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 (SubscribeStar link on my profile)

25. Chapter 24: Closure

Sentience is most-succinctly summarized as: the ability to suffer. Many animals have it— canines, horses, birds, reptiles...

Sapience is the ability to meta-cognize (to think about thinking), to conceptualize "the self", and to think in abstract.

This... is the end.

---

Chapter 24: Closure

"Yeessss!", Samantha whisper-yelled, balling up her fists and staring at the TV-screen with a glare intense enough to cook a lobster.

They were watching a movie, together. Or... Samantha was, at least— he watched it through her eyes. The film was found on the bookshelf— an old one titled "Hardline Harry". An action-movie filmed entirely in first-person, about a bionic man (Harry) being hunted by a psychic billionaire's private army of other bionic men and having to rescue his wife from said billionaire's clutches.
It was now the end of the film, the villain was dead, and a secondary antagonist was now receiving their just desserts after having deceived and backstabbed Harry for the whole story.

Anteros had to say... this was wholly unique, to him! He'd heard whispers of storytelling and movies and books from the minds of Humans, numerous times, but it was an entirely new thing to experience one first— well... second-hand? First-and-a-half hand, really. Although he knew the events depicted were fictional, staged, and edited, he found himself genuinely invested in it and forgetting that none of it was real...
Admittedly, though, that may have been Samantha's fault. He was experiencing the film largely through her eyes and perception, and she was... very into it. He could hear and feel her heartbeat and stress-levels shifting with every action-scene and piece of dialogue throughout the film. It was fascinating to see her body go through genuine (if small) impulse and adrenaline-responses, all due to false and imagined stimuli. Was this that... "placebo effect" he'd heard of? Or was it a different term?

As the credits of the film began to roll, "grunge" rock music playing, Samantha sighed and wiped her forehead. She scanned the credits, certain that she had seen an actor she recognized, at one point, in the film, and wished to check.

They were laid out together on the leather couch, roughly in the middle of the captain's quarters. Samantha sat on her side, leaning and elbow on the armrest, and Anteros had nestled himself between her hip and the couch's back, his head and chin resting on her love-handle. His legs and tail hung off the other armrest, and the pair of them had been situated like this for the last two hours. It was only now that the credits were coming to a close that both of them realized their own discomfort, and they shifted.
Anteros got up and moved away from her, stretching himself. He pushed his own head to either side with a hand, and produced a crackling sound in his vertebrae as his chin passed either shoulder. Samantha, meanwhile, also stretched and furiously scratched at her own scalp, yawning loudly.

She was nude, of course, having long-ago shed any pretensions of modesty around him. And Anteros didn't care. This did mean, though, that she had to peel herself off the couch, and stand, given that her skin had become stuck to it.

"Off to bed, then?", he asked. It was almost eleven at night, now.

Samantha yawned, "in a bit. I'm gonna take a shower, first". She trudged toward the bathroom door after pressing the off-button on the TV-remote.

"Okay", he said, hopping up onto the bed and preparing it.

As a damp Samantha came strolling out of the bathroom forty-five minutes later, she found him curled up in a ball on the end of the bed. Curiously, she wordlessly crawled under the duvet and didn't insist on having him sleep with her. Anteros didn't dislike being with her, but he also wanted some space to himself so that he could fully relax and actually sleep rather than his usual "half-sleeping". While it felt nice to be close to her and give her affection, he could also do without, and wanted to... "unwind", for a bit. Having to be careful not to crush or scratch her, all night, and keep totally still for all that time, left him with only a partial ability to rest.
He may have suspected that she wished for space after the arousal incident that had happened mere hours, earlier, but he heard and saw only slight whispers of that in her mind. If that was the reason for it, Samantha only had the vaguest impulse to act on it— mostly subconscious.

Anteros drew a deep breath into himself and exhaled, forcefully, like a tired dog.

Something irked him. For whatever reason, he felt that something was coming...
But he also felt that it wouldn't be too big an issue. For whatever reason, he felt only confident contentment... as he allowed himself to drift off to sleep. After all... what was there to be worried about?

---

Three hours later...

Anteros had been sleeping (genuinely sleeping) for the first time in three days. It was... surprisingly pleasant. Without hearing echoing screams or screeches touch him through winding halls— without the constant chatter of the Hivemind, he found it strangely easy to drift off and sleep. No dreams, this time. Not for him, anyway.

His maw, permanently hanging open as he slept, abruptly spasmed and closed, as he drew in a deep breath— the air rasping its way into his lungs like a long gasp in Arctic weather. Curled up into a ball on the end of the bed, Anteros lifted his head, tail sliding across the sheets. Something was off. It was... it could only have been a few hours after he'd gone to sleep— the automatic "day-time" lighting had yet to switch on in the cabin. It was the middle of the night. Something had woken him up, although he didn't immediately realize what. Until the sound met his skull, a second time.
A cry.

He was up, then, standing on the bed, briefly pausing to stretch his back and limbs. He turned on the spot, padded across the bed toward his Human.

Samantha was in a bad way. Another nightmare— no... night-terror. She was curled in on herself, like he had been just now, only in abject fear. Every muscle tensed and spasming. He could feel the heat radiating from her, and as he pulled the duvet off, he found the underside of it practically drenched. Sweat. A lot of it.
Indeed, the mattress and pillow all around Samantha was damp to the point of stickiness, and her skin felt far too warm and wet to be normal, as Anteros dragged her closer to the other side of the bed to move her to the cooler, drier part. He had seen many side-effects of high-stress in Humans, but never had he seen fever-like symptoms, like this...

He threw the duvet off the bed, and the damp pillow, and sat to one side of her as her nightmare continued. She remained scrunched up in her fetal-position, knees tucked up. She was asleep... but her body was showing outwardly the raging whirlpool of emotion and dream in her mind. Fists clenched, brow furrowed. A second time, a hollow cry whined out of her throat, and her teeth became bared. Anteros still wasn't sure if it was best to wake her up or let the dream run its course. He hated seeing her like this, and he hated being unable to help. He tried to peer into the contents of her mind, as she got closer and closer to waking...

...

You are running.

Through bleak, darkened halls and empty rooms, you run— a world of grayscale fever and shifting shadows. Your vision is blurred and feels small— too small. You only see just enough to keep going. Through ruined playgrounds and derelict observatories, you run. Through abandoned cemeteries and maimed restaurants, you run.
You feel nothing but burning in your chest, you hear nothing but the pounding of your own heart. You've been running for so long. Struggling for so long. Fighting for so long. And you can't stop. Because you know that the moment you stop, They'll get you. They'll catch you. They'll hurt you. They'll molest you. They'll crush you. And that won't be the worst of it.

So, you keep running. All you can do is run. All you can think to do is run. Running means safety. Running means survival. Running means continuance. Running means you might find Him. Running means you might not fail...

Time has no meaning— every corridor and every room blurs together in a murky soup. But out of the corner of your eye, as you turn at an intersection, you see something new.

Light. For the first time in as long as you can remember, you see Light, poking through the gap in a door. The instant you see if, you hear a sound from all around you. Like out-of-tune violins and tearing, screeching metal— the Noise shakes your bones and nearly throws off your balance. They know you're almost out. They know you're about to escape. And the World, itself, protests you as you sprint for the door— thorns and sheets of steel rip themselves from the floor and walls and curl toward you as you sprint. You jump through the gaps, twist yourself past their curling fingers.

You slam through the door, and find yourself at the bottom of a concrete stairwell. Light cascades from up above, so bright that to look hurts you. The instant you halt, the Noise begins again; it feels like it's right behind your head— it feels like crone fingers are touching your ears, your nape, your groin. So you run.

Up the stairs— up and up and up and up you go. Your legs burn, two steps at a time, as you sprint. You can't look up, for the Light burns you, and you can't look down, for the Dark will consume you. So you stare straight ahead, your vision blurring into a spiraling rush of gray-and-black nonsense— you feel dizzy, your footing slips more than once, but you climb the stairs. They get narrower— the railing gets less sturdy, the concrete becomes wet and slippery, but you keep going. You can't stop. You're almost out. You're almost out. You're almost out.

Your nausea worsens, and it feels like your legs are shedding their very muscle, but you make it. You reach the top— the Light bright enough that you have to squeeze your eyes shut. You ram your shoulder into the door, once. Twice. Three times. And on the fourth, it breaks, and you sprint out into the light of day.

A flawless landscape of golden skies and blue, luminous grass stretches out before you, an angelic choir distantly humming to you as you make your way home, once more. You run forth, toward the city in the distance— you run toward the promise of safety behind the bastion's walls and weapons. It's so close, now— you're so close to making it.

But something stops you.

Your legs begin to slow— you feel them respond slower and slower, as their bones turn to lead, and their muscles turn to jelly. It soon becomes a gargantuan effort just to lift a foot, and you collapse onto your hands and knees. You cry. You scream at your body to move, you beg someone to take you away. And nothing happens. The choir stops. And a Voice makes itself known— both Yours and Theirs, from within and without...
What do you think you're doing? You can't leave! You haven't even found Him, yet! Where are you even going, anyway? That city isn't your home. You don't even have a home. You're just a glorified hobo, running from place to place, like a worthless little drifter— like a trash-bag in the wind. Does anyone even know who you are? Would anyone in that city even be there to welcome you? Does anyone even care that you're lost? Would anyone even miss you?

It is cold, emotionless, sensual, and oh-so-beautifully cruel. Every syllable rakes against your nerves and leaves behind a sizzling spice.

You turn over onto your back, and look toward the door.

And one of Them stands there, halfway between the door... and you.

Hide of oily black and gunmetal gray. Phallic skull and skeletal physique. No eyes. No mouth. No genitals. It stands straight up, on two legs, like a man— in mockery of the term "Human".

The moment you see it, you feel invisible hands writhe up and down your skin— gripping, squeezing, scratching, groping. You don't remember being naked, before now, and as you look upon the Monster, its head tilts to one side. Your Voice and Theirs whispers and screams from deep within your chest as well as from the depths of Hell.

Weknow you. Wewould welcome you. Wecare. Wewould miss you...

Your tears travel in rivers down your chest, solidifying into moldy chains that coil you up, as your body grows emaciated and thin. Your head spins and you feel cold, as the Monster puts a clawed hand on its heart. Oily shadows and heady mist billow from the door; wretched, writhing creatures of oil, smoke, teeth, and blood spill from the depths of the stairwell, crawling toward you. The Light burns them, kills more than a few, but they pursue you regardless. You are worth the pain...

We took your life from you. We took your innocence from you. We took your sanctity from you. We took Himfrom you. We... are the only thing you have left, Samantha. We have everything you once possessed. We... embrace you...

You beg them not to. You plead for salvation. You scream for help. But the Monster approaches, and you are forced to watch, motionless, as it walks nearer. It bends down, crawls forward, and lays itself atop your supine form, your flesh darkening and turning waxy and moist as it continues its perverse foreplay. You want nothing more than to run— to strike it, to scream out again, but its hands clasp around your throat. A Cheshire grin of far-too-Human teeth peels across the front of its head, and a tongue of thorns flops out from its maw and drags itself across your lips. Its saliva tingles and sweetens. Your own Voice and Theirs slide into your ears like long, wet tongues, in themselves.

Please. Let us reunite you with Him.

You are Theirs now. They drag you back through the door, and into the oily depths of tooth and drool. And you find yourself being taken into the depths of Their domain.

The chains of tears are gone, and you are being carried through intestinal passageways and vein-like arteries, the oil and blood deep enough to force you to swim. You know where They're taking you. You know what fate awaits you. You scream, cry, sob, beg; you thrash and kick and bite. But your captor doesn't even acknowledge it. They will have Their way, and your resistance only makes it fun for Them.

The passage opens into a chamber. The floors, walls, ceiling— all are wrought of fossilized bone, slowly disintegrating into dust and filling the air with a dry smog that makes you cough and wretch. You can barely breathe, your eyes water, your head goes foggy as you inhale the mist of decay. You fail to even realize it, as your captor lowers you into the oily blood, now shallow, the ground beneath squashy and thick like mud. You flail and sputter, trying to sit up, trying to see, but it's so difficult. You're so tired. So weak. The fluid clings to your flesh and numbs you.

You look up, and above, you see the ceiling open and reveal a giant, circular maw of saw-like teeth. A tongue— no, a floppy, moist tube the size of a tree-truck slides from within the maw and falls onto you, slurping you up into its wet embrace, compressing your limbs and squeezing you, tight. A shape can seen, crawling down the esophagus, and as you look up through the edifice, you barely have time to scream before a six-tailed Parasite falls onto your face.

You feel yourself dropped and released from the tube, back into the oily blood, but your concern is only on the creature violating you. Your throat is invaded, your nose is pinched shut by clamping lips, your neck is squeezed tight by four tails with the strength of pythons, and your breasts are twisted and wrenched by two more. Your dizziness is tripled, the agony commences, and you can do little but squirm and claw at the creature, as you feel it invade you. You feel hate, disgust, sorrow, and shame— you want desperately to bite down, rip it off, gag, vomit. But your muscles are barely cooperating, and you are soon taken to the very edge of consciousness. The creature chirps and squeals, happily, laughing at your vain attempt at retaining your dignity, and as you soon tire and lie still, you feel the phallus in your throat thicken.

By the time the Parasite finally releases its grip and crawls away, you feel bloated and sick. You groan, clutching your swollen gut and cough through the taste of gasoline and sweat.

Before you know it: agony seizes you, and you feel blood splatter onto your face. You look down, and out of your torn and mutilated stomach comes a small Monster. It rises from your guts, looks at you once, and then hops away— bounding off like an excited puppy. Your own Child can't even be bothered to pretend to mourn your death.

Cold. You feel cold. Empty. Ashamed. Defeated. And as all sensation leaves you... you realize something horrible. You are dead. But you still see through your eyes, utterly unblinking. You still hear the squelching and sloshing of movement through the bloody oil, around you. But as you expect to fade away and sleep... you are still here. And with dread, it finally occurs to you...

Death is not the end. It is only the beginning.

Your unmoving corpse is dragged away by unseen hands. As the pool of liquid deepens, you are dragged through it, submerged. Your lungs can no longer drown, your spine can no longer connect to nerves. You see dark, dark red, feel nothing, and can barely think.

Soon enough, you're wrenched up into the open air, the liquid taking a long moment to fall from your eyes and allow you to see. By the time you can, you see only a blur, hear only rushing wind, and realize that you have been thrown off a cliff.

You land like a sack of potatoes, your head and neck laying at an awkward angle. You see the ceiling of a new chamber, and you realize you are at the bottom of a pit, ten meters deep. The sides of it are smooth, metallic, like a trashcan; high, high above is a vaulted, cathedral-like ceiling. For a long moment, you see nothing of note... until something else is thrown into the pit, with you. Another corpse— a naked, Arabian man, with his guts hanging out of him like a horrific party-streamer; he's flung over the edge and falls out of your sight, landing in the pit with a thump.

Then another— a freckled woman with shattered limbs, landing off to your left. And like the first drops of rain, those are soon following by a torrent of dozens and dozens of people, all dead and used up, flung down into this pit, this... mass-grave— some of them you know, some of them you don't. They land all around you with unceremonious thuds, none of them speaking or moving. You want to cry, as the flood of corpses continued on, and on, and on, and on, to the point that you should have been long-buried, but you somehow remain at the top of the growing pile.

By the time the cascade of cadavers halts, you are more than halfway to the top of the pit, lying atop a repository of the dead. And as you are begging for this to end... a shape emerges from over the edge. And as you see it, your dead heart thunders back to life.

There He is.

Your dog. Charlie.

You still can't move, or speak, but air forces its way out of your lungs in a huff, as you call for Him. But you soon feel a new dread creep up your back. He isn't smiling. His tail is still, and He licks His chops, unnaturally still. He stares down at you... as dozens of Monsters appear— lined up around the edge of the pit, and staring downward.

Tears stream down your expressionless face as Charlie bares His teeth.

The Voices, Yours and Theirs, return— at first, a barely-audible whisper, but soon increasing into a roar that drowns you in sorrow and regret.

Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me? Why did you give up? Why did you give up? Why did you give up? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me? Why did you leave me? WHY DID YOU GIVE UP? WHY DID YOU GIVE UP? WHY DID YOU GIVE UP? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME? WHY DID YOU LEAVE ME?
YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT LOOKING. YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT LOOKING. YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT LOOKING. YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT LOOKING. YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT LOOKING. YOU SHOULD HAVE KEPT LOOKING.
THIS IS WHERE YOU BELONG! THIS IS WHERE YOU BELONG! THIS IS WHERE YOU BELONG! THIS IS WHERE YOU BELONG! THIS IS WHERE YOU BELONG! THIS IS WHERE YOU BELONG!

The Voices cease, abruptly, then— like the shutting off of a tap, as the Monsters and Charlie turn and walk away. The Voices then return, one last time...

Buried. Dead. Forgotten. LIKE HIM.

...

Anteros had had to shift away and sit further back from her, as Samantha's body started to thrash and writhe. She tossed, turned, kicked, flailed, and twisted— muscles cramping up, droplets of sweat flying in every direction, as she hyperventilated in her sleep. Each breath came with a whine, now, and she even tore at the sheets beneath with her hands, ripping up the fabric with hysterical strength. Her wet hair clung to her skin and pained sobs tore from her mouth, between gritted teeth.

Anteros, himself, was whining and snarling, now. He paced up and down the bed, tail lashing, and teeth bared.

He hated this! He hated seeing her like this! The Unknown was incredibly distressed, and Anteros wanted desperately to wake her up and end the suffering, but he didn't know if that would help! Especially since he was extremely certain that this was not normal! Or... or was it?! He wasn't sure— fuck, this was complicated! His Human— his friend was in pain, and he couldn't do anything to stop it. Partially because he didn't know how to help, and partially because he didn't want to make it worse.

Samantha continued her thrashings for a long while. Almost ten minutes passed, her struggles waxing and waning in intensity, all the while. By the time she finally neared consciousness, they seemed to peter out to almost nothing... and then she suddenly surged up off the mattress. With a final heave, she shot up onto her front, collapsing onto her hands and knees, a throat-tearing scream ripping from her. Her hair sagged down around her head, and she heaved and gasped, finally awake.

Anteros halted in his pacing, holding still, standing side-on from her.

Samantha coughed and gasped, shuddering with every breath and shakily rose up, frantically brushing the hair out of her face. Wide eyes stared around the dark room, already adjusted to the light, and she gaped. The feverish stream of thoughts in her mind were difficult to track, but as she quickly patted herself down, desperately rubbing her own stomach, it seemed she was confirming her wellbeing... and the end of the nightmare. She looked around, finding him, and when she saw him, she knew for certain that she was, indeed, alive and that the vision had been false.

Samantha swallowed, hard, gasping hard and finally calming down. She was quiet for a long moment, however... and as she looked down at her own palms, she relived the dream... and tears poured down her face. A sob wracked from her and she grimaced, beginning to cry. As she curled inward and started sobbing, she only spoke one word, in a quiet, squeak...

"Why?".

Ashamed, despairing, and traumatized, Samantha all but collapsed forward and hunched over as she cried. A thousand regrets stirred in her brain— she didn't understand why the nightmares were getting worse, why they felt so real, why she was still damaged. She didn't understand what she'd done to deserve this internal Hell, although she was certain she must have done something. And at that point, Anteros was more than eager to step in.

"Hey, hey, hey! Sam! C'mere. Come here, darling", he coaxed, instantly, shifting nearer to her and scooping her up into his arms. She didn't resist, and simply clung to him, loudly sobbing into his chitinous chest. He brushed her hair, wiping away the sweat, and Samantha practically boiled with a feeling equal-parts crippling sadness and overwhelming relief.
"You're okay, sweetheart. You're okay. I'm here, alright? You're safe. Everything's fine. None of it was real. You're okay", Anteros told her, wrapping her up in his every limb, and hugging her, tightly. Her cries were childlike— long, drawn out, and painfully sickly-sweet sounding. She didn't respond to him, she only held on tight. So many emotions and not enough energy to sort through them. Fear and sadness from the nightmare, itself. Shame over her trauma, shame for breaking down, yet again, shame for crying like a baby... but also appreciation for him. His patience. His care.

"You've nothing to be ashamed of, darling. Just let it out. I'm here for you", he told her. "And I'll keep being here, even if this happens a hundred more times. I will never leave you alone, sweetheart. You're safe. I understand... it's okay... it's okay...".

Taking a breath, sniffing, and swallowing hard... Samantha abruptly gasped out—

"I love you, Ant'ros", she said, voice hoarse and small.

He rubbed her back.

"I love you, too".

...

It wasn't too long after that that he managed to soothe her back to sleep. She was, after all, incredibly exhausted, anyway. Anteros, also, felt that he needed sleep after that ordeal...

But he was glad to help, and more than satisfied that his help was appreciated.

His final thought on the matter?

I did it, Nigel... I did it...

---

Five hours later...

The new day began with Samantha waking up, first. She blinked and looked about the room, sniffing and clearing her throat... before smiling to herself. She got up to her hands and knees, and looked to Anteros's curled-up form, just to her left. His back to her. She coyly crawled over to him and shook his shoulder to wake him. He had been awake, already, and knowing what she planned, decided to play along— he lazily lifted his head, getting up to all fours and stretching like a cat. Turning around to face her, finally... he chuffed at her. To which, she laughed. And then, she practically tackled him.

Grabbing at him and yanking him toward her, she hugged him around his shoulders with almost-violent force, and she proceeded to pepper the side of his head with kisses. She held him tight enough that he started to get a crick in his neck, after a while, and when Anteros pulled away with a chuff, she smilingly began petting him. He wasn't quite sure what was prompting this, but as she started running her hands over his dome and scratching at his jaw (the sides, underside, and his chin) he... found that he didn't care. It was actually... surprisingly pleasant! It seemed that he was, indeed, beginning to derive pleasure from such affection, as he'd suspected he might!

After hugs and "thank yous", galore, the pair of them spent most of the morning just lounging together and relaxing. Samantha went and had a shower, and promptly stripped the bed of its sheets to have them cleaned. They didn't speak of what happened, last night, as neither of them found that there was too terribly much to say.

Although, as Anteros was sitting on the couch while Samantha was down in the laundry-room, it... occurred to him that there was something missing. It didn't take him long to remember.

He had forgotten the entire reason he and Samantha escaped Guardian, together, the way they had! The entire reason he'd even met her and saved her life, so many times! The Unknown! The entire point— the initial reason he'd chosen her, to begin with, was the emergence of The Unknown! And as Anteros remembered what had happened— how he'd completely and totally lost control of himself to that mental ghost, whose origins were decidedly separate from The Ancestral... he bared his teeth in a grimace.

Part of the reason he'd taken Samantha into his care was so that he could potentially find out what, precisely, had created The Unknown and why it mattered. Also, because he had little other choice, and also because he couldn't have predicted what ill-effects he'd incur, if he went against its wishes and it threw a fit. In all the rush— in all the chaos and emotion and twists and turns... he'd forgotten about it. It had sort of blended into the background noise of his inner-monologue.
He noted with some frustration that for all that had happened, for all the progress he'd made: he still had no idea where The Unknown had come from, or what it might be.

He wracked his brain, scanning over everything that had happened in the past week to see if any of it could give him clues... but he found nothing. And as Samantha climbed back up the ladder and walked into the captain's quarters... he came to the conclusion that it most likely didn't really matter. Whatever the case was: she and him were safe now, and he was happy. He supposed it would be a... curiosity, at most, going forward.

Samantha strolled into the room, gave him a smile, and plopped down onto the couch-seat, next to him. As Anteros proceeded to lay his head on her lap, and as she absentmindedly stroked the length of his head while tapping through the television's menus with the remote... something else occurred to him. He might not have any baggage, anymore... but she still had something hanging over her head, even if she'd largely forgotten it. And given the contents of her night-terror... Anteros found it a good time to finally broach the subject.

"Sam?", he asked.

"Hm?", she hummed.

"I... realize that you've mostly put it behind you, and I realize it probably isn't exactly my place to ask, but... what about your dog?", he said, carefully. She blinked, about to tap another button on the remote. Her hand stopped stroking his head, for a moment, before she slowly continued, thinking to herself. She remembered the contents of her night-terror, and swallowed, frowning.

Samantha sighed to herself, after a long moment, and eventually said to him, "I... I spent the entire Infestation clinging to the hope that I might find him, after he ran away near the start of it. I could have just made a run for the edge of the Xeno territory at least a dozen times, but I... didn't. I just kept living in denial, wanting to think that I could find him, again, and... it stopped me from doing the smart thing and just leaving...".

She put down the remote, and redoubled her petting of him with both hands, in a comfort-habit, as she thought on what to say.

"After a week or two, maybe, I should have just... assumed he was dead and wound up being Xeno-food. But I didn't want to think that, it would have been too painful, so like an idiot, I... just kept loafing around the Hive, giving myself any excuse to try and find him".

She cleared her throat, a stinging sensation coming up in her sinuses at the emotion of it. She shook her head to herself, "he was such a good dog...".

Anteros allowed her to collect herself, before asking, "what was he like?".

She snorted, smiling, and sighed again. "Charlie was a... Turkish Kangal. The runt of his litter. We got him from an ethical breeder, and I had him since he was figuring out how to walk. He always seemed so... cold with everybody but me. My parents got him for me because I was the only one out of all my siblings that actually wanted a dog enough to go and use my allowance to buy all the supplies for it— a leash and some chew-toys. And I insisted on a Kangal— I wanted a big dog, so that I could ride on his back...", she said, shaking her head at herself.

"Training him was the easy part, but keeping him busy and entertained was the hard part. I basically had him follow me, everywhere, and took him on hikes around the Kenai Fjords. Managed to get him registered as an emotional-support animal so that I could bring him to college. If anyone else was around, he got all serious and stoic, but the moment I was alone with him, he was like a puppy, again...", she said. She blinked through small bittersweet tears, at this point. She seemed to be getting closure from the reminiscing, so Anteros was satisfied that this wasn't too big of a sore spot, for her.

As she was immersing herself in those memories, though, Anteros did too. At first, he found it charming and heartwarming. But then... something began to bother him. Something big.

The more images of Charlie that emerged from the depths of her memory that he saw, and the more that Anteros studied them... something about it seemed so uncannily familiar. Something about this seemed important— pivotal. Something in him was on the verge of a massive epiphany, but he couldn't quite put his talon on it...

Wait...

That was when Anteros thought back to when he'd first started awakening his mind— one of the first things he'd ever asked the Queen, Mother. "What creature did I spawn from?". And the only response he got was a simple image.

A dog, strapped to a wall of an Egg Chamber with Hive Resin. A very large dog. With a curled tail. And at that, Anteros resisted the urge to snarl.

Oh, no...

Immediately, he rose up and away from Samantha's lap. She frowned at him, confused, still wiping away tears, as he hopped off of the couch and walked around it.

No, no, no, no...

He started putting the pieces together. Charlie had run away at the very start of the Infestation, seven months ago. Anteros was a little over six months old. Anteros was a Scout, spawned from a quadrupedal animal. The image from Samantha's mind, and the image from Mother matched up...

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no!

Anteros was abnormally large for a Scout, compared to the few others he'd seen around the Hive. His jaws were overdeveloped with thick, crushing teeth, unlike that of other Scouts, who had more crystalline fangs. Turkish Kangals, from what Samantha's mind revealed, were well-known for being the largest, and having the strongest bite-force, of any dog-breed. Anteros also had over-apparent musculature in his limbs, in contrast to other Scouts, who appeared much more gangly... combined with his uniquely-shaped tail—

No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no! No! No! NO! NO! NO!

Anteros was pacing back and forth between the desk on one side of the room, and the bathroom door, and Samantha kneeled atop the couch, staring at him with concern. "What are you saying `no` for, Anteros?! What's wrong?!", she demanded. He either ignored her, or didn't hear her...

No, no, no, no, no! No! NO! NO— God dammit, NO! You have GOT to be FUCKING KIDDING ME! This can't be happening— YOU CANNOT BE SERIOUS! Who in all the piss-soaked, bloody HELLS thought this would be a good idea?! What FUCKING idiot in the fifth dimension thought this would be FUNNY?! GOD-FUCKING-DAMMIT, WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! WHY?! WHY?!

"ANTEROS!", Samantha screamed.

He finally halted and turned to her.

"What is wrong?!", she asked, sternly.

He stood there, legs splayed and heaving through his teeth.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. Fuck. How the Hell do I tell her? Should I tell her? No— of course, I should, but... I really don't want to. But I should! But... but...

Samantha put her hands on her hips, and tilted her head at him, genuinely worried.

"I... don't think you're going to like what I have to say...", he admitted.

As she registered those words and their meaning, she didn't even blink. She was confident that there was nothing he could say that would make her angry or upset with him— she swiftly suspected that he might admit that he saw Charlie's dead body in the Hive, or even that Anteros had killed Charlie, or ate him. And though that wouldn't have made her happy, not at all... she felt prepared to receive that kind of news. A part of her, a small part, was eager to be told just that, in fact— to be told that it truly was pointless, all along, and that she wasn't "abandoning" her dog by leaving in the shuttle the way that she had. She only told him: "try me, Anteros".

Anteros huffed. He... supposed that he should simply trust her not to overreact. Still, she couldn't be expecting this truth. He rumbled and paced in a small circle, thinking of how to word it. He eventually halted, lashing his tail once, before padding toward the back of the couch and standing up to his hind legs to "look" her in the face, properly.

"I... I think it is extremely likely that... I spawned from Charlie...", he said, gently.

She blinked at him. And blinked, again.

And again.

"What?". The word was nearly monotone, the edges of a frown coming into her expression.

Anteros hunched over, orienting his head, downward. For the first time in as long as he'd known her, he wasn't sure how she would react, and the fact that she was now having trouble comprehending what he'd just said wasn't a good sign, he thought. He wanted to retreat into the air-ducts and wait for her to... blow up, or break down, or whatever it was that she would do. But he shouldn't be a coward. She deserved that much, at least.
He reiterated, "it appears extremely likely that Charlie was Hived, when he ran away... and that I was born from him...".

If a human brain could experience a "404 error-message", Samantha's mind would be the prime example, right now.

She blinked, mouth hanging open. She crossed her arms, about to speak, but finding no words. Her eyes began to dart around her, suddenly finding it difficult to settle on him as she became ensnared in thought. "You...", she began, frowning hard, still staring at the floor, "you're saying that Charlie... was taken into the Hive, after he ran away?". She looked at him from under her brow, eyes narrowing as though he were the sun at midday.

"Yes".

"And, he...", she said, running a hand through her hair, "got... infested by a... Facehugger?".

"It would seem so...", he said.

"And... you think you came out of him?", she asked.

"As far as I can surmise, yes", Anteros said, solemnly.

Samantha made a "huh" sound, and exhaled loudly. She stared at the floor, mind still working the revelation through its processes. Indeed, she was not prepared for this kind of news. She frowned even harder, grimacing, and gripping her own temples— a headache sprouting up. She was confused, hurt— for a few vertiginous moments, nothing made any sense, and she felt weak in the knees. She slowly turned around, lowering herself back down to sitting on the couch, no longer really seeing through her own eyes.

"How...?", she asked no one, shaking her head. Her voice was quiet, small, lost.

"Charlie went missing right around the same time I was born...", Anteros remarked. He didn't try to come around to her front, he stayed behind the couch's back. She found it difficult to look at him, anyway...

"Why did he...?".

"The Hive takes all potential Hosts— anything big enough to incubate a Newborn. It doesn't always work out well, with quadrupeds... but Charlie was more than a good enough target...".

"Wh—... why didn't you...?", her words got caught up in her throat as she began to hyperventilate.

"I swear to you, Samantha, on everything that I am and everything that I wish to be: I have only just now figured this out. Had I come to this conclusion or known this even a minute sooner, I would have told you. But I've only now had all of the evidence. I'm sorry...".

"You... you came out of him?! You're... him?!", she whisper-yelled, voice cracking, doubling over and holding her head in her hands.

"No. I'm not him. I was little more than an embryo in an Egg when Charlie was taken. I could have been spawned from anything— from anyone. It's just... bad luck that the Facehugger that carried me chose Charlie as my Host...", Anteros said, choosing not to include that it could equally have been "good" luck...

Painfully, Samantha could only think of the injustice of it all. The fear, the pain, the struggle, the agony that Charlie must have gone through. All she could think of was what horrors her dog had spent his last moments in— how he must have yearned for her to have saved him, or yearned to be with her again. Wishing for freedom, for safety, for her— kicking his legs and bucking desperately, whining, crying, yowling... right up until his ribcage was shattered outward.
Samantha gasped, and pressed a hand to her chest, consumed with sympathy-pains that were delayed by seven months. Her dog— her best friend, subject to one of the worst fates imaginable. It was one thing to imagine that he had starved or been killed and eaten... it was wholly another to know that he'd been used like so many thousands of people, in the very way that Samantha had dreaded, for months...

I'm sorry, Charlie... you didn't deserve this... it should have been me... I shouldn't have gone to The Warehouse— I shouldn't have let you run away. I should have been faster, smarter! I should have saved you...

Anteros stayed quiet... and sat, patiently, as she started to cry. He was legitimately unsure how Samantha would react, if he tried to comfort her, in this moment. He soundly regretted telling her the truth... but it was just that. And it deserved to be said.
So he waited, as she spent the next twenty minutes spinning through a breakneck cycle of grief and regret. She agonized over her every past mistake— coming to Guardian, in the first place, failing to get a proper passport, failing to get to the space-ports fast enough, failing to find The Warehouse fast enough, failing to heed the "trespassers beware" warnings all over The Warehouse doors, allowing herself to get scared and shoot that innocent man... floundering and doing nothing as Charlie yelped and sprinted away... never to be seen, again.

It was all so avoidable... none of it had to happen...

Eventually, though, Samantha ran out of tears to shed. Faster than she might have expected, she began to recompose herself. After all: what was there to be done about it? Charlie had died months ago, the nightmare was long-since over, and she couldn't go back and change what had happened, anyway. Anteros couldn't have stopped it, either— couldn't truly be blamed for not telling her this, sooner, either.
In a bizarre confluence of serendipity, wisdom and knowledge from Samantha's past— from the people she cared about came back to her, and gave her some small measure of comfort, as she collected herself. Her mother always used to tell her, in situations like this, that playing the "blame-shame-guilt" game was a useless and vicious thing— that agonizing over the should-haves and could-haves and might-haves would only make everything worse. That the only thing to do was to learn from it... and move on.
What, precisely, she should learn from this experience— from her time in the Infestation, as a whole, was lost on her, at the moment... but Samantha sniffed to herself and wiped at her face, taking a deep breath.

She remembered the teachings of Idio-Galvanism— the words of her mentor. Concepts from Stoic Philosophy flittered around her mind as she scoured her own memories for support. What would the guys in the conclave say about all of this? Probably something subtly offensive, yet inspirational, in their usual round-about way.
"People suffer more in their imaginations than they do in reality. A man is not truly shaped by events, but rather by the view he takes of them. So, when next you find yourself struck by misfortune, think not that it is misfortune, but that to bear it worthily is good fortune. After all... what else can you do?".

These had always been concepts that Samantha had struggled with— struggled to internalize or even understand... but in this moment, they made an odd, haunting kind of sense. Why be sad about it? Should she bear any guilt for this? Was any of it really her fault, or a result of her failings? Yes, she had failed in a number of ways, but... the Infestation had been an act of God, if ever she'd heard of one. If she could have stopped it from happening, she would have. But it hadn't been her choice— hadn't been anyone's choice. As her mentor used to say: "everything that happens in the universe comes down to one, simple fact. Shit happens. You can try to prevent it, try to predict it, cry about it, or anything else... but it'll just keep happening, either way. Better to shrug and move on, better than you were the day before".

She sighed, wincing— none of that made the reality of what had happened to Charlie any less horrific, any less unjust. To that, she supposed, her Idio-Galvanist friends would tell her to find the good in all of it, and to focus on that...

She suspected that if anyone told her that, to her face, she'd snap at them in fury... but as she considered it, what else was there for her to do? Get angrier and sadder and more melancholy about something that she couldn't change?

So, she humored it... and considered.

Charlie had been fifteen years old, at the start of the Infestation. Which, by Kangal standards, was ancient. He showed every bit of that age— hip dysplasia that he'd had to get surgery for, fat-deposits on his side and shoulder, trouble standing and laying down. He had been spry and energetic, to be sure... but his time had been coming to an end. Just weeks before the Infestation started, in fact, he'd gotten a seizure in the middle of the night, and Samantha had been calling in to a local vet to see if he could have an appointment.
If she looked at it in a purely utilitarian sense... Charlie would have died, over the course of the Infestation, in any way she examined it. She would have been forced to leave him behind at some point or another— maybe been forced to kill him, herself. And while part of her wanted to argue with that and insist that he was very well-trained and that they could have made a run for the border of the territory at the first possible chance... he'd probably had, at most, another few months to live, anyway.
She cringed— it didn't make what happened to him any less terrible... but... perhaps it was a mercy for him that he'd been snatched away at the soonest possibility. It wasn't a mercy for her... but it never would have been, regardless. Even if he'd died peacefully on a bed, in her arms, it would have devastated her just as much as it did, on Guardian.

A tiny part of her acknowledged that if Charlie hadn't been taken... that Anteros wouldn't be here. But that line of logic led her down a rabbit-hole of asking whether she would have needed or wanted Anteros, at all, if the Infestation hadn't happened to begin with. She was making rationalizations, as it was, and trying to spin it all as a good thing was a pointless task.

She sighed again and leaned back on the couch, staring at the ceiling. The entire point of the rationalizations was to try to see the good that came of everything. It was pointless to discard the good that had come about, simply because the bad didn't need to happen in the first place, because by that logic: she didn't even "need" to be born, or become an Idio-Galvanist, go to college! She was starting to get a headache from all of this philosophy, though she snorted to herself, remembering how her mentor had praised her for carrying her traumas and problems "like a man". She'd always enjoyed listening to debates like this... only it proved far less jovial when it came to her own conundrums...

See the good in it... see the good in it...

She... guessed that, in the end... Charlie had been a very good dog. He had lived a long, good life; he'd given her so much joy and had been a tremendous friend. Even though his end was a less-than-happy one... she had at least done everything up until then to give him a good go of things. And he'd more than repaid her for that, throughout.
She smiled to herself, remembering the countless games of tug-of-war and fetch— chucking a tennis ball dozens of meters down Guardian's hallways and watching him barrel down, toward it; Charlie accidentally knocking down a small child and promptly begging for the kid's forgiveness and licking their face with his ears pinned back; all those hikes through the woods where she'd rant and talk at him about everything and nothing and he always pretended to understand her; him defending her from and chasing a black bear up a tree; curling up with him in the cargo-hold of space shuttles for hours, just to be with him, when the captain didn't allow animals in the passenger-cabin.

One, particular memory, though, stood out to her. The day when she first got Charlie— when dad had brought him home as a puppy, so many years ago...

Her dad had walked in through the front door, carrying a small kennel. Samantha had run up to him, young enough to be unrecognizable from her adult self. She remembered being excited and suddenly frightened— unsure of whether she was ready. But then, when her dad had set down the kennel, a tiny little cry sounded from within the crate, and her heart melted. She remembered her dad smiling and remarking, "he already knows he's home".
Her dad knelt down, opened the crate, and brought out a small, potato-shaped lump with little legs and a wrinkled face. Samantha robotically took the unnamed puppy into her arms... and as it squirmed and nestled closer to her chest, she began to silently cry for reasons she couldn't even begin to understand. Her father asked her something she didn't register, and laughed when she only blubbered a "what?".

He took the tiny creature from her, and held it up for her to see. And what he told her, then, was something she'd never forget...

"Samantha, darling. This beautiful, little creature is one of the only things in this entire universe who will love you more than he loves himself. Unconditionally. If you take care of him and show that you love him, he will do the same for you, and then some".

When he handed her back the puppy, Samantha cried again and nodded, vowing to do just that. She hadn't understood why he told her that or why she cried in response, but she now knew it was because her father wanted her to start making the most of having a dog, as soon as possible. Dogs don't live that long, after all.

Samantha looked down from the ceiling, blinking through new tears... and found Anteros, sitting on his haunches in front of her. She blinked at him, smiling, and wiped her eyes. To his relief, she felt no shame or ill-will toward him.
Dammit, dad..., she thought, chuckling to herself, you just had to make me cry, didn't you?
Her father had always had a habit of that. He was the introspective, deep type that didn't talk very much... but when he did speak, it was almost always something meaningful and profound. Or funny— funny was good, too.

"So... no hard feelings?", Anteros asked, a bit out-of-the-blue.

She blinked at him, a little surprised to hear the fear in his voice.

"No, of course not!", she scoffed. "What kind of bitch would I have to be to get mad at you about this?". She held open her arms, inviting him to embrace her.

"Good...", he said, hopping up onto the couch, next to her, and laying his head on her lap, "I was... concerned. It wasn't clear to me, how you'd react to... everything. Believe me, if it had been my choice, I wouldn't have chosen this...".

"I get it", she said, leaning back and closing her eyes, absentmindedly stroking his head. "I wouldn't be too eager to give that kind of news, either...".

They relaxed there for a few minutes. She reminisced some more about her dog, and he was there for her.

"So...", she eventually said, "would you be Charlie's son, in this context, or...?".

"... I think half-brother, maybe? It's never been very clear to me, how the genetics of it work", Anteros responded, "I certainly inherited a few things from him, but... it feels weird to think of him as my dad. It's weird enough to think of him as my Host...".

She hummed to herself, wondering what parts of Anteros were things that he'd inherited from Charlie. It was... shocking, really. She'd never even considered the possibility that Anteros had been spawned from her dog, before now— the concept had never crossed her mind, at all. Although... looking back, she guessed it... made some sort of bizarre sense. In a cruel, ironic, twist-of-fate kind of way. Almost like someone, somewhere, was giving her the middle-finger— "haha, you spent six months agonizingly searching for your dog, only for your dog to find you in a form you never would have asked for!", queue Dracula-esque laughter.

She smirked. Shows what they knew.

While she would never entertain the idea that Anteros was Charlie's "replacement", she was damn certain that he was far from a "downgrade". She wasn't sure it was moral to think of it in those terms, but at this point, was too tired to care.

"I think...", Anteros began to say.

"Hm?".

"You remember the Unknown? The thing that made me save your life, when we first met? The anomaly?", he asked.

"... Yeah?", she said.

"I... I think the Unknown is Charlie. Or... what remains of him...", he said.

She squinted at the ceiling, and blinked, "...huh". She cocked her head, her biologist brain instantly chewing that information up and spitting it out in a fit, "that... somehow makes absolutely no sense, and yet also... makes all the sense in the world, at same time...".

"My thoughts, exactly", Anteros concluded.

"So... you just... have Charlie in your head, now?", Samantha ventured, grimacing.

"Not... really? It's... difficult to put into words. Especially considering that it's now up and disappeared, somehow", he said, carefully. "I... think it faded into my subconscious once I realized that Charlie was my Host...".

"That's... really weird", Samantha said, "... really... really weird". Her inner biologist was currently throwing up its hands in frustration, and she didn't have the energy to try to debate how Xenomorph neurology should work.

"Yeah... I've never heard of anything like this happening... ever...".

She huffed.

"You want to watch another movie?", she eventually asked.

"Yeah, sure".

---

Aboard the Hunting Ship...

Zazin-Vor'mekta The Blue had been in the viewport for at least two hours. There were only a few of these viewports on the ship, and they were small rooms with low ceilings and a smart-glass window to the void taking up one wall, shaped like a rhombus. Meant to be sat in by one-to-two people for meditation, especially while the ship's engines were engaged..

He sat upon the circular dais that took up most of the viewport's floor, in his robe. He stared out of the glass, maskless, as it was tuned to be able to show him multiple wavelengths of light. Particularly while the vessel was traveling at its maximum speed, which turned the great void of the galaxy into a hauntingly beautiful and terrifying kaleidoscope of color and shimmering lights. It was well-known that bearing witness to the warped and stretched fabric of space-time could cause eye-damage and various mental afflictions, if stared-at too long... but those concerns tended to crop up after months-worth of exposure. And this was the first time Zazin' had bothered going to a ship's viewport in at least two decades.

He breathed deep, languidly tapping his tusks together in an alternating pattern, as he worked his jaw. He sat with his hand on his knees, legs crossed, and back straight. The vibrating hum of the ship's engines and subsystems was most-apparent in viewports like this, not only for being closer to the outer-hull, but for also being sound-proofed, with the tiniest of vents leading into or out of this chamber's walls.

Gossamer streams and ephemeral rivulets of multi-colored light streamed across the window's breadth in slow, random intervals. It had never been clear to him if the colors he was seeing were actual interstellar objects, or just the byproduct or light and radiation from them. Either way... it provided a relaxing and rhythmic sight to get lost in. Although Zazin' couldn't quite get lost. Not when he had the things on his mind that he did...

A small hitch in breathing prompted him to glance leftward, at Rhaana, as she sat just next him. She pulled in a deep breath and slouched, regarding the view with the most placid, peaceful expression he'd ever seen her take. It wasn't uncommon for one to literally "forget to breath" when sitting in a viewport, and seeing her do so almost made him chuckle. This was her first time seeing the universe in such a way. He hadn't been sure what compelled him to suggest coming here, but now that they were sitting here, together, it almost made him... forget everything. Their Pact, the decision he would need to make when they arrived on Yautja Prime, the corporation's newest scheme...

Almost.

Still, though... he couldn't say the quietude was unpleasant. And it was nice to see how she reacted to something small and simple, like this. And though he'd spent most of the time ruminating over recent events, and the Hunt he was slated to take up, in a matter of terms... it was pleasant to be here, with her.

"Za-Vor?".

He blinked and looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and grunted in response. She wasn't looking at him, though regarded the swaying shades with a more somber expression.

"Am I good person?", she asked, equal parts solemn and curious.

He blinked. Then snorted.

"Of course you are. What sort of question is that?", he returned to staring out of the window.

He didn't hear a response for a long moment.

"I mean to say... I've never thought of myself as a bad person, per se, nor as Dishonorable...", she started.

"Do you believe those are two, different things?", he asked.

No response for another, long moment.

"Yes. I've met plenty of horrible people whose Honor was unquestionable... and plenty of perfectly good people whose Honor was the subject of mockery...". He smiled to himself, only a little surprised to hear that from her.

"That's a very enlightened viewpoint, Rhaana", he said, matter-of-factly.

She grunted, continuing, "I've never thought of myself as bad or Dishonorable... but... I've never felt particularly good, either". He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, and found her to be frowning, and looking at the floor.

"The idea of being good, or even that `good` could apply to me just... never crossed my mind...", she said.

"Until now", he remarked. "Why?".

"I'd never thought of it until I met you", she clarified. He smirked to himself a little harder.

"And why's that?", he asked taking a deep breath and sighing.

"I am unsure. But ever since I met you, I've been finding myself asking many, many questions. Perhaps because of the way you dismissed me, at first". she said, sounding... not quite rueful, but... nonplussed.

He looked at her for a long moment, trying to discern her precise point, before she looked back to the window, again. She shrugged to herself, admitting, "I guess... I guess being rejected by you, so flippantly, made me question everything. For the first time, I was asking myself whether I was good enough for something— a good enough person to be a mother...".

"And you're asking me, now, whether you're a good person? Because me rejecting you, at first, made you question that?", he reiterated.

"Yes", she replied, sounding if not serene, then at least content. Content to hear whatever answer he'd give.

He snorted, looking back to the window. "There are plenty of good people that I've rejected, just as harshly. And plenty more good people that I'd reject, all the same, at any point in the future. It wasn't some moral judgement about your goodness that made me say `no`, Rhaana. The speech I gave was far from unrehearsed. So, yes, I do think you're a good person. I simply don't trust, easily... that's all".

If he didn't know her better, he might have expected that she would now ask whether he trusted her, now... but she didn't. After another few minutes, he heard a shift, and felt her side press into his. Her head came to rest on his shoulder, and Zazin' took her hand as she offered it.

And as they stared out into the infinite void's roiling waves... he couldn't help but feel this burgeoning, soaring optimism rise in his gut. Not just about her, or about their relationship... but about the future, as a whole. Something in him sensed that he was on the precipice of something great... and he suspected that it would all begin with the Human shuttle, and with tracking down Weyland-Yutani's latest transgression. For the first time in a while, he felt like he had something to look forward to...

For now, though, he was content to sit with her, a satisfied, genuine smile broadening his features...

---

Epilogue

Guardian's Infestation did not end with the death of the Queen, nor soon afterward. Even as the forces of the USCMC finally seized The Warehouse after another few days, they found little-to-no resistance. The reason as to why was soon revealed, as a sizable force of Xenomorphs were already carving a warpath through the nearby city of Victuan... more than six kilometers behind the Joint-Quarantine Protocol's "wall" of defenses.

Scrambling to regroup and redeploy, the forces of the Colonial Marines and Weyland-Yutani mercenaries abandoned the now-empty and dead Xenomorph Hive Territory (XHT) and pursued the force of bugs as it was making its way through Victuan— slaughtering at least a thousand civilians, in the process.

What happened next was then forever-known as The Fumble, as the Human army-groups proceeded to massively overcorrect their response by redirecting all of their planet-wide forces toward the city of Victuan. What was a civilian death-count in the hundreds was soon inflated to one in the tens-of-thousands, as the Colonial Marines brought to bear an inordinate amount of ordinance— missile salvos, artillery-bombardments, and napalm-bombings galore. At least one ICBM carrying an oversized explosive-payload was launched and came crashing down onto Victuan's Five Roofs— cracking and collapsing all of them, and turning the domed-city into a shape more approximating a failed soufflé. Killing untold hundreds from large portions of the superstructure crushing buildings and districts.

The force of Xenomorphs, meanwhile, was already moving on to the next city— significantly reduced, but nevertheless continuing. Four more cities were brought the fury of tooth and claw, before the primary mass of Xenomorphs were dispersed.

"Dispersed", because all of the creatures abruptly split up and ran in random directions when a Praetorian (apparently) leading them died. And so, for the next three years, the entire planet of Guardian-625 went into total lockdown, as isolated Xenomorph packs kept being found, again and again and again. The USCMC's mass-deployment to Victuan had left various other parts of the world without protection while smaller, unnoticed groups of the creatures were going to ground and finding places to hide. Obviously, any notion of using nuclear weaponry was soundly abandoned, as the creatures were no longer locked within an already-defunct space, and were running amok among populated and valuable cities. The Human military were dead-set on saving their world without having to turn it into an irradiated wasteland.
What none seemed to register or take into account was the launch of a particular ship, a cargo-freighter, from one of the space-ports of those cities as they were just starting to come under attack from Xenomorphs. A cargo-freighter that was around six-hundred kilos heavier than it should have been...

All in all: it was found that a force of around 9,500 Xenomorphs had left the XHT in one large, mass, and apparently deliberately sought out undefended population-centers, while roughly 6,000 Xenomorphs had split up into platoon-sized groups and spread across the world of Guardian's furthest corners as swiftly and as far as possible. The reason that the military had overcommitted its forces to Victuan was because its analysts had expected numbers of hostiles at around the 35,000 mark, only to find barely a quarter of that meeting them. That estimates of the Hive's strength had previously been ~77,000 was left quietly unmentioned, as none found it important to detail the Hive's self-culling in the days prior to the retaking of The Warehouse.
The result of all of this was: planet-wide riots and looting as the populace went into a panic, the USCMC having to spend all of its resources hunting down and scouring an untold number of Xenomorph packs with extreme prejudice (for fear that a new Queen might emerge), and billions of dollars in property-damage. A full tally of the death-toll of the entire Infestation wouldn't be completed until a year after the last Xenomorph-sighting was recorded, in 2185...

95,782 civilian deaths; over 125,000 additional injured persons.

7,229 Colonial Marine deaths; 15,478 wounded-in-action; 771 missing-in-action.

3,680 mercenary deaths; 8,935 wounded-in-action; 412 missing-in-action.

Nearly 260,000 people being the final casualty-count, with four-times that amount having their lives changed, forever...

Guardian-625, even fifty years later, has yet to fully financially recover from what would later be known as The Infestation of '182, and is still clearing away and renovating the burned-out remnant-husks of Dimidirupt, Tenvis, New Scena, and Victuan.

The after-effects of The Infestation of '182 would be felt for decades.
For one: public trust in the Colonial Marines, across the breadth of Human colonized space, was severely damaged, as the people no longer felt quite so confident in their combat-capabilities, nor so confident that the Marines wouldn't cock things up and mulch a bunch of innocent bystanders, like they had during The Fumble. Of course: any commander worth their salt would tell you that the Colonial Marine Corps on Guardian had, for seven straight months, adapted for the task of encircling and holding the line against the Hive, and thus, could only panic when the parameters of their mission had shifted so horrifically, with the Hive's remaining forces making their surprise-excursion from the XHT, in Victuan. It was only natural, if unfortunate, that the commanders in charge of the war against the Hive hit the panic button the instant that the paradigm changed. The public, and more pointedly, the media, were not inclined to understand this, however, and it became popular to make snide remarks about the Colonial Marines committing warcrimes on citizens, rather than the enemy, because they weren't rationed enough crayons to eat that week, and so on.

For two: the Colonial Marines lost a fair few of their private sponsors— especially the ones that were headquartered on Guardian, itself. Their funding was cut by at least 26%, overall. Fortunately, or unfortunately if you have the slightest amount of basic pattern-recognition, Weyland-Yutani graciously stuck by the Corps and increased their own funding of it by an extra 15%, alongside a few other corporations taking up the slack.
The Joint-Quarantine Protocol's relative success would, more or less, cause the Corps to grudgingly accept Weyland-Yutani into their good graces, once more, after the string of incidents on Acheron — known officially as The Sulaco Dropsite-Massacre, and The Sephora Skirmishes (colloquially referred to as "The Acheron Shitstorm" by Marines) — which, incidentally, would go on to make the corporation settle out-of-court on all of the lawsuits that sprouted from that. Weyland-Yutani's pockets were significantly drained, but it retained its standing and suffered few other consequences. The Colonial Marines, though, especially among its Non-Commissioned Officers, would continue to harbor intense suspicions and contempt for the company and its collection of contracted Private Military Corporations and mercenaries.

For three: the military experiment of Guardian was more or less totally abandoned. The entire point of colonizing Guardian in the first place, and investing so much infrastructure on the planet, was to attempt to create a central, planetary headquarters for the Colonial Marines, as an organization (situated closer to the center of Human territory in the galaxy) from which the Colonial Marines could best deploy and rally around, in defense of the United Americas and its colonies. Guardian was to be the UA's biggest, most-central "police-station".
As ready as possible to defend it from anything, and guaranteed to arrive at a consistent time-table, anywhere. However, with cratering public-faith in the Marines as a whole, and with their competence called severely into-question: any amount of enthusiasm for the idea, from the Corps own leadership, and from private investors throughout the United Americas, was soundly stifled to the point of being all but moot. If the Colonial Marine Corps couldn't be expected to eliminate animals effectively or swiftly, on their very own front door-step, did they even deserve a headquarters?
Many would point out that Xenomorphs are hardly a conventional or nominal threat, but as it turns out... nobody really cares about such excuses when 1-in-4 citizens of Guardian now had dead loved-ones and shattered economic prospects. The failure at Guardian would go on to be a non-starter conversation-topic among the Marines, for decades— even mentioning it around a superior officer could land you latrine-cleaning duty, even decades later.

This would all result, slowly but surely, in a new paradigm arising across all of Human space— every colony, from the dingiest backwater to the most bustling Urban Worlds, now had the incentive and precedence to create their own, homegrown militias for planetary defense... and the United Americas Army Regiments surged in popularity and prominence. A new school of thought was had, after the disaster of Guardian— why rely on Marines, whose job is to fight threats from space, for planetary defense? When your very home is no longer free of hostiles, and the war is on your world, rather than just the space around it: why not rely on the people whose entire shtick was defending home-soil?
For the last half-century, much of the public's tendency toward fascination and romanticization had been with the Colonial Marines, due to clever and charismatic marketing— but after Guardian: the Army saw their funding and political power surge with surprising vigor. Suddenly: practically every world in the Human domain wanted to at least negotiate an Army outreach and localized-training contract— if not host some Army garrisons, outright! Before Guardian, the biggest threats to Human lives in the galaxy were isolated Reptilian pirates, Snorgeth warbands, Cravenor slavers, the odd Arcturian "Wretcheds", as well as... other Humans in the Frontier— threats for which the Marines were apt in dealing with; the incident on Acheron had been considered a fluke, by most officials and pundits. But Guardian demonstrated to the public that war, conflict, and existential threats can and will arrive on, or emerge from, their very own worlds, and that the Colonial Marines were not an infallible solution it.

If the Colonial Marines were to be the UA's sword, then the Army would be its shield. No longer would the UA's broad defense be the responsibility of the Marines from Guardian, alone— now, the Army would be called upon to step up on a minute's notice, and to reliably hold the line and contest the ground. From this, the Army was given a "new" moniker: "Minutemen". New schematics for planetary and orbital defense-cannons were drawn up, and devising new ways to defend a planet from invaders or make them more robust against ground-wars became incredibly popular, while the Marine Corps shifted their focus onto decentralizing their forces, and spreading themselves throughout Humanity's space using deep-space platforms and smaller resupply depots. Guardian would be the embarrassment from which the United Americas Allied Command would seek to rectify and learn from.

Such lessons were broad in scope— the larger ones being the dangers of settling into routines of a given conflict, too easily, the importance of measured and careful responses and deployment of munitions, and the overall folly of trying to do more than what they were made to do. Some of the smaller lessons had to do with combat-doctrine— namely insofar as the use of androids in-combat. Seegson-brand synthetics were soundly dropped from combat-roles by the Marine Corps, in all but the most unique of circumstances, and were slated for non-combat logistics tasks, and at-most: used in combat-support roles, such as operating APCs and carrying heavy equipment. It was found that while synthetics used in-combat could be very powerful, indeed, the replacement and repair-costs for when those synthetics inevitably became damaged was found to be far too costly to be worth their combat-capabilities.

The Infestation of Guardian would go on to be one of the many driving forces behind the signing of the Colonial Protection Act in 2187 that would revitalize and rename the Corps as the "United Americas Colonial Marine Corps".
The goodwill earned by Weyland-Yutani during the Infestation, additionally, was soundly lost when Weyland-Yutani attempted to instigate a full-scale war between the United Americas and the Union of Progressive Peoples, in 2184, by attacking both sides using PMCs, and trying to frame the other— what would come to be known as The Frontier War (fought, as one can imagine, on the frontier of human-controlled space). The Frontier War revealed that many of the Colonial Marines' own brass were bought-out agents of Wey-Yu, prompting a thorough "cleaning out". Unfortunately, though, given that Weyland-Yutani falls soundly under the national authority of the Three World Empire and Outer Sol: the most justice one can expect from Wey-Yu is for a swathe of their managers and middle-managers to get tossed out on their asses and fired. It became painfully apparent to the governments of Earth that the mega-corporations had become far too much like tyrannical governments in the Frontier, and so it was only natural that this last straw begot a nuclear response.

The Colonial Protection Act marked the point at which Weyland-Yutani ceased to have any actionable authority over Colonial Marine forces for the foreseeable future— at least, insofar as territory claimed by the United Americas, the Colonial Protection Act gave the Colonial Marines broad authority to protect any and all UA civilians, on any world, from anyone— whether from dangerous aliens, foreign nations, or human mega-corporations, regardless of typical private-property laws of said corporations.

All in all... The Infestation of '182 would not be long-remembered by very many, at all— not other than those on Guardian, at least. It was hardly the biggest disaster in the galaxy, and it could have been far, far worse for everyone, involved. Many worlds on the frontiers of Human space didn't even hear of it until a decade after the fact, and even: didn't care to hear it.
For most, the Infestation would boil down and boil away into being just another bad memory— something to recall with soberness when passing through or by the broken-down and derelict parts of Guardian's mountain-cities. Something to commemorate on the yearly anniversary of The Fumble, with a shot of whiskey and Colonial Marine-themed house-parties and old war-stories from veterans. Good humor, after all, is often the best cure for even the worst tragedies, and in some ways: the Infestation was the perfect subject of humor— everyone on Guardian had been effected by it, everyone considered it a victory against an evil that none held sympathies or sorrow for; anyone who might have taken offense at jokes about it were old soldiers who'd long-since ceased to give a damn, anyway. Such is our nature as Human-beings.

The Infestation was, in all ways, a harrowing experience while it lasted... but a learning one, as well. Lessons that would go on to be very, very useful...

And the United Americas Armed Forces would benefit, greatly.

The Clans of the Yautja, meanwhile, would have their own revelations— significantly smaller than those of the Humans, but nonetheless: impactful. The Dark Blade Clan, unsurprisingly, came under political fire by its rivals (especially the Bright Spears) and were given due credit by their friends and the Council of Ancients. The Dark Blade Clan had vastly outdone any prior expectations, and had capitalized incredibly well on the head-start they had been given. Rumors, therefore, that the Council of Ancients would soon either test the Dark Blade for some sacred duty or grant them some great boon were suitably enflamed, and as a result: the other Clans of the Yautja began to mobilize. Not for war, but in general, and in preparation to ramp up their Hunts and exploits— they would not be caught lacking when the Dark Blade ascended, or failed to.
Yak-a'Shen The Spry would go on to be awarded with a Clan Attainment by the Dark Blade Council, which was essentially them rewarding Yak-a'Shen with the right to organize and fund a public celebration of his (admittedly wildly) successful Hunt, throughout the Dark Blade Clan; this was a massive vote-of-confidence on the part of the Dark Blade Council, a generous offer, and would put Clan Elder Yak-a'Shen The Spry one step closer on the arduous path to joining the Dark Blade Council, itself.

There is, however, far more to come.
Much change and revelation is coming to the galaxy... and as a few, exceptional individuals make their ways through varying transitions in their lives, they are utterly unaware of the impact they will soon go on to have on the world around them.

Especially considering an internal memo sent from one head-executive to another, within Weyland-Yutani. A memo concerning the disaster on Guardian, the loss of contact with a pair of science-officers, from months prior... and the loss of a particular, company shuttle...

...

At some time, at some place in the future... a woman sat a desk.

She wrote upon a paper, and had been writing for hours. Behind her, a beast sat in deep meditation, and mentally guided her hand, illustrating the words through her hand and pen...

Eventually, the task was done. And on the desk were a stack of papers, detailing the life-story of a man she had never met or spoken to.

She asked her friend if that was it, and he said it was. She asked him who it was that he had had her write about, and why... and he simply said that he was carrying out a promise to an old friend...

---

The End

Run and tell all of the angels,

This could take all night.

Think I need a devil to help me get things right.

Hook me up a new revolution,

'Cause this one is a lie.

We sat around, laughing,

And watched the last one die.

Now, I'm lookin' to the sky to save me,

Lookin' for a sign o' life.

Lookin' for somethin' to help me burn out, bright.

I'm lookin' for a complication.

Lookin' 'cause I'm tired of lyin'.

Make my way back home and learn to fly, high.

Make my way back home and learn to—

Fly along with me,

I can't quite make it, alone.

Try to make this life my own.

Fly along with me,

I can't quite make it, alone.

Try to make this life my own.

Now, I'm lookin' to the sky to save me,

Lookin' for a sign o' life.

Lookin' for somethin' to help me burn out, bright.

I'm lookin' for a complication.

Lookin' 'cause I'm tired of tryin'.

Make my way back home and learn to fly, high.

Make my way back home and learn to fly.

Make my way back home and learn to...

(— Learn to Fly, Foo Fighters).

---

... Long Road to Ruin, or Making a Fire, would also work.

Well...

It's been a ride, hasn't it?

I began writing this story and uploading it nine years ago. I can't say that everything while writing this story has been perfect, all the way through; I can't say it's been enjoyable or happy all the way through. But I honestly wouldn't change a thing about this story, or the way I've written it. Because it is, ultimately, a reflection of me, and how I've developed, over the years. As this has gone on, I've experienced a myriad of changes— highs, lows, confusions, certainties, revelations and degradations. I changed into an entirely new person, as far as beliefs and principals, at least four times through the course of this. The person I was when I began this is someone I would genuinely hate being around.

I started this story— I started Sapience... out of spite, if you can believe it. IluthraDanar, another author on this site, wrote a story (literally a decade ago), titled "The Guardian"— a romance between a Xenomorph and a Human woman. I had just gotten into AVP at that time, and I found The Guardian, in the process. Just as I had found it, however, IluthraDanar stepped back from FanFiction and left the sequel to The Guardian unfinished.
Intensely disappointed at this turn of events, I resolved to... "do it myself", so to speak. I'd had no talent or predilection for writing, at the time, with damn-near no experience in the matter: but that didn't matter to me. I was miffed and spiteful, and so I channeled that into making Sapience— a title I didn't settle on until roughly halfway through writing the damn story.

Yes. Sapience began, initially, as an excuse to write Human/Xeno Smut. I fancied myself as the man who would do IluthraDanar's "job" for her, and do it better than her (lol).
Obviously, I've moved away from that idea. As far this story goes: Anteros and Samantha are the deepest of friends you can find, and nothing more. At a stretch, you might call what they have a "platonic romance", if you wanted to be extremely pretentious.

I'd always wanted Sapience to have "a little bit of everything"— action, drama, catharsis, depression, etc. It just took me a while to actualize it.

Sapience is far from a flawless product, and to be frank: it is built on objectively-flawed foundations. One of the bigger ones being The Unknown, and the way I implemented it. For one: there is no real precedence for a Xenomorph, in-canon, retaining memories or desires from their Hosts— unless we're working off of Assassin's Creed-logic, which... we really shouldn't. For two: the only reason it ever existed to begin with was because I needed an excuse for Anteros to be forced "across the Rubicon" and have an incentive to risk betraying the Hive. Looking back, there were more than a few excuses I could have come up with, for that. For three: it's a very poorly-kept secret as to what precisely The Unknown is, and the "twist" was hardly difficult to see coming.
There are, of course, certain parts of the story that I think dragged a bit too long, certain parts that could use some tweaking. But... at this point, it's as good as I can make it, without drastic or all-encompassing re-writes of the plot.

Overall... I like to think of Sapience as a story that touches on a myriad of different topics and themes... but is largely about love and loneliness, and the bitterness that can stand between the two.

For the vast majority of this story's creation: I was writing it under one paradigm. That being: my own experience with being alone, and my desire for connection, understanding, catharsis, closeness, and intimacy. It's probably the reason I enjoy romance in the first place. For the vast majority of this story's creation: I had zero (0) real friends— nobody that I interacted with on a regular basis, outside my immediate family.
Sapience, to some extent, was sort of my way of escaping the monotony of my life and circumstances. It was my way of coping with my loneliness, by imagining a life where I have someone with whom I can connect on a deep level— I don't think it's a surprise that Anteros was always sort of a... puppet-character for me to step into the role of. Even down to his British accent— an excuse for me to have him use British-isms as he speaks, so as to make inhabiting him more natural, for me.

If I'm being frank: the constant praise and adulation of you all has been one of the few things keeping my self-esteem afloat, for all these years. Nine years. I am grateful that you are all able to tolerate my meanderings and screw-ups. Art is the practice of creating something with which to touch the minds and souls of complete and total strangers, and I am humbled at my having done so for all of you. If you've been here since the beginning: you are a damn saint, and I thank you.

As for what's next?

There are sequels planned for Sapience. What will come first is a... we'll call it a "mini-series" of one-shots— largely taking place over the course of Samantha and Anteros's flight, and Zazin' and Hul'Mei returning to Yautja Prime. Think of it as the "interim" between Sapience and its "proper" sequel, which will tell the story of what happens when Sam and Anteros arrive on Keman (PK-737).
I don't know when, precisely, I'll get around to writing any of that, but there you go. I might also write some more one-shots in the Chronicles line in the meantime, about... whatever random nonsense I can come up with.

P.S: Did you guys know that "Charlie" is the most common dog-name in the 21st century? I had no idea, myself— I only learned that, like, a day ago, and I swear it's a total coincidence that Samantha's dog was named Charlie, too.