute of looking at one another and, seemingly, listening for any sounds... the four Marines who still stood each slowly walked over to Perez... and sat next to him, up against the wall. Guns at their sides.
He was... confused, at first. Did they expect reinforcements to arrive? Were they hoping the Xenomorph in the room with them would only go after an active target? Was this some sort of pact that they'd all agreed to at some point in the past? None of them seemed like the suicidal types... and they'd all been around the block at least a few times, in terms of bug-hunts. They had no reason to assume that sitting around and doing nothing, right now, would work for them. And yet, there they were... sitting.
Anteros... was actually fairly shocked at all of this. He'd... always thought of Colonial Marines as iron-willed and tenacious to the last, but... the five soldiers far below him seemed... defeated. And his guilt tripled. Did they really have so little hope? Were they that willing to give up and potentially be killed? Out of defeatism? It felt weird to see Colonial Marines doing this. He didn't recall ever seeing something like this, before. The last Marine standing would usually take their own life, after a large battle, but... not like this!
It actually kind of disturbed him, for some reason...
Okay... this is just plain weird. Do I... do I rock up and just... what do I do, here?! Is their strategy to make "killing" them as awkward as possible? Because... it's kind of working. Why is it working? I... don't think I've ever seen any Human do this, before! Now that I think of it... would a Xenomorph kill these five, when they're just sitting around like vegetables? I feel like I should know the answer to that, but I'm honestly not sure! That's a fucking first!
Though... now that they were sitting there, like that... the rest of the supermarket was empty...
He already had a good enough exit to work with... and nothing was stopping him from loading up on the meat, now...
Six minutes, later, Anteros had transported the previously-gathered load of bags out of the market, and out of the fire-exit opposite to the one Pereskova and Deutereux were stuck near. He'd left the first batch of meat in a safe location some distance away from the market, ready to be picked up, later, and now, he was loading up a second one. The "surviving" Marines hadn't moved from their sitting positions in all that time, and for that, Anteros was grateful, because his job had been made a lot easier.
A part of him was a bit disappointed that the "fight" had ended early, but mostly, he was just glad that no one else had to get hurt. And that he'd get back to Samantha quicker.
He'd gone and checked on Pereskova and Deutereux, at one point. Deutereux wasn't unconscious, anymore, but was... actually asleep, somehow! Must have been an old man thing. Pereskova was awake, but understandably perturbed at all of the gunshots she'd heard. He gave her a pat on the shoulder to tell her everything was fine, but she didn't seem to understand it. Or didn't believe him. Anteros had also gathered up all of the weapons he'd confiscated and dumped them in that circle of sunlight, near the front of the market.
As Anteros filled the final plastic bag with meat, he noticed that one of the Marines, Eriksdottir, had just gotten up and was cautiously walking down the lane. He watched as she slowly turned into the next aisle over from his own, using her weapon's flashlight to find the way to... somewhere? She didn't seem entirely focused on keeping an eye out... and... oh! She needed the bathroom, apparently. He could tell by a consistent, bright flashing of muscles around her bladder-area. He remembered that there actually was a bathroom near the supermarket's entrance.
He wondered if the Marines had assumed he'd left, or something...
As she passed him, getting halfway down the aisle, he suddenly got an idea. It would be almost a day before Pereskova and Deutereux would be able to remove their own restraints, and the other seven Marines probably wouldn't go searching unless prompted, somehow. Anteros was about to leave, anyway, and the Marines would have to pick up the pieces sooner rather than later...
Anteros stepped around the bags at his feet, dropped to the floor and silently bounded over to the end of the aisle, waiting for her to reach the end of her own. She exited the aisle, veered slightly to the left... and Anteros rose to his feet, very deliberately projecting a low hiss through his teeth.
As predicted, she spun about on her heel, gun raised, ready to shoot— her rifle-barrel smacked into his open palm, letting him rip it free from her grasp and toss it over his shoulder.
A beat passed— her staring at him, dumbfounded, him staying stock-still, ever-patient. Barely two feet away from each other.
Eriksdottir's right hand zipped toward her belt to grab her pistol, at which point, Anteros grabbed both of her arms by the wrists and held them up, above her head. For the sake of ease, he put her wrists together and clutched both in his right hand, allowing his left to drop to his side.
Another beat passed— she stared at the creature before her, lit up all-too-brightly by the lamp on her shoulder. She might have been paralyzed by fear or realized that her comrades would never reach her in time to help her, but she didn't scream. He couldn't quite tell, Eriksdottir had the look of a deer caught in the headlights. She... seemed calm? Anteros might have let her go by the time the fifteenth second had passed of her simply staring at him like that, but... there was something... different about it? Something... else in her stare. Trying to get some clue what the deal was, he extended his left hand just to try and induce some sort of reaction. Her eyes tracked his hand, but, she did nothing else. Her heartbeat sped up, though... and when he poked her cheek with a claw, she abruptly took in a shaky breath, before swallowing, and beginning to breathe a lot heavier than before. Her lip was quivering... and her knees were going weak...
Are you...?
That's when the smell hit him. No, it wasn't the smell of urine— he would have preferred to have been met with that, in this situation. He was suddenly very glad that he couldn't hear her thoughts.
Oh, he thought, ... you, uh... you're one of those people with an over-active imagination. And a bunch of sordid, little fantasies. And a masochistic streak... didn't think a Marine would be into that... does it count as bestiality, or is there an exception for sapient species? I never quite got a straight answer about the legal implications of that. I guess I shouldn't be too surprised— the Colonial Marines do have a reputation for going to Arcturus on shore-leave. But really, bitch? Right now? For a Xenomorph? For all you know, I could kill you, any moment, right now. I mean... well... I do cut an impressive figure, I guess, but you have no reason to assume that this is going anywhere "fun", beyond whatever reason you seem to think I've done something suggestive... which I haven't, really— either that, or... I'm somehow more seductive than I think I am, but that seems like a mighty big stretch...
The woman was definitely afraid of him, to be sure— the fact that he'd be able to hear her heartbeat from the other end of the aisle, right now, was due to more than just getting hot under the collar. But... it was like her scent and demeanor kept flip-flopping, rapid-fire, between crippling, existential terror and a deep, somewhat-shameful arousal.
Which... he honestly just... could not wrap his head around— how the two of those things could be woven together so seamlessly. He supposed he wasn't really one to judge, but the weirdest thing about it was, this wasn't close to the first time he'd witnessed something like this happen— even if all the other occasions were blink-and-you'll-miss-it instants of a person's thoughts entering the gutter for seemingly counter-intuitive reasons.
... and he'd noted that it was most common in women, at least as far as he'd seen, in situations revolving around Xenomorphs. The few times he'd seen something of the sort happen in a man, the bloke would usually realize how ridiculous it was and discard the notion within thirty seconds of coming up with it. Especially considering the imminent danger, at hand. With women of this sort, though... not so much. Lots more floundering...
He'd always had the feeling that bringing up this topic would probably be met with obliviousness or outright denial, so he'd never addressed any of the female captives in the Egg Chambers about it. Knowing how Human beings worked: he probably wouldn't have gotten much in the way of a straight answer, anyway.
... he wondered how Samantha would react if he shared this insight? Maybe she was like Eriksdottir, here, as far as "fetishes" went?
... could he devise a way of testing that?
Now, speaking of Eriksdottir... it may have just been his usual fascination with Human behavior, but... part of him wanted to see if he could "tease" her, a little bit. Just... to see what would happen, really. See if he could find something funny about it. Maybe play a joke, or two. Not as though anyone could judge him for it, right now— he was curious, cut 'im some slack! Though, the fact that he'd always cared about outside-judgement in regards to violence sort of threw a wrench in that logic...
Seemed he couldn't make up his mind about a lot of subjects...
Either way, he wanted to see how certain actions would be interpreted by Eriksdottir, while she was "off her rocker", like this.
So, he did!
Putting himself in what he understood to be this sort of headspace, Anteros tightened his grip on her wrists by a not insignificant margin, then lifted his right hand upward, picking her up, off the floor. The action was met with a surprisingly demure-sounding yelp, and Eriksdottir beginning to squirm, kicking her legs a little— fear somewhat overshadowing that dark, seldom-acknowledged excitement.
It wasn't very difficult to lift her with one arm— Eriksdottir was surprisingly thin for a Marine (as far as "Lance Corporals" go), and if his estimation was correct, she couldn't have weighed more than a hundred-ten pounds in all of her gear. She probably could have had a good chance of getting away if she struggled enough, at the moment, but she wasn't really doing anything. Just staring at him, obsessively, and lightly kicking her feet.
It unnerved him, to be stared at so intensely. He wasn't sure if it was because he'd inherited a dislike of judgement from his many, many Human "mothers" and "fathers", or if it was just his Ancestral tendencies telling him that he should stay out of notice of prey. Speaking of which, it was currently urging him to subdue and capture the woman. Unsuccessfully. Though, the Unknown was also uncomfortable with the circumstance, for some weird reason...
Anteros ever-so-slowly raised his left hand, letting her see it, as it drifted up toward her face. Her eyes locked onto it, and started darting between it and his bared teeth. The closer it got, the more she leaned away from it. Heart beating faster. Starting to sweat. She clenched her eyes shut just as his talons came within an inch of her chin... and when his hand slowly curled itself 'round her neck, gentle-as-can-be, Eriksdottir's squirming, and breathing, froze. She opened her eyes, looking at the hand around her neck, then at Anteros. Confusion, soon replaced with a very particular type of alarm, as the claw of his inner-thumb very lightly traced over her lower-lip.
She visibly shivered, and squirmed again... this time cringing to herself and rubbing her own thighs together. The fact that she was, apparently, aware of her urges and was trying to contain them made Anteros rethink exactly how much of this was unintentional, on her part. He wondered what she believed to be going on in his head, right now? What plan, if any, was she working off of?
He leaned in, a bit, putting his face barely five inches from hers, and made a show of opening his maw to "smell" her (even though he'd already gotten more than enough of her odor, for the day). Though she couldn't focus on anything but his teeth, Anteros would have to have been blind and stupid not to catch the brief instant where she bit her lip as his thumb brushed over her mouth.
His thumb pulled away from her face... and resettled itself under her chin. His hand, gripping her neck in its palm like it would a stick, tightened itself and applied the smallest amount of pressure. At her airflow being constricted, even a small amount, Eriksdottir's eyes rolled back for a moment, or so, before she stared at him, again— this time, most of the fear, gone. Now... there was a sort of... cautious hunger? He couldn't quite describe it. It was like she was internally begging for a host of dirty little fantasies to come true, but at the same time, dreaded such a thing?
It... it was like she was hoping for something to happen, but at the same time, kept doubting that it could possibly be as simple as this— that making this ridiculous, uncouth dream of hers a reality couldn't possibly have come about this easily.
... Anteros... didn't really understand that. Five minutes ago, she would have been happy to shoot at him and blow his head off, and now (because of a slight change in presentation) she would have been willing to "blow off" a very different kind of "head". At the very least, he would have expected some form of mild disgust or revulsion, along with it, but... nope. She was, uh... "ready" for it, though he speculated that that surprised her, about herself, just as much as it did, him.
He had just about allowed his tail to graze the back of her knee, when a new wave of that smell struck him. And suddenly, he'd had enough of experimentation.
God— that is pungent! Do Humans seriously never smell that?! How do they stand to be near each other when they're fixing to shag?! It's like being next to fifteen ovens as they roast marshmallows into charcoal! S'enough to make me nauseous, and I'm not even Human enough to get aroused by it! Even the Ancestral's unnerved by the stench— God! That's enough, I'm done with this—
He abruptly released Eriksdottir's neck and let go of her wrists— dropping her. Seeing as though her legs were made of jelly at the moment, she essentially fell flat on her ass, at his feet, with a comical yelp. When she looked up at him, all doe-eyed, she sort of floundered there for a few moments too long, as though she were expecting more, or were waiting for him to do something else. When enough time passed of him staying still and her gormlessly staring at him for the situation to become awkward, Anteros moved his left arm. He pointed at her, then pointed off to his left— where Pereskova and Deutereux were.
She didn't even seem to register the gesture, red-faced and panting as she was.
He repeated the communiqué a few times until she finally took note of it, and then rumbled a quick growl to drive the point home. He watched her scramble, clumsily, to her feet and awkwardly sprint down the lane, to the end of the market. Once he saw her turn down into the aisle he'd left Pereskova and the Sergeant in, Anteros doubled back, picked up the load he'd finished gathering, and carried it to his exit for the final time.
Home-free, task completed. The Marines would be able to bounce back and keep themselves safe, and their reinforcements would be postponed until at least another day has passed. Meaning that he'd given himself and Samantha a slightly longer timetable and a larger margin-for-error.
They would be leaving Guardian by the time the USCMC nuked New Scena... probably...
Anteros, in any regard, had learned quite a bit about himself, today. He might not have known what all of it meant, at the moment, but... he was grateful to have been able to learn anything, at all, from an experience he would have written off as "horrible", from the start.
Well... that was... unique...
Zazin's' fist stopped short of Hul'Mei's cheek, his right arm having been barred off by hers— sensing that he was open, he hooked his extended arm around her blocking one, turned about on his heel, spinning himself to the left, and held onto her arm while twisting himself. Before, she would have been thrown off of her feet, but now she simply readjusted her footing, yielding to his maneuver instead of trying to stand firm. She began attempting to wrench her arm out from the grip of his, and trying to turn herself to face him, while Zazin' made it his mission to keep her arm in his control and adhere himself to her side to keep her from retaliating.
The pair of them were sent on a cycle of constantly spinning and turning about one another, each jockeying for leverage... until, to both of their surprise, Hult-nah'Mei-jadhi abruptly just... threw a punch with her right arm, arcing it over her own left shoulder, and toward Zazin's' head. Given the awkward positioning and lack of dynamics, the blow did little real harm... but it still struck him in the face— bopped square between the eyes, as it were.
The light blow was met with a sudden and utter cease of all activity— even the people in the spectator-seats, numbering in the dozens, suddenly all hushed themselves. Zazin' and Hul'Mei, her left and his right arm still locked together, both stopped and looked at one another. It was as though the punch were the needle that had burst their bubble, and as they stood there, still minutely struggling against one another... Zazin' guffawed. And then she did.
They relaxed their arms and separated themselves, as Zazin' started chuckling, Hul'Mei face-palming and struggling to contain her own laughter. Soon enough, the pair of them laughing uproariously, unsuccessfully trying to contain themselves, only to break down every forty seconds in giggling fits. Beside themselves as they were, everyone else in the kehrite was fairly confused and a bit outraged. What the pair of them thought was funny simply escaped everyone else, and as the couple began to leave the arena, leaning on each other as they kept laughing, all others began to grumble and complain amongst themselves.
The deal was clear from the start: if she successfully hit him, she won, and he would find some way to reward her. But that didn't stop Zazin' from breaking down at the sheer absurdity of it.
That's how it ends?! The first clean strike she gets on me... was that?! A love-tap?! Ha! You seriously can't make this shit up, with this woman!
As they exited the kehrite, entering a scaled-down medical-bay that was attached to the dojo for obvious reasons, a new fight began in the arena, behind them. Hul'Mei went and collected a Health-Shard from an open tray on a table, still laughing to herself even as she broke it in half. She was about to steel herself to jam the thing into her leg, but kept breaking down and laughing every time she was about to do it, which made Zazin' lose it, all over again. Passing the Shard to Zazin', Hul'Mei bit into her forearm, shaking her head at herself, and still trying to get herself together. Zazin', struggling not to giggle, himself, obligingly took the Health-Shard while Hul'Mei put her hands on the table and leaned on it.
He rammed the pointed ends of the device into both of her shoulder-blades, putting an abrupt, but not-unwelcome end to both of their laughter, as she roared in pain. The newer wounds on her body, fewer than before, sealed themselves shut. Her mandible un-broke itself, her fists and shins stopped bleeding, and the scratch marks across her shoulders and torso winked closed. Zazin' extracted the dispensed Health-Shard from her back and tossed them over his shoulders, coming around to her right side, as she breathed deep and collected herself.
He placed a hand on her shoulder, and shook it a little, in praise— a universal "good job". Hul'Mei looked at him, panting... and extended her lower-right mandible to hook it around his lower-left. He smiled tiredly, before pushing off from the table and walked toward the exit, saying, "come. I have to think of a prize, for you". He didn't need to look to know that she was following him.