Chapter 4: Rough Patch

Anteros's claws shredded the carpet beneath his feet as he sprinted down the hallway, kicking up small tufts of fluffy fibers and even pieces of the floorboards into the air behind him. His tail and head remained rigid, keeping perfectly still despite the rest of his body being in motion, allowing him to maintain perfect balance, as well as keep his head from swinging about in every possible direction. He had to keep the target within "sight", after all.

His spine and torso flexed inward and outward, like a rapid-fire, spring-loaded, bowstring; as his arms and legs unrelentingly pumped forward and backward so fast, they became barely-discernible blurs beneath him. To a Human, the way he ran would look uncannily like the way a dog, horse, or even cheetah on Earth; not at all like his Human-spawned Hive-Mates who either ran in a lizard-like fashion, or a rather clumsy-looking, yet brisk, two-legged gait.

As it was, this was the first time he had ever been forced to sprint in his life. As in: "at your limit: sprint". Usually, what with him being faster than his Human-spawned counter parts, nothing speed-wise had ever required much more effort than a swift jog on his part— not even running from the targeting-system of a Smartgun had seen Anteros be put under any physical strain. If there were a single thing you could call him arrogant about, it was his swiftness.

But now, as he was chasing the fleeing Human female, he was shocked to see that he would be tested in this department. She was definitely faster than any Human he had ever encountered— even a Colonial Marine would be hard pressed to win in a foot race against this girl. In fact... if he didn't know any better, he'd say that her ability to sprint at this kind of speed was... almost super-human! But... he'd seen nothing to suggest anything of the sort, nor anything that might explain it...
All the same, she moved with a certain... grace that he had never witnessed in another Human, and as if she was right at home doing this— as though sprinting like this was nary more difficult than strolling in a park. Anteros was gaining ground, he wouldn't run out of stamina anytime soon, and he would catch her. But still... to think that this Human would be the one to end up posing a challenge when it came to pure speed...

It wasn't as if Anteros had never actually gone at this speed before — he had ran like this plenty of times while on patrol — just never when he was in combat had he ever been forced to actually sprint. Never mind while chasing someone.

First, she draws blood from me with a kick to the face, then she gives me trouble in a footrace, however momentary. What other surprises does she have in store?, Anteros wondered as he struggled to comprehend the Human's thoughts. Her thoughts were being "scrambled" by the adrenaline in her veins and the fear in her mind. Anteros was trying to tune out the jumbled mess of primal, conceptual thought-processes she was broadcasting, but it was like trying to ignore an alarm-clock at six A.M...

This was not helped by the Ancestral and Unknown either egging Anteros on, or begging him to stop and keep his distance. Anteros even had to physically shake his head with a snarl to make the urges cease. If either of them were going to get what they wanted, they would have to shut it, first! The Ancestral, as well as the fiery sensation of adrenaline in the back of his head, dimmed down into a dull ache. The Unknown was not so easily subdued, but it calmed down regardless, almost as if it trusted him to do something reasonable. Not that he understood it any more thoroughly than he had, yesterday.

The hallway had been a straight, turn-less run, for about a hundred feet. Now, Anteros could see a sharp, right turn, up ahead. When one was running at full speed, taking an abrupt turn could either end up slowing you down significantly, or result in falling and coming to a dead stop. Either way, the Human female would be caught much faster, and the whole thing wouldn't turn into a prolonged session of mucking about. Even if no patrols from the Hive went through this entire portion of the city, it didn't mean that he and the Human "couldn't be caught, period". And the longer she ran through the halls like a bloody maniac, the less their chances of remaining incognito became.
Anteros slowed, slightly, anticipating a swift end to the chase...

However, as Anteros and his target neared the corner, he was in for an extra surprise from his escapee. Just as she came up on the corner, she extended her right arm to lightly brush her palm against the wall as she ran. And when her hand had been about to slide off of the corner, she clenched her fingers and gripped the point where the two walls met, using it as a leverage point. As she did so, she jumped, lifting her lower body off of the ground, making her left foot hit the opposing wall to provide a surface to kick off from; allowing her to make the ninety-degree turn without sacrificing much momentum.

Anteros would have gaped in surprise, but it would have looked like a yawn with the way his jaws and lips worked. In the span of two seconds, she had gained an extra head start while he would be slowed down. Being only moments away from the corner himself, Anteros was forced to speed back up, again, and work out a completely improvised maneuver... which he would never have tried, before. Thankfully, he was forced to simply do it before he had the chance to overthink the pro—

His actions were guided by pure impulse as, barely ten feet from the corner, he leaped mid-bound onto the wall on his right, and immediately used his existing momentum to leap "up" toward inside corner of the turn, jumping onto the wall on the left. The instant he slammed into the wall, he sprung backwards off of it, a loud tearing sound dominating the air, as he took a good deal of wallpaper with him. His legs launched himself "upward", again jumping with a barked hiss of exertion straight off of wall, successfully shooting himself down the new hallway, toward his target, and he was off running, once again.

Multiple infrasound chirps told him that he had successfully kept pace with his charge. It had ended up being as if neither of them had been forced to turn that corner, at all; with the two of them being, more or less, the same distance they were at from each other, twenty seconds previous. She was probably thinking that she had put good distance between them, but some smaller part of him took satisfaction from the fact that her maneuver was foiled.

Anteros knew that he would have gotten "vertigo" and thrown up as soon as his relative orientation had changed while jumping off of the wall, if he were Human. All he really felt was a slight pang of wooziness when he transitioned from surface-to-surface, and then he felt fine. He only had a vague understanding of how a human "inner ear" worked, so he couldn't accurately determine how or why he and his species didn't experience any kind of motion sickness. He knew that he could remain perfectly balanced while turning on a dime, so…

Why was he even thinking about that— he had a Human to catch!

Anteros pushed himself harder, drawing on every bit of speed he could get. As his limbs once again began to build up to a moving velocity and effort of ridiculous proportions, his claws tore long gouges into the carpeting. Unlike a Human, his body utterly lacked any lactic acid, so his muscles didn't burn or make him feel tired. Instead, his body would simply start feeling very warm, as if the inside of his skin was aflame, and it would become difficult for him to breathe. The only time he'd ever felt himself get tired out was on one occasion that he'd attempted to run down a straight corridor for as long as he possibly could to test his own abilities. The result was him having to stop after ten minutes of full-on sprinting due to the heat build-up in his system causing him to become disoriented from heat-syncope, with a side-effect of having muscle-cramps and aches for the next two days.

As far as he could tell: he would cook his own insides before getting close to exhaustion. This was relevant because he was beginning to feel the onset of excess heat building in his bones. This... was the only time he'd ever been forced to such a limit by a Human being. Though he was nowhere near being tired, the fact that he'd had to push himself as much as he did to catch her was a first.

He was only three tail-lengths, twenty feet away, from her and closing quickly.

There was definitely something abnormal about this girl's speed, he was fairly certain...

Though he would certainly catch her, the minute burning in his muscles was irritating. This, combined with the fact that he only just now realized he wasn't quite certain how to actually stop her without hurting her, made for a sudden surge of desperation. Causing him to do the first thing that came naturally to mind. Anteros snarled in a manner more vicious than strictly necessary as he leapt forward— forcing himself to flip over midair, allowing his tail to lash out, aimed perfectly towards her.

The flat side of his tail-blade, the limb whipping forward with the speed his kind was known for, was just able to catch her in the small of her back at the absolute furthest his tail could stretch, with enough force that it caused her to yelp and sent her into a tumble.

Anteros, following her example, hit the ground and tumbled and rolled across the floor; just as the woman was scrambling back up to her feet after face-planting, he ended up colliding with the girl's back, flattening her again. They both grunted and/or screeched at the impact, as Anteros continued on his abrupt path down the hallway. Quickly reorienting himself, he reached out at the right moment and dug his claws into the carpet to stop himself from tumbling another 10 feet. He slid to a halt while creating a loud tearing noise in the carpet as he went... and huffed in a mixture of relief and exasperation once he stood back up and trotted toward the Human...


Once again, Samantha had found herself running for her life from a Xenomorph. Not an abnormal set of circumstances for her to be in, and certainly not a pleasant one, but there was something freeing about being able to run, like this— even if it was in flight from danger. And, as her dad had always told her: "having the will to live is half the point of living, in the first place". As long as she never gave up, and never stopped trying, she'd be fine.

Besides, it felt good to be able to run, again. Whether it was because it got her blood flowing, or because it gave her some feeling of control, being able to actually do something after her time of being that Xeno's captive: it made her feel… at home, again. Yes, her left leg burned like Hell, the cracks which were undoubtedly in her ribs made her chest feel like it was being torn apart, and it briefly occurred to her that the amber-clad Xenomorph chasing her could very well be a lot faster than she was used to out-running, what with it being primarily quadrupedal, unlike its siblings, but… Hell— she was moving, dammit, wasn't she? That had to be a good sign medically, at least... even if her body was pretty much just burning muscle mass and running on adrenaline to fuel her, at this point.

... maybe this had been a bad idea?

Well, there was no use in questioning, now— she was not going to let herself get caught, again, that was for damn sure!

Plus… she could practically taste her freedom, now. Samantha was so close, now— she could feel it! She could get away from the Xeno, and find another hide-out and… wait, just where would she go, exactly? N-no, never mind that— what mattered at the moment was the "here and now"! "Eyes on the problem, not the paycheck". Just as her dad had taught her. She knew that these narrow hallways would be perfect to outrun the Xenomorph behind her, and she knew that she wouldn't squander this opportunity she had been given— she couldn't.

Samantha had been so hopped up on her excitement and the growing feeling of hope, that she didn't even realize that her "parkour" maneuver hadn't slowed the Xenomorph down, at all— she didn't hear its panting right behind her and the instant that she felt something slam into her back, uprooting her feet and knocking her down... something in her mind... snapped. "Snapped" was really the only word to describe her mental state.
She was already getting straight back up, again, before she could actually process any of it...
Only to be knocked prone a second time, her forehead being painfully forced onto the carpet with a dull thud— seeing stars, and her world going greyscale.

As she lay there, disoriented... she... she found herself utterly unable to accept— to even begin to acknowledge the fact that she would die, here— that she would never be able to roam free, again. Even while she had still been in that apartment room: she knew, in the back of her mind— or rather, refused to acknowledge that her time was up. Part of her did know it, of course, but it also knew that she would never truly give up, or accept her fate. But she couldn't bring herself to think about that... because it was the same part of her that knew why she'd never stop fighting until she found what she was looking for. It knew her entire reason for still being in the Hive territory. Why she hadn't yet simply ran away and escaped. She perfectly understood it, even in spite of her constant efforts to ignore it— shut it out of her mind and focus on the here-and-now. But six months was a long time to suppress the pain... and it had always been there, in the back of her head. Haunting her dreams.

And now— now that she had been caught again, and now that her fate was sealed, once more... the memories of what had kept her going throughout the Infestation had come flooding back from that suppressed, rejected corner of her psyche.

Charlie... oh, dear God... Charlie, why?... where did you go? Why did you have to run away?, she thought to herself— almost instantly struggling to put the bad memories back in the box... only to find her composure crumbling at the seams, as her subconscious brought very painful memories straight back up to the surface after months of being locked away. The worst part was that she knew she could do nothing to suppress the incoming torrent of sadness and grief, no matter how much she wanted to— not with how utterly defeated she felt.

Samantha, however, ever the fighter in body if not in spirit, immediately began to scramble to her feet— a final attempt to escape her current situation and keep the mental floodgates closed. Her eyes refused to see, her stomach and gut turned to lead, and her limbs burned with fatigue, but still she tried.
When she heard the telltale hiss of a Xenomorph, though — so ingrained into her subconscious, what that sound meant — her mental struggle quickly began to crumble... and it would only be a matter of seconds before all of it came to naught.
When she felt a weight on her shoulders press her down and pin her to the carpet... she felt herself begin to shed tears. Not willing to submit, she frantically struggled and clawed at the carpet with her hands, even while her strength failed her and her eyes closed. At this point, she heard herself release a shrill, desperate scream, long and loud, past the blood thumping in her ears and the deafening ache in her head and behind her eyes. Samantha's emotions were about to get the better of her, for the first time in six months, and there was little to stop her thoughts from making themselves audibly known to the world.

"No!", she wailed with a pain that few could hope to understand, desperation and rage managing to make itself present in her tone, "I have to find him! I have to find Charlie!"… those words only made the growing storm in her gut grow more violent, and painful.

She didn't notice the grip on her shoulders suddenly slacken... but by then the fight was already over.

"I have to find my dog...!", she cried, her body finally going limp, and her mental barriers thoroughly broken. Her neck and head ceased to be held aloft and thudded to the floor, eyes slamming shut with an unbidden flow of tears, teeth bared in an ugly grimace. Silent, asphyxiating sobs wracked her body, as she soundlessly whispered the words: "I have to find him...", over and over and over again.
By this point, she'd completely forgotten that the Xenomorph even existed... and didn't notice the weight on her back lift itself. She simply lay there... and curled in on herself, into a fetal position. Her arms cradled her head as she cried to herself, pulling at her own hair and shaking. She felt ashamed of herself, even as she was beset by the grief and stress of losing a loved one... and in her head, she flip-flopped between obsessing over and trying to ignore the memory of when her dog ran away— the day she lost Charlie. The day that a piece of her began to whither and rot... and eventually die...

She didn't know how long she stayed like that... she didn't truly care, if she was honest. Thoughts of why the Xenomorph wasn't killing her or why wasn't being dragged to the Hive, yet, didn't quite make themselves a priority. She just wanted everything to stop. For the world, and the Hive, and the Xenomorphs, and all of this fucking bullshit to just. Fuck. Off. All she wanted, was a single day — maybe two, max — of peace. Just to get herself sorted out. No searching around to find food, no running from Xenomorphs, no thinking about where to find resources— none of that crap! If she could just have one. Fucking. Day... just one. To get all of this angsty bullshit out of her fucking system...
So she could finally stop thinking about Charlie...

But, no! No! She couldn't have that— she couldn't have any peace! All because of these fucking Xenomorphs! It was because of them that she wound up in that storehouse, that fateful day! It was because of them that she became a murderer! And it was because of them that Charlie ran off! That she had to find him!
And now... now she couldn't even leave, if she wanted to! Now, she had to run around the quarantine-zone and try to find Colonial Marines for rescue! Only to find corpses and Xenos waiting for her there every. Single. Fucking time! So, of course, she had to escape, and run away every single fucking time, as well— and it was never quite seamless getaway! Oops! Well, that's another few scars to add to the collection on her body! Maybe, at this rate, she would end up nothing more than a hollowed-out mass of scar-tissue and broken hopes by the time she finally found her fucking dog! Or by the time she was killed! Wouldn'tthat be a fitting end for her?! It certainly exemplified how she felt, right now!

Slowly, but surely, her silent sobs had been turning into hyperventilation. Her tears of sorrow became ones of indescribable frustration. Her tremors of fragility became shakes of building anger. Her whispers of a long-lost companion became hisses and grunts... and her eyes finally began to function, and focused onto the wall. Her gaze filling with hatred. Not at anyone in particular, not at herself, or even the Xenomorphs. But purely at the sheer contemptibility of her situation— of her life, right now, and of the world, in general.
So, when she felt a tug at her arm... and when she looked up at the creature who'd captured her, and she saw the very face of her frustration... and hate... and suffering... and angst... and grief... all at once, her will to live came roaring back to her, like the spark of ignition in a crucible.

The next thing she knew, she was screaming bloody murder and lashed out, kicking at the Xenomorph's face with a fury that made even its own seem like tiny embers in comparison. When it backed away from her snarling and hissing, Samantha sprung up and took off running, again! Scrambling, stumbling a few times, and almost tripping her way down the hall...

She chose not to think, anymore— not to acknowledge the maelstrom of internal pain, grief, and abject darkness that had granted her her freedom. With her abrupt escape and subsequent sprint, she immediately suppressed those feelings. All at once, the hatred and anger she'd felt fizzled out, and all that was left behind was the same old fear... and paranoia... and ache. She shut the emotions out— refused to acknowledge them, ignored their existence. It was better to feel nothing than to dwell on the bad things, after all...

It was just that... there was something painful, now, about breaking down in the presence of a Xenomorph. In front of the very thing that had forced her to such a dark mental-space. In the privacy of a safe-house or hideaway, that kind of breakdown might have been fine, but... she didn't know why it felt humiliating to show pain in front an animal.

Not again. No more grief. Just run.


Anteros might have caught her, but the moment he saw the Human female begin to get to her feet, he was on her in two seconds, flat. He immediately pinned her to the floor by her shoulders and sat on the backs of her knees. His tail impulsively lashed and whipped about in the air above him— reacting, without knowing what to do. She immediately began struggling, predictably. He was about to decide what he was going to do with her. And then... it happened.

When he had knocked her down with his tail, giving her nothing more than a bruise and a stalled diaphragm, knocking the wind out of her, her thoughts had gone, for lack of a better word, numb. Disorganized. Stunted. But now, her thoughts became clouded and foggy, just like when she was running from him.

Not in the same way, though. Now, he could feel all of her thinking processes become completely overshadowed by one solid maelstrom of emotion. Well... actually, an amalgamation of a lot of emotions. Defeat, failure, grief, sadness, regret, rage, and even a mild amount of shame. It, like in the bathroom in the apartment, was almost enough to make him recoil; but his concentration on keeping her pinned didn't let him lose concentration. She then started to fight against his grip even more.

And that was when she spoke.

"No!", she screamed "I have to find him!".
Anteros's shock could not have been more complete.
What?.
"I have to find Charlie!". Out of surprise, his grip almost released, entirely.
"I have to find my dog!… I have to find him… ".

And that was when things got... awkward. He eventually released her completely and just... backed off. The mental barrage of stress and sadness she was filling the air with made him genuinely uncomfortable... as well it should. He'd seen something like it, many, many times... and all at once, he was reminded of those past experiences...
The smell, too, of all of that... darkness was overpowering in its own right, and... Anteros reconsidered his approach. Decided to give her a bit of space...
Hearing and feeling her anguish gradually transform into seething, impotent rage honestly confused him, more than anything else. He'd never quite witnessed a human being go through a process quite like that, and a part of him was somewhat fascinated by it... even if was making antsy.

So... he thought that perhaps now would have been a good time to... extend an olive-branch. So, he'd gently grasped at her elbow to try and get her attention... and when she looked up at him, her expression gave him pause. It resembled the lividity and contempt of a Colonial Marine grimace more than the face of a grieving victim... and his moment of hesitancy cost him the initiative, because then she started kicking at him.
Well... "flailing", to be more accurate, but there was still a fair amount of adrenaline behind it, and she did manage to hit him in the face a few times. The Ancestral naturally threw a shit-fit, and combined with the Unknown wanting to beg the human for forgiveness: it was all Anteros could do to default to a fear-response— scooting backwards, baring his fangs, and hunching over. To avoid doing anything regrettable.

Then she got up and started running away, again...

Ugh... God fucking dammit...

As Anteros shook his head, got back his composure, and pensively began to trot forward, after her... he had time to properly think about what just happened. She... she had a... pet?, he thought. Until the very instant in which she said the words "I have to find my dog", Anteros had no knowledge of the concept of a "pet". But as the female had thought of all the things that the concept entailed, Anteros had heard and felt everything to do with it and... yeah, now that he thought about it, a "pet" actually made a lot of sense.

And when he thought of the fact that this Human had had one, and that her canine companion had been missing for, apparently, a long time… and that the reason it was missing was because of the presence of the Hive... it all forced him to realize something.

He shook his head, snarling, and stalled, standing still for exactly three seconds. And in those three seconds, the culmination of his epiphany was brought to bear on his mind.

In the first second, he considered how and why he had been keeping her as his "captive". In the next second, he considered how much his reasons for doing so would actually matter, in the grand scheme of things. And in the last second, he considered whether he should chase her down again.

He had pretty much kidnapped, and kept a Human woman hostage. The reason he did was because, when he had attempted to kill her, he miraculously got a seizure and some... dormant part of his mind, the Unknown, had suddenly appeared, for reasons that demanded explanation. This had never happened to any of his species, and it was extremely likely to be very important to him, and possibly the Human herself. In what way, he had no idea.

So... he had made the hasty decision to keep her with him, and leave Guardian. But... he was now beginning to reconsider. How much could this mystery truly matter, in the end? How much would he, or her, even care? Is any of it worth the effort... especially when it means that he's taking away a sapient being's freedom? So, if he pursued the human female, again, caught her, and took her off of Guardian, somehow, and discovered why all of this insane shit had occurred... then what? He'd have an uncertain fate, no objective, and no direction. Nowhere to go. And, depending on how finding the truth would effect him and the Human, he might be forced to take her with him... was that fair? To her? Would it... would it just be best to... to just leave her alone and escape Guardian by himself?

The Unknown was adamantly against the idea, and the Ancestral... actually couldn't care less. Odd.

Anteros knew that he had less than three more seconds to make some sort of decision. It was a moment that would decide his future for better or for worse. He was well aware of this, and it took less than half a second for him to begin sprinting down the hallway, once more. Chasing the Human.

The choice was quick. Instantaneous. And required little forethought. He barely even knew why he had chosen it.


34 minutes later…

Samantha was once again running. Well... she had been running for the last thirty minutes, ever since she had finally gotten away from that Xenomorph. She'd stopped for a rest twice, but never looked back or considered slowing down. Not even when it felt like her muscles were burning, and her swollen left shin felt ready to burst. She had ran for so long, that she had completely left The Apartments, and crossed over into the Commercial District. After all, you could never be "too far away" from a Xenomorph, and... she just... she needed to distract herself from thinking about the long-lost friend from what felt like an eternity ago, that she'd yet to find...

As with most cities on Guardian-625, the districts in New Scena are designed to look and feel completely different from each other. Where The Apartment districts were all narrow hallways, colorful carpets, and made with comfort in mind — giving a mood of coziness — the Commercial District was made up of brightly lit, wide, blue-gray metal corridors, with uniform doors, named and numbered plaques next to said doors, and small windows in the doors to view what merchandise could be found. Doors, doors, and more doors, with seldom-seen stands or homemade signs outside of them. This was the place where products and services made in the Industrial District would be brought to and sold to the public. Granted, sometimes certain establishments would be found inter-changeably between the two Districts, but only occasionally do you see a restaurant in the ID (Industrial District), or a glass forgery in the CD (Commercial District).

Samantha was aimlessly jogging down these darkened corridors that had once been bustling with activity and noise, taking random turns, not really thinking about where she should go. She'd quickly learned that, if you didn't have a hide-out, the next best thing was to just keep moving.

At this point, since she must have lost the Xeno by now, and there didn't seem to be any sign of others in the area, Samantha had been about to consider stopping to take a rest when she somehow tripped over a random fallen camera that must have been dropped there, at some point. Since she was already exhausted beyond her limits, she immediately collapsed and fell flat on her face with a loud grunt and groan of pain. The floor was undoubtedly cold and hard, but the only sensation Sam could register right now was how utterly spent she was.

Seeing as though none of her limbs seemed willing to cooperate with her will at the moment, she lazily and half-mindedly decided that here would be as good a place as any to take a rest. The side of her head laid down on the metal surface, as craning her neck to look anywhere at the moment felt like too much effort. Over the course of five peaceful minutes, Samantha's breathing eventually steadied down from the exhausted panting from a few minutes ago, and her body slowly began to recuperate; occasionally spasming from the sudden lack of demanding movement after spending half an hour continuously working at double capacity. This was when she noticed that she was really fuckin' hungry. So much so, that she considered regretting not eating the food that the Xenomorph had brought her, last night.

The Xenomorph...

She found herself scowling nastily at the floor at the thought of it. But then... she frowned, thoughtfully, and her expression became staler and more resentful the more she stewed on it. Something was bothering her.
She sighed to herself and adjusted her head to rest her left cheek on the floor, and crossed her arms beneath her stomach to take weight off her squashed breasts.
She thought on the amber-clad Xenomorph, again, and felt another visceral reaction to the thought of it, though smaller this time. She frowned deeper at herself... and reflected on what had happened.

Samantha sighed a second time, and rolled over onto her back, sitting up and facing the way she'd come. She crossed her legs, rested her chin in her hand, her elbow on her knee... and called to mind what had just happened. Or, more specifically, how she'd reacted to what happened. The thoughts she had, about her circumstance and... and about... her dog.
Looking back on her time throughout the Infestation, she hadn't felt that pessimistic in... well, ever.

Samantha was almost ninety-five percent certain that she had never gone to that dark a place, mentally, before in... almost her entire life. Granted, it wasn't for nothing, and it wasn't as though she'd be charged with a misdemeanor for it or something, but... it bothered her all the same. The reason why was fairly obvious, but at the same time, it took a bit of thought on her part to accept that it was truly that simple.

Samantha had always thought of herself as a glass-half-full kind of person. Moreover, she'd always considered herself an animal-lover. Not to the extent of being vegan — she liked a good steak as much as the next fucker — but more-so in the vein of sheer adoration. She'd studied biology for a reason— the process of evolution and adaptation had captivated her very early in life, and the simple largeness and beauty of nature was more than a little fascinating to her. She liked animals, admired them, and in many ways: understood them... more than she understood people, it seemed. She thought of them as inherently trustworthy and innocent... and until extremely recently, she'd never strayed from that school of thought.

But as she now recalled all of that... it made her nauseous. Not with disgust at what she'd used to believe, but in knowledge that she'd encountered evidence to the contrary for the first time.
The Xenomorphs...

Mind you, it certainly wasn't unjustified of her to feel that way, and it was only natural for her to be inherently biased about it... but the starkness with which she revoked the title of "innocent" from Xenomorphs gave her pause.
On one hand... the Xenomorphs had given her nothing but pain, fear, and more pain— their very arrival on the planet had caused a wound too great for anything to properly heal. At this rate, Samantha probably had more scars on her flesh than bones in her body... and that was only a slight exaggeration. If anyone had the right to vilify the creatures, it would be her... and very few would have the chops to dispute her on it.
But at the same time... were they not still animals? She knew, logically speaking, that the Xenomorphs were as driven by instinct and ignorant of morality as any other apex predator. To hold the Xenos accountable for their actions and not, say, a tiger would be blatantly hypocritical. Even the legendary Man-Eating Lions of Tsavo, who allegedly ate hundreds of people and terrorized hundreds more, weren't regarded with the same kind of enmity that she treated the Xenomorphs with. Where did she draw the line? Was it wrong of her to treat things differently just because she'd gotten the short end of the stick?

Part of her wanted to dismiss the topic... shut it down, pack it away, save it for hindsight to figure out. But it was the same part of her that felt vindictive... and childishly self-righteous about condemning an entire species of animal. She felt inclined, therefore, to push for maturity about the subject.
Yet, as much as adhering to logic appealed to her sensibilities... she was also... well, deeply bitter, quite frankly. And a not-insignificant portion of her felt entirely vindicated in that.

Samantha took a deep breath, ran her hands through her scalp, and rubbed her eyes. She looked down at the floor with her head in her hands... frowned impotently... and felt altogether sad about this topic. All at once, she looked at the subject and her circumstance from an outside perspective... and what she saw made her genuinely disappointed in herself and in the set of circumstances that had brought her to this point.
She felt a sting in the back of her throat and bit back tears of irony.

For a long time before she arrived on Guardian-625, Xenomorphs were her obsession. Even passed the lack of evidence and the scant observations, Samantha had had a morbid curiosity of the species. In an another lifetime, she would have jumped at the chance — any chance — to be able to study such an animal... to get close to them and learn about the beautiful, intricate mechanisms that make them tick. To know why something is, one must learn how it came to be, how it functions, and how it affects the things around it. Nature was an infinitely, heartbreakingly beautiful thing, in all its gruesome, uncompromising cruelty— and Xenomorphs were almost the perfect microcosm of nature, personified.
A year ago, Samantha would have dropped literally everything to be able to even watch Xenomorphs, much less study a Hive, in action.

And now, here she sat... repulsed and broken, alive but barely living... with only fear and hatred to show for it. Had she always been naïve, until now? Was she being overdramatic, and it would all blow over? Was all of this completely pointless to think about? She didn't know for certain...
But it made her feel as though she'd lost something precious to her, all the same. She'd lost a lot of things that mattered to her, lately...

She sighed, and stared down at her own palms.

Who am I becoming?, she asked herself. What are the Xeno—... what's the Infestation doing to me?

After a silent minute of thought on the matter, and coming to no conclusion... Samantha only knew one thing for certain.
Whatever it was that this Infestation was turning her into wasn't who she wanted to be. The briefest of tastes of how that felt, close to an hour ago, told her what her future would be like, if this continued... and it made her feel sick to think about. She didn't want to be that kind of person... and she didn't want to lose the appreciation of the natural world that had given her such wonder and hope. Even if the natural world included Xenomorphs...

She resolved to be more vigilant of herself.
Which... brought her back to the elephant in the room.

The strange amber Xenomorph that had been a thorn in her side for the past day-and-a-half.

She didn't know what to make of it. Any number of reasons could have been the cause of its strange behavior, and given that she barely understood Xenomorphs more than the average smuggler, she didn't have much room to speculate. It had not hurt her in any way, though... and, well... that was as positive an interaction she'd had with the species. Which honestly wasn't saying much.
The question as to why it behaved so oddly still nagged at her, though. And the fact that she couldn't find out for certain without potentially getting herself killed made her lean toward the side of caution. Trusting it and hoping the situation wouldn't blow up in her face would be unwise. And though she was certain it didn't deserve to be hated... she also wasn't about to try teaching it to sit. Animals, though free of malice, were still unpredictable as far as what would and wouldn't set them off. Trying to establish a connection of any sort required information she simply did not have...

Not that she expected any such thing to be possible. It was a Xenomorph, after all... connection required the capacity for compassion, and she had seen none.

Samantha heard her own stomach growl, and felt a twist in her gut. Sensing the need to get moving again, and satisfied that she'd been able to have a conversation with herself, she was getting back up to her feet with a measured smile on her face... when she heard the unmistakable sound of gunfire, far off down the corridor behind her…

Instantly, she knew that it was her ticket out of the Hive— the best chance she'd ever been presented with. And suddenly... nothing else mattered.


Anteros had gotten an idea. As he shadowed the Human female's path, a stray thought had popped up in his mind. What if she could lead them to a way off of Guardian? I mean, if Anteros didn't know where to start when it came to transportation or space vessels… maybe she would. If he could somehow… he didn't know what he could possibly do to set this idea into motion, but… he realized it could be his only chance to complete his agenda of getting off of the planet.

In any case, for the moment, he had decided to follow at least 30 or 40 yards behind the human female — so as to not be noticed — and then catch her when she got tired. It was a sound method, she would eventually run out of breath and he'd be able to recapture her much more easily if she was exhausted.

What he had not expected, was for her to go on an all out sprint for a half-hour straight. She'd even drawn him out of the apartment dwellings and into what the Humans called the "Commercial District". Anteros almost immediately starting dreading their location and stark conspicuousness— he had taken a big risk when he came here to bring her food, last time. He may not have been considered a traitor by the Hive, yet, but… he still didn't want to risk an encounter with any former Hive-Mates.

At first, the Ancestral had insisted that she be brutally torn apart, especially as Anteros was following her, but as his objective of tailing the female drew on, the Ancestral seemed to get… bored, for lack of a better word. It sort of was, just… Anteros guessed "desensitized" to the Human's presence. Anteros was suspicious, if not, gladdened that the Ancestral was showing signs of suppressing itself— at least, where this human was concerned. Can't necessarily say the same for any other Human. The Unknown seemed quiet and content to simply keep the Human in "sight".

Anteros silently and swiftly crept around a corner, only to see the Human female trip and fall over on some small object that he didn't know the name of. He stopped in his tracks and crept backward to hide himself behind the wall. For about five minutes, she simply laid there, seemingly catching her breath and resting. Anteros debated revealing himself now that she was down for the moment— perhaps a more "submissive" stance and body language would garner a calmer reaction from her when he approached would make things easier...

He listened to her thoughts... and decided against it. For another five minutes, he simply sat and listened to her train-of-thought... waiting for a good moment... as well as taking genuine interest.
It had been around when she stood up that he was about to come around the corner and make his move... that the sound of gunfire echoed through the halls...

The sound of Human gunfire echoing through the corridor, the Human female almost immediately turning and sprinting towards the sound, and an entire entourage of internal alarm bells and fearful instincts slamming through Anteros's head, all transpired within the span of 4 seconds, catching him completely off guard.

The first order of business was to get his impulses under control. Human weaponry may be a tad bit lackluster in appearance, but they still did a decent job of turning any unwitting members of his species into Swiss cheese with blood gushing from the holes. Thus, it was only natural for the Ancestral to immediately flip a switch and set off a hundred different defensive impulses and send his adrenal gland into overdrive— resulting in a burning sensation shooting up his spine. Anteros forced the Ancestral to shut the fuck up, and quelled the feeling of lava pouring down his back— inadvertently bashing his own head into the wall next to him as he stumbled and clutched at his skull with a snarl.

The moment that Anteros had a clear head again, time seemed to stand still. This was one of the moments in his life where he had to make a split-second decision based upon blunt, instinctual shards of information that would briefly flash through his head.

There's most likely a squad of Colonial Marines less than 80 yards from where I am — the girl is jogging in that direction — if I try to run her down, she'll just run, in turn, and I'll end up in the perfect place to get shot at— if I allow her and the Marines to make contact, there's a good chance I'll never be able to get to her, again— and there's an open vent right in front of me, and oh my God, why aren't I doing anything?!

Indeed, there was a vent with its grating torn off, directly in front of him, at floor level, that he could easily use as a means to... to... Hell, he didn't know— but it was his only real option and he had a total of 6 seconds to make a decision before something potentially bad happened.

He crawled into the vent.


Sergeant Brandon Orinoco lowered his USCMC-issued submachine-gun as he watched the sleek, black form of a Xenomorph Warrior collapse to the floor with a thud; it's body now stained with blotches of bright yellowish/green, and riddled with weeping bullet-holes, causing the corpse to leak a profuse amount of alien blood. Said liquid was what now covered the entire opposing half of the room, being where one of the doors were, and where the small pack of Xenos had assaulted his section from.

Whatever had been the wall and floor of the opposite side of the room was now reduced to a sizzling mass of quickly-decaying metal. The last Xenomorph to be shot down (by Brandon's own hand) was but one of seven other of the monsters that had burst into the room screeching war-cries, just now. Luckily, the section had been on high-alert prior to the attack and had promptly shot the monsters down with a simultaneous maelstrom of bullets— a cacophonous fist to meet the incoming wave. Plus, a small burst of projected fire from a flame-unit. The corpses of the alien assailants, fifteen in all, were now piled on top of each other near the door they had emerged from. The acidic alien blood continued eating away at the floor and wall he was facing, creating smoke and noxious fumes that offended his nose, even from fifteen feet away.

Brandon, seeing that the immediate threat was gone, straightened up from his slouched defensive posture and exhaled deeply. His face was drenched in sweat, and his breathing was ragged, forcing him to take long breaths in an effort to calm himself down. Anxiety was never good for a Colonial Marine, like him. Especially in a place like this, where suspense was a given and the that you and your squad could be ambushed by 'Bugs' at any second seemed to relentlessly wear away at your sanity. If you became too jumpy, you could end up firing off a shot from your weapon because of the slightest noise and end up hurting someone. And he knew from experience.

This was his fifteenth deployment into the Xenomorph Hive Territory (or XHT), formerly known as part of the great province of Leprosum. Being that his entire former platoon (only a squad of which he was with at the time) had been annihilated by the Xenos in a day, he was promoted because of his "obvious"— what with being the only survivor. He was made a Sergeant and put in charge of different platoon's section. The group he was with now, and carried authority over, had only been sent into the XHT on six occasions, as opposed to his previous nine, making him the "veteran" of the group. Odd, considering he was only twenty-three years old, and barely constituted a Corporal, if he were honest with himself.

True, he'd gained a scar from his time in the XHT, a long, angry-red gash that ran from behind his right eye, down to his chin. His (usually handsome and clean-cut) face was almost completely dominated by the pathology, and made it look lopsided. It was long-since healed, and it gave him the air of someone with experience. But, his lack of any crow's feet or beard, as well as his sloppily-done buzzcut gave away the fact that he was only marginally more "qualified" than the people in he was supposed to command..

To say the relationship he retained with his section was slightly awkward at times would be very accurate. One minute, he's just another team-member, taking part in all of the banter and joking; then ten minutes later, everyone's out in the field, there's a disagreement, and anyone who disobeys him can be court-martialed. Very, uh... very precarious social dynamic, there. A shame he had no clue how to navigate it.

Like many other deployments, he and his team were now dropped into the middle of the Infestation Zone by Dropship, usually into a stray courtyard in the endless sea of metal rooftop (only broken apart by the occasional "mini-skyscraper" or roofless garden/pavilion), and sent to scout in any random direction to look for survivors and shoot Xenomorphs. Seriously, all of that was literally in the job description. It often begged the question: how little forethought did the suits in charge put into this operation? Evidently not very much, despite the gratuitous amount of planning and briefing they put the troops through.

Initially to Brandon, this had sounded like the perfect assignment in an already perfect job. Thrown into the middle of an ocean of live targets? Kill as many Xenos as possible? Get paid three grand for every alien killed, and every civi found and escorted to the rendezvous point? His reaction in his platoon's first briefing included fifteen words: "well, what the Hell are we waiting for!? Let's get out there and start shooting!".

The fact that the entire reason they were all fighting in the first place (instead of just dropping a nuke) was because of the God-damned "Warehouse" in the middle of the Infestation Zone hadn't quite seemed that important, at first. The fact that they were being forced to work with mercs and PMCs, hired by Weyland-Yutani, had seemed immaterial, in the moment. No one was thinking of that, really... they'd just wanted to join the corps and shoot Bugs. Run away from homes and reproachful parents, make money doing something exciting, and get enough cash to finally leave this God-forsaken planet.
What a dream that would have been! To escape this ill-founded experiment of a world, who's only natural resource was vacant space; a planet that was colonized all so that the big-wigs upstairs could play out their dream of beefing up the military and fulfilling their expansionist ideals. And now that shit had hit the fan, those same big-wigs were giving the children of Guardian the chance to earn their way off-planet at a premium, by cleaning up the mess. The people got to duck out of the rat-race, and the billionaire blowhards got to keep their precious "fortress-world".
A good deal, it had seemed.

Like him, his comrades at the time had all shared a sense of enthusiasm and excitement. Brandon remembered the platoon's first deployment. The feeling of anticipation and, even some fear, was simmering in the air of the Dropship they were being flown in on. After all... they were going to be fighting Xenomorphs! Fucking Xenomorphs! These things were from bloody campfire stories— they're icons of horror and the very essence of the unknown! And the Komodo Dragon Platoon, of the United States Colonial Marine Corps, stationed on Guardian-625, was going to go out and slaughter them! How badass is that?!

...

Of course, all of that was before the first deaths...

"Hey, Boss!", a feminine voice yelled behind him, catching Brandon's attention. The Sergeant was snapped out of his daydream (which had been about to take a very bad turn), and shook his head as he turned around to face his section.

Oh, right. He was on a mission. With his team. Yes. This was happening. This was a thing. That was going on. Right now. In which Brandon had, somehow, with all of his Marine training and supposed discipline, spaced out and stared at a melting wall for two minutes. While he and his section could have been swarmed by bugs.

Unacceptable.

Get yourself together, man! Get your damn head in the game and keep it there!, Brandon mentally berated himself. He scowled openly and grimaced, shaking his head.

As he turned around to face his team, holding his SMG in one hand, while reaching up to turn off his shoulder-lamp with the other, the same female voice that caught his attention called out again.

"What do we do, now?".

The owner of the voice was Lance Corporal Rachel Kenner. She had walked slightly away from the others (who were already grouping up) and toward him. She was waiting for him to hand out new orders, as were the rest of the section. The rest of the team had formed a small "meeting" near the other side of the room... waiting for him to get his shit together, apparently.
They had obviously caught on to how he liked to run things and were doing it themselves before he had the chance to tell them to— likely because they didn't feel comfortable being told what to do by someone in their own age-group. So, they were going out of their own way to carry out his orders before he had a chance to give them. Even the shotgun-wielding synthetic (which they'd been given, this morning, as a part of their orders) was following along... as well as the flamethrower-toting Weyland-Yutani mercenary...

The mercenaries provided to the USCMC by Wey-Yu had been getting rotated around the various platoons as "extra help", whenever supplies or people became unavailable, and another pair of hands was needed. Relations were... icy at best. Many of the hired-hands that Wey-Yu had pawned off on the local command-structure had been pirates or slavers in a past life, so... not much to build rapport over. Mostly, the two groups would keep to themselves, the mercs' would do whatever they were told, and everyone would get on with it. Most section or fireteam-leaders didn't bother learning names, and just called them "Wey-Yus". Or nothing at all.

Brandon silently looked at all eight of the soldiers (plus mercenary and synth) before him, the people he was responsible for. Lance Corporals Kenner and Sanford, Privates Gorm and Pereskova, Private First-Classes Feifield and Kincaid, and Corporals Dumain and Nordafrique (the mercs' name was apparently "Nelson", and the Synth just went by "Custodian"). They looked at him with faked apathy and feigned resolve. To the inexperienced eye, they all looked rather relaxed and ready for combat. This was, sadly, far from the truth.

What was left of the remaining parts of the room (the other half of it, behind him, being melted into an amorphous mass of burning metal) had just enough furniture in it for one to make a guess at what it used to be— before the Infestation, that is. Well, a "guess" may be stretching it, slightly— more of an inference. The only intact furniture that hadn't been caught in the recent acid spray, or hadn't fallen into the collapsed, melted area of flooring was a marble counter-top, three cheap, wooden stools, and another door, which Brandon could see behind his men. So, a workshop, or bar, perhaps.

Right now, three of the Marines before him had either perched themselves on top of the counter, or had dragged a stool over to sit on. Lance Corporal Kenner — who had crossed her arms and stood patiently as she waited — not included. One other Marine, a Private — Mr. Gorm — was leaning on the counter, trying to act nonchalant and stand tall (causing Brandon to notice how the Private's arm was shaking as it held him up using the marble counter-top).

Of course, the android was simply standing there, tactical shotgun being lazily held at stomach level, as if they all hadn't just been in a fight for their lives. Though, Brandon couldn't say he was surprised, since the robot didn't feel fatigue. The Wey-Yu merc' was trying to act unfazed. The fact that the usually-hard-to-read man's legs were shaking at erratic intervals didn't exactly make the façade very convincing. The civilian was probably the least fatigued, though not in great shape, either.

Brandon could see straight through what these soldiers... his men were trying to do. Taking up casual, relaxed postures in an effort to look unfazed, lively, or cavalier. But the very fact that they were doing so was a give-away in itself. Plus, with Gorm's limbs looking about ready to give way, it couldn't be helped if it influenced Brandon's next decision.

They were torn between the desire to head for HQ to get some R&R, and continuing with their assignment in the XHT. This behavior had developed a few days ago, and Brandon had yet to identify the source of it. It was as if they all wanted to call it a day and leave, but felt they could not, or should not. As if they… felt that they were under some sort of personal obligation to keep going as long as possible. Predictably, this lead to the team being absolutely dead-tired after every mission, and in the precarious position of having to take extra time off between excursions out in the XHT. This, in turn, lead to them apparently wanting to work even longer to make up for it, and the vicious cycle would continue.

Brandon knew this had to stop.

He would call it a day and order for them to retreat to the nearest drop-off point to be picked up by EVAC. After all, their job was done here. They had certainly slaughtered enough Xenomorphs (as evidenced by the small video cameras attached to their helmets) in order for each of them to be paid five grand, maybe more, and they had even found a civilian—

Upon thinking of the survivor that the squad had stumbled on, Brandon quickly looked about the room, trying to locate the man. As if on queue, the civi, a dark-skinned, gaunt-faced man pensively walked up to the counter-top. The survivor had been scrounging around for food in another part of the District when the squad had found him.

The man was skinny — too skinny to be called healthy — with a number of scars visible through shreds in his, obviously overused, black t-shirt. The poor guy was bare-foot, with all manner of dirt and grime covering his already black skin, and with a rather nasty looking acid burn on his leg— revealed by a massive hole in the left pant-leg of his khakis. Apparently this guy, named Cole, used to be a police officer (as evidenced by the service pistol hooked to his belt and his short-cropped hair) before the Infestation went into full swing and had been surviving ever since. Brandon assumed that the former cop was only hiding during the previous firefight because of a lack of bullets in his weapon. Cole now looked at Brandon with the same questioning look as Rachel.

Yeah. With how, comparatively well, this excursion had gone, Brandon felt confident that now would be a good time to head back to HQ... they'd done well, today.

He was just about to say so, having come to a decision, when a loud, visceral, metal slam interrupted the relative silence, and everyone's attention was brought to the door, right behind them.


Samantha's shoulder slammed into the metal, gray door, allowing her to burst straight through the entrance to the room beyond without slowing down from her jog. The next thing she knew, about ten barrels of various firearms were pointed straight at her face. Scratch that- eleven, the Combat Android in the room seemed to nonchalantly realize that his companions were alerted to something, and decided to mimic the collective stance that everyone else had taken up.

Naturally, her first reaction was to throw her hands up and come to a dead-stop to avoid colliding into someone.

Before a person could blink, one of the Marines — who seemed to realize the new arrival was human — on the left side of the room shouted "FRIENDLY!", signaling everyone else to drop their weapons and relax.
Okay, that went from zero, to a hundred, and back to zero very quickly... probably not the best way to get rescued. As fast as her blood was pumping, right now, Samantha probably just gave all of these soldiers a heart-attack with her sudden entrance.

All weapons were lowered as a collective sigh sounded from everyone in the room (except the Android), the situation, thankfully, utterly diffused. Samantha released a breath she didn't know she was holding and hunched over, hands on her knees, exhausted. She gasped and panted, partly from relief, partly from exertion, as she called out to no one in particular— "sorry 'bout that. I heard gunshots and… well, I just sort of ran here" she briefly explained, trying to smile at them.

The soldiers in the squad all looked at each other for a brief moment, seeming to communicate something, before a woman in solid green armor near the back of the group shrugged and waved her Pulse rifle about for emphasis— "Well, this is a pleasant surprise. We get scared shitless, and stumble upon another survivor as a reward for maintaining proper trigger-discipline!", she said, sarcasm and mirth thick in her voice. "Funny how that works, isn't it?", she seemed to ask the room...

The Scottish-accented blonde suddenly looked at another Marine, a Private, and said at him, "… Gorm", in a pointed fashion, causing at least two other people to chuckle. Must be an inside joke. The subject of the apparent barb, Gorm, sent a brief scowl in the direction of the group's "jokester". Samantha spotted and read the Marines' name tag— "Lance Corporal Kenner".

In the next few seconds, while the Marines laughed among themselves, and Gorm made some kind rebuke that made everyone laugh harder... Samantha smiled as she realized something wonderful. This was it. It may be a bit early to close the chapter of the story detailing her experience in the Hive's territory, and to declare her officially rescued. But... she was pretty much in the clear! These guys would escort her to the nearest EVAC-zone, she could return to civilized society, and she'd most likely be given copious amounts of monetary compensation and public recognition. She could almost see herself immediately flipping off the press (after receiving her money, of course), walking off like a badass to the nearest space-port, and taking the first shuttle off of Guardian-625. The thought made her grin slightly harder, the bubbly feeling of hope starting to accumulate in her stomach.

Feeling giddy at the prospect of finally getting out, Samantha cleared her throat, trying to get attention. She looked around for wherever the leader of this group of Marines was. "Well, uh, should we get going then? You know— get the out of dodge before we, uh… get jumped?", she asked, standing on her toes, glancing about at everyone, trying to get some form of agreement from. Almost everyone in the room looked at one another, then at the one who seemed to be in charge, before he needed at everyone else. Everyone seemed to be in agreement... except for the suspicious-looking black man who kept giving her a shifty look… as if she was the one everyone needed to watch out for… instead of the Xenomorphs that could be watching them, right now.

She was about to chuckle at how her train-of-thought could have just as easily have taken a racist turn when the man in question suddenly spoke up. "Hold on a minute", everyone who had just been preparing to leave stopped and turned to the guy. "What's your name?..." he asked Samantha in a borderline accusatory tone, with narrowed eyes.

"It's Sa-", She was about to immediately answer the question with the signature attitude that she'd been known for pre-Infestation (never being one to take shit from anybody) when she suddenly hesitated. Why would he want to know that? She defensively crossed her arms over her abdomen when she noticed that everyone else, the soldiers, had now turned to her. Without knowing why, she inexplicably felt like a rabbit being sized up by wolves, even though she really had no reason to be afraid at this point. The Marines and merc' present did not seem particularly suspicious— they all seemed rather calm and uncaring, considering the circumstance.

But still... she knew that her name could carry weight and unwanted scrutiny from the wrong people, should said people be equipped with the right knowledge. As to why this guy felt the need to ask when he honestly had no real need to... it could indicate the need for caution on her part. Trying her best to come off as defensive and indignant, attempting to paint the man as being the unreasonable one, she retorted: "why should I tell you? Why should either of us care what each other's names are?".

The guy narrowed his eyes, "because you happen to fit the bill of a criminal's physical description, that I once read", he stated, voice becoming cold.

The room's temperature seemed to drop by about thirty degrees, as multiple pairs of eyes present widened in interest. Samantha tried her best to continue to look indignant and aloof. The chill running up her spine and the hairs on her neck standing on end didn't help.

He knew about?...

The man continued to speak as the group repeatedly shifted their gazes between him and Samantha, "back in the first few weeks of the Infestation, when me and the rest of the NSPD were working on evacuating civilians, a report came into the station of a murder. The crime was caught on camera... and took place in a certain Warehouse, filled with Colonial Marine and Wey-Yu ordinance...", he explained.

The room was utterly silent as the mention of the Warehouse grabbed everyone's attention.

"The perpetrator picked up a firearm — a shotgun — and shot at a police officer when they got spooked".

Samantha, for the second time, experienced real terror. It was only her exercise in controlled-breathing, that stopped her from sweating bullets in anxiety. She didn't know if this guy, obviously a cop, had seen this camera footage and she didn't know if the officers at the station could identify the "criminal" from the video evidence that they apparently had... and not knowing the details was only making her fears worse. She remembered the incident that the man was talking about and… she didn't want to think about that! Not now!

The cop spoke again, his tone turning slightly cocky, "of course, I didn't watch the footage, but I did read the case file on the crime".

The Marines all had alarmed or nervous looks on their faces. Whether they were concerned that the newcomer would be dangerous, or if they wanted to avoid any stand-offs wasn't clear. Most of them, at least. The Wey-Yu mercenary's face was concealed behind a mask. Only the synthetic seemed composed, watching the scene with mild interest

"The perpetrator was female— a brunette, about 5"10', with a white shirt and jean trousers. She had green eyes and shoulder-length hair. Estimated to be about 28. Identified as a certain 'Samantha Carman Quinn'", he drawled...

The description of her appearance was almost perfect (aside from the three, scars running across her right cheek and the side of her neck. As well as her clothes having numerous cuts and tears in them), and the mention of her full name both confirmed Samantha's fears and doubled them. She could feel the curious, and suddenly-very-stern gazes of everyone in the room. Even the Combat Android went to the effort to frown at her.

Oh no...

The officer crossed his arms, an expectant look taking over his face...

"So. What's your name?", he asked slowly, voice firm.

This was it. She was stuffed. She couldn't very-well lie to the guy's face— the members of the New Scena Police Department were given extensive and impressive amounts of training in body-language-analysis and negotiation. If she told a straight-up fib, he'd be able to tell. Any New Scena cop worth his salt could point out a liar from the way the person wakes up and has their morning stretch!

Sam was... stuck. It seemed she'd be caught.

Her mouth hung slightly open as she tried to think of way out of this, but she found none. She couldn't change the subject— that would just prove this bastard right.

After a few seconds of everyone staring at her (each second feeling like an eternity), the tension in the room was broken by the sound of a Xenomorph's distant screech...

The call echoed ominously from an unknown source, causing all of the Marines to become alert, as they looked sharply in various directions. Samantha had been in the Infestation for the better part of six months— those kinds of sounds didn't really faze her as much as they used to. Apparently, neither did they faze the police officer, since he kept a stern glare locked onto Sam.

A Marine — "Brandon Orinoco" from the look of his name tag — bit his lip and looked at the policeman nervously.

He addressed the man, "hey, look, Cole, uh... maybe we should just head out and get to the EVAC point. I mean, even if she's the one you're talking about, we've got her! She's with us now and if she isn't stupid and doesn't want to die to the Bugs, she'll remain in our custody", the (presumably) leader reasoned. Samantha didn't know if she wanted to kiss the guy for taking the focus off of her, or to punch him in the stomach for turning this whole situation into even more of a predicament.

"Yeah... maybe...", 'Cole' conceded, giving Samantha a look that could only be called "spiteful".

She couldn't blame the man for doing his job, especially with him having a good enough work-ethic to continue doing his job when his workplace and Province-of-Birth was turned into a massive death-trap. But that didn't stop her from wanting to run and hide. She realized that "Cole" would probably just shoot her with the Service Pistol on his thigh, if she did, so that option wasn't preferable.

Apparently taking Cole's concession as some sort of "okay", everyone except Samantha began walking toward the intact doorway to leave, when a second screech resounded through the area. Sounding much closer this time.

All soldiers jumped and adopted ready stances— their hands all going to their holstered weapons. The Xenomorphs were upon them. They'd stayed in the same spot for too long. Or, that was what everyone assumed.

Samantha was about to move closer to the middle of the group for safety when she realized… she could use this opportunity to run. This may be her one and only chance to leave the Hive, and she'd missed one, before, but she wasn't willing to escape the XHT if it meant that she'd be thrown in a jail-cell, first thing. There was a slight chance that they might give her a pardon, given her harrowing time in within the Hive, but she didn't want to take that risk. She hated risks, and she didn't like trusting other people with them...
She started slowly stepping backwards, closer to the exit behind her, being the only one in the room with a straight path to it. Cole spotted her when she was about to cross the boundary of the door frame and pulled his service pistol on her. The look he gave her could freeze lava.

"Don't you dare", he warned. The other soldiers heard him and likewise pointed their guns at her. Shit. Guess the whole "she'll die, anyway, if she doesn't come with us" thing was promptly forgotten. Honestly, she wanted to scowl at them and point out their idiocy.
She was about to turn around, anyway, and try to make a break for it, in spite of the danger of being shot. She was going to take her chances and run. After all, she hadn't survived a Xenomorph infestation for six months just to go to jail afterwards, or to get shot by some military shitboots and an ornery cop.

But when she took another step back... the sound of a metallic "bang", followed by muffled snarling was heard above and behind her. Time slowed, as everyone present tried to listen for any clue of where to shoot.

Then, a louder clang. Something metal hitting the floor. A hiss. Samantha glanced behind her shoulder...

"FUCK! SHOOT!", Gorm screamed.

Three staccato bursts, followed by multiple curses, and more gunshots— a searing pain erupted in Samantha's arm. She screamed and fell backward, hitting her head on the floor... and everything went black.


Five months ago...

Prometheus discovered fire…

The tired man in a worn, old coat sighed for the umpteenth time. Nigel Williams was genuinely surprised at how utterly dull one's own impending doom could be when you had to wait days on-end for it.

He closed his eyes, but made no effort to visualize any fantasy or story to entertain himself. The days and nights blending together so seamlessly in this place resulted in him often feeling tired for no reason, despite having nothing to do all day but sit and wait.
The lyrics of that old song once more thumped in his throat, and he mouthed the words, tapping his foot to the tune
...

"Slaved to the New Black Gold,

Following the beat of the chemical.

Search this electric soul,

Crawling at the feet of a pedestal..."

And once more, the next few lines of the chorus refused to materialize in his head.
Nigel Williams stared at the ceiling and contemplated what might happen if he simply started screaming for no reason. Perhaps if he made a genuine effort to escape his bonds, the Shadows would come around and finally kill him. Or move him somewhere. Or something.

Speaking of, the beasts had been incredibly busy.

That old conference room he'd first woken up in was no more, hardly recognizable. The walls and floor and ceiling had been modified or even bulldozed, making his little corner into merely one part of what seemed to be a truly massive chamber. His eyes had long-since adjusted to the terminal dark, but could only serve him to a point. Even so, he had seen much these past days. Weeks? Whatever.

He spotted more people, dozens, hundreds at least being moved off in the distance or transported by him. Watching the Shadows work was something truly fascinating. What little of it he saw revealed a machine of such efficiency and cruel perfection that he couldn't help but feel honored to have a front-row seat.
Not to say he
enjoyed the probability of dying a very painful death in the near-future, but Nigel had always preferred to see the silver-lining in these things. He was a practiced hand at such a mindset.

Even so, his fascination only went so far. The screams. The cries— the whimpers and whispers. Those... they never got any less disheartening. Being doomed to die was one thing — he could cope with that — but being forced to listen to others suffer the same made him... well, it was more than once he'd almost thrown up. And shed a tear for the poor souls stuck here with him.

The only oddity of it was, however, that the people who were brought in were never kept around very long. Inevitably, one of the Shadows would come carrying what seemed like an egg, and the sacrifice would be made. If not in the first day, then surely by the fifth. Nigel, however, had been sat here longer than any other person...
The other oddity was that the Shadows, the Xenomorphs, seemed to have taken steps to ensure his prolonged survival. A while ago, a small army of the creatures had taken to working right near his resting place, on the ceiling above him, carving and clearing metal, creating a tunnel straight upwards. It had been fascinating to watch, but come the next morning when he awoke, it had all been patched over, and a strange resin-construct of theirs filled the whole. To his shock, one day, water came cascading down an apparent pipe, directly onto his head! For a few minutes, at least— likely rainwater, by the taste. But it was enough for him to drink his fill, fortuitously just as he was starting to really feel parched.

Evidently, the beasts understood he needed water. And a bath. Nigel tried to speculate when the beasts might think to feed him. Then he tried to imagine for what reason he was being kept alive, and not sacrificed like everyone else...

The more imaginative parts of him began to collate a hypothesis. It was all he had— he hardly possessed any reliable knowledge that he could count on, when it came to these creatures. The theory was...
Might it be that he was already dead?

Was his current situation any different to limbo? He had nothing to do, no way out, he couldn't track time, he could barely see, and all around him: the shadows and shades of lost and damned souls come and go without a word spoken to him.
If this wasn't at least limbo, then it had to be Hell, or some version of it. Some Tantalus-esque corner of Tartarus, tailored to torment him, specifically. The more he pondered it, the more likely it seemed— he cared not for his
own suffering, and hadn't for a long time; but the suffering of others always stung deep. Especially the distinctive wailing of an infant, heard now and again. His empathy bade him gag when the repulsive birthing-process began, bade him cry when whispers and prayers for salvation went unanswered, bade him feel the pain when that tell-tale "crunch" and "splash" signaled each ended life.
The near-constant boredom between and within all of it, too, seemed perfectly suited toward driving him utterly-fucking-barmy. It was all he could do to simply keep himself entertained— ideas and storylines of books he'd never read played their parts in his mind.

And often, that wasn't enough...

However, a light seemed to be at the end of the tunnel. Or, something approaching it.

One day, he'd been having a string of long, vicious coughing fits, and thought that it may well signal the end of his time. He'd been wondering when last he'd taken his medications, and it seemed that his imprisonment in this dark, sweltering Hell-hole was exacerbating his chronic symptoms. Perhaps his end would come relatively peacefully, after all?
And that wasn't all! For not long afterward, he'd awoken to the sight of one of the Shadows hefting one of the eggs nearer to him than ever before. It let down the ovular abomination mere meters away. If his end came by more violent means, who was he to complain? By parasite or contagion, he didn't mind— he'd been ready to die for a long, long while.

And so, for a few short days, Nigel Williams was content to wait a while longer. Each new captive and each newly-dead one didn't bother him quite so much, now, if only because he could whisper in faint solidarity, "I'll be joining you soon, friend". Perhaps that had been part of the problem— being witness to so many others meeting their time before him, when his end should have taken him decades prior?

He didn't know when, exactly, the egg would hatch and do its thing, but it was closer to him than anybody else in the chamber. He could rest assured that, indeed, the end was nigh, and he could finally hang up his coat.
But then, something strange happened. Over the course of those few days, something odd caught his eye. A Shadow— quite unlike all of the others. Where the rest melded and moved the darkness, itself, as they passed: this particular one stained it with bronze. It had been coming around this place more and more often lately, and recently, it seemed to hover over people for hours on-end. It would drift between the victims of the Hive, and on that particular day, its drifting became dashing, and that dashing became something almost... frantic. Like it had lost something precious and needed it at that exact moment.

Nigel Williams hadn't thought much of it, in the moment. But suddenly, without warning or reason, a terrible and cacophonous sound blared throughout the room. He could feel his very teeth shake in his skull, and felt his ears pop, it was so loud. Like fifteen monster-trucks crashing together at once— brassy rumbling and high-pitched screaming that sounded like the most mournful song he'd ever heard in his life.

Even minutes after, he hadn't fully recovered from the sheer noise by the time he spotted that same bronze Shadow seemingly sitting out in the open. Alone and silent.

He squinted at the beast, puzzled beyond belief, when a sound like gurgling and popping limbs caught his attention.
The egg had blossomed open. And contrary to his own expectation, he was a little disappointed that his end would come before he could find out what that commotion was all about.

As something in the demonic pod stirred, however, he spotted the bronze Shadow growing larger in the distance— coming directly toward him. Nigel Williams's eyes darted from the approaching beast, to the blossomed egg, and back again, getting the sense that fate's wheel might turn once more...

That stirring and gurgling paused. There was a high-pitched growl, and the sound of rapid tapping, getting closer.
Then there was the sound of a bestial snarl, and the stomping of feet.

Nigel Williams blinked... as the bronze Shadow— revealed to be a spineless, lithe Xenomorph with an amber hide, pinned the newborn parasite to the ground with a massive hand. The Shadow's teeth shined in the darkness... and he then knew that this little corner of Tartarus wasn't done with him, yet.

It seemed he would play the role of Tantalus for some time more...


I can't stress enough that the Ancestral and Unknown are simply bundles of instinctual influences which effect Anteros's mood/actions… or are supposed to. Anteros simply channels the feelings he gets from them into a more understandable context., i.e.: "it's telling me this", or "it's pulsing with that".