Chapter 6: A Bronze Warrior Arrives; An Amber Demon Stands

Five months ago...

Prometheus stole fire from the gods…

The tired man in a worn, old coat was soundly nonplussed. Nigel Williams watched as the amber beast snatched up the fleshy spider, and hurled the creature a decent twelve yards into the darkness. In that action performed before him, his more spiritualist side saw the rejection of fate— the rejection of a "narrative", that seminal act which may lead to something beautiful or tragic. Perhaps both...
But again, that was merely a portion of his psyche that had learned never to dismiss the spiritual, out of hand— the rest of him was very much suspicious and perturbed.

There was then a pregnant pause. Man looked upon beast, beast looked upon man.

Nigel squinted, trying to read some intention from the blank canvas that looked back.

Then— there was a pressure. A sting in his skull, and a building ache. His vision blurred, serpents constricted his eyes, until— pop!

He blinked. Everything felt oddly silent... but then a voice welled up from within.

"What... you..."

Nigel Williams swallowed and frowned. Had he just heard that?

"What... you... are?"

The voice filled his head like the noise of a trembling cymbal, it wavered and twisted, barely sounding human. Remaining focused was a bit of a challenge. He shook his head, and stared at the beast in front of him, incredulously.

"Are you asking me who I am?", Nigel whispered.

For a moment, no response came, but the creature ducked its head, and eventually, that voice crawled into his mind, again—

"Is... yes... what you?"

He balked, scoffing, gasts sufficiently flabbered. A Xenomorph was speaking to him!

"I am Nigel Williams", he said.

The beast's head and neck shook, as though being irritated by a biting fly. It lowered itself to a crouch, tail lashing about haphazardly. Its limbs and body moved and twitched erratically, as though desperately stretching against a stiffness. As it were in pain. The amber Shadow's voice gripped him, again—

"All... Nigh-gel... Will-am... is?"

At this, he tilted his head, not understanding. The questions it was asking— they seemed broken. Like it didn't have the words, just yet. Each syllable seemed dragged, as though it was using a tongue that was numbed with anesthetic. It asked again, in varying ways, until he realized it was asking if "everyone" was "a Nigel Williams".

"No", he answered patiently, "I am Nigel Williams because Nigel Williams is my name. Human beings all have names".

"Hew-man... Human... Hughmahn... Human", it seemed to play with the word. "You Human? All... all Human?"

"Yes, I should think so. And yes, everyone here is a Human being. Apart from you and your kind", he said.

"Kind... kin? Kindred? Kind? What kind? What is?", it asked faster, smoother.

Nigel Williams felt a sense of bubbling... euphoria? Amusement? Something like that. Finally, someone to talk to! Even if only to a degree. If this creature had questions for him, well, all he had to give were answers! It wasn't as though he had anything else to do.

"By `kind`, I mean species. A species is any group of living things which share a recent ancestor, and which can procreate and have offspring", Nigel explained. "I, and all the people here, are Humans by virtue of having descended from Humans."

The amber Shadow was silent for a long while. Long enough that the crushing silence made him genuinely question whether all of this was a hallucination. Had he truly gone insane, already?
But then — thank God — the beast spoke again, and this time, the words didn't infiltrate his head so much as they flowed. Telepathy was hardly the strangest thing he'd experienced, this year...

"What... is a person?"

Nigel blinked, and thought about it, before answering, "a person is any living, thinking thing which has memories and can individualize". To be frank, Nigel wasn't certain he was even using the word correctly, but his ad hoc definition would have to do.

"All Humans... person?"

"Yes, all Human beings are people. We sometimes forget that, if we're too overzealous or if we feel threatened, but... yes".

"Is am... is... Am I a person?"

Nigel Williams blinked at that. "Do you think you are a person?"

"May... may it— may be? Maybe?" came the disjointed response. The creature shook itself again, as though experiencing a deep chill. Nigel responded—

"Then you probably are a person. I think, therefore, I am", he said.

There was a long pause, then, and Nigel felt an inexplicable chill up his spine. The amber Shadow went deathly still, even its tail remaining frozen mid-air, and eventually it asked him—

"What am I?"


2,576th Year After the Filial Schism (AFS), 51st Day of Evening's Solace

High above Guardian-625, beyond its mountains and clouds, beyond its many satellites and space-stations, and beyond even the warships floating in high geosynchronous-orbit... was a foreign vessel, wreathed in shadow, orbiting around Guardian's first and closest moon, Charge-1. The vessel's shape was angular, with swooping, gracile curves— a prow that formed a hawk's beak, with twin pontoon-like "arms" suggestive of tucked-in wings, and a flat, squared-off back-end that eschewed tail-feathers. Three engines — one on each arm, with a third at the aft — lending it speed that defied its gargantuan size. It hung there, kept in the pull of the moon's gravity, yet orbiting at a speed much faster than the moon's near-nonexistent rotation, allowing the vessel to remain within line-of-sight of Guardian... and more specifically, within line-of-sight of Guardian's largest continent.
The continent on which the Xenomorph Hive had sprung up.

This vessel was a Yautja Hunting Ship (or "Mother Ship", if one wanted to be wrong). The ship had, for a duration roughly equivalent to an Earth week, been in Charge-1's gravity-field, and had been monitoring the activity on Guardian. Various Clans had been reporting the escalating presence of Human military warships building up on this world for around five of Earth's decades. The Council of Ancients had been very curious about such a development— the Humans were mustering a military force on this planet of greater magnitude than even that of their homeworld, and the amount of resources being used to make the planet a fortress were considerable, even by Yautja standards. And so, it had been dictated that the Clans should periodically monitor the Human-activity— the first official action that had been ordered in regard to Humanity for hundreds of years.

For forty-nine Human years, nothing of note had occurred. The Humans built up their infrastructure on the planet, sapped it of all the metals in its crust that they could get their hands on, and produced their weapons and ordinance on the rock at a rate noticeably higher than before. The endeavor would be impressive to study, for a scholar. There had been initial whisperings of possible war, but after a while, the Yautja Clans largely dismissed the event— it was just the Humans being paranoid and making preparations for future conflict, as most sapient beings were wont to do. Whether that conflict would involve the Yautja was a matter of bare speculation and unfounded concern.
Still, though, it didn't hurt to be well-informed, and every so often one of the smaller Clans would go out of its own way to have a look at what the Humans were up to, usually mid-expedition or while on a Hunt in a different star-system.
And so, for forty-nine Human years, the various Yautja Clans had been paying the world a passing glance every so often, with nothing of any concern ever seeming to occur... until now.

The sudden emergence of a Kiande Admeha Hive — an Ahgai'Palak Hive, to be precise (1) — springing up and ravaging the planet's surface like an insatiable pestilence, had come as a complete and utter surprise to the Council of Ancients. Humans had never been known to take any special interest in the Ahgai'Palak species, much less foolish enough to allow an infestation to take root.
The how and why of the matter, however, quickly fell into irrelevance, as it often did when a Yautja finds something worth hunting. The Council of Ancients gave no decree and called for no particular action; they'd taken the news with mild shock and gave little in the way of response. This, to any Adjudicator worth their tusks, was as decisive an order as a declaration of war— the Council had done something similar many times in the past centuries in response to the development of what they would come to call "prime Hunting opportunities".

The Council of Ancients was choosing to wait and see which Clan would seize the reins of fortune first... and which Clan, in turn, would reap the most glory. Such was the way of the Yautja— everything is a competition, everything is up for grabs, and nothing is guaranteed.

It had been pure luck that the Adjudicators of the Dark Blade Clan just so happened to be the first to be notified of the Council's lack of a decision on the matter of the massive Kiande Admeha infestation on that Human fortress-world; but it had been by virtue of the Dark Blade Clan's keenness on keeping their ears to the ground that they were the first to act on it. As such: the Dark Blade Adjudicators quickly threw together arrangements for an expedition— a newly-purchased Hunting Ship, captained by a Clan Elder with everything to prove, and a crew comprised mostly of Unblooded: ready to enact their first Chivas.

The Dark Blade Adjudicators, with counsel from the Dark Blade High Enclave, planned to make the absolute most of this opportunity as quickly as possible: and so, the expedition was almost entirely funded out of their pockets. There had been whispers, after all, that the Dark Blade Clan may soon be tested by the Council of Ancients for a higher purpose. And the Adjudicators were determined to bring such a possibility to fruition; if they had to sacrifice their wealth to act in the Clan's benefit... then it was a small price to pay.
If and when the gambit paid off, after all: no price would be too steep for the potential reward at stake.

And so, for the past week, the Hunting Ship in question had been orbiting Charge-1, preparing for a suitable moment to roll the dice... and the Elder in charge of the endeavor was about to make his move... as soon as he stopped overthinking it.


It was odd, really… how often that one man's burden— one man's tragedy can turn into another man's fortune. A boon, or advantage. It was odd how, even as the lives of so many innocents and citizens are snuffed out or devastated down on the planet below… he and his people seemed content to just… sit, watch, and eventually contribute to the chaos.

For, objectively, that was all that his Clan (and other Clans) ever seemed to do, in the grand scheme of things. Find ikthala-de (2) disasters of extreme magnitude, observe what happens, then conduct a Hunt. "For the glory of the Clan!", and such. Whether conducting controlled hunts, or taking advantage of some random crisis, it always ended up turning into a contest between Clans, and sometimes between different hunting-parties within a Clan, to see which "team" would earn the right to tell the most grandiose tales of Honor and skill.

Any scholar worth their tusks could tell you that this habit of myopia in Yautja civilization was a deep flaw. All too often, the Yautja Clans, and even the Council of Ancients itself, would completely ignore the wider consequences of the goings-on in the galaxy, and only focus on what could gained or exploited in the here and now. An old problem, admittedly, but one that could have dire consequences on the future— something that precious few Yautja bothered to consider. Indeed, any mention of the potential fallout from the conducting of a hunt would, among the Elders of the Dark Blade Clan, prompt a flippant dismissal at best and a stern reprisal at worst. He had once been told: "why fuss over petty politics? It isn't as though the prey contribute to the monthly tithe". On another occasion, it had been: "your sympathy is wasted on these creatures, brother— we have an opportunity and if we do not take it, the other Clans will".
Their words often ranged from chiding to scornful, likely derived from his comparatively-young age— they assumed that he simply hadn't yet learned all of the minutiae inherent to being an Elder, and that therefore: any of his questions and concerns were to-be-ignored.

Unsurprisingly, at times like this, Clan Elder Yak-a'Shen the Spry found himself to be the only one among his brethren and contemporaries who thought about these circumstances from the perspective of those on the other side of the story— on the other end of history's grand tapestry. In all of the rush to investigate and profit from these kinds of disasters, and in all of the talk about Honor and Trophies... it felt as though everyone forgot that the sapient beings responsible for creating these incidents were even still there. That they, too, had a clear and, in this case, rather large stake in the chaotic happenings of this infestation.

Except the difference was that, for the Clan, the worst that could go wrong was for a highly-respected hunter to be killed in a less-than-respectable fashion. Or for Yautja technology to be stolen.

But, for the Oomans, fighting and dying at the hands of the Ahgai'Palak legions: pure survival was what was at stake. The fight may be limited to deciding the fate of this single planet, but Yak-a'Shen did not believe that to be a significant distinction to the Oomans. From their perspective, it didn't very much matter that the infestation would never leave the planet— it was still their home, and they intended to keep it, one way or another.

Whenever the topic of the Pyode Admeha were brought up (as their existence in the galaxy wasn't often mentioned in polite discourse), Yak-a'Shen always ended up fighting himself within his own head about them. On the one hand, the fact that Oomans only ever fought if absolutely necessary, and never for pleasure or sport, was something he found distasteful... as he was inclined to. He was Yautja, after all.

And whenever Oomans did decide that combat was necessary, it was almost always a tiny fraction of their population; every battle and skirmish would be surrounded with an obnoxious cloud of pretext and subtext of all manner of different societal minutiae. It was never anything simple, with Oomanity. It was all controversy and accusations and philosophy and social commentary. There always had to be an excuse— a "Casus Belli". The notion that one needed some form of plausible deniability in order to decide who needed a severe beating left Yak-a'Shen with a noxious taste in his maw— as it did with most Yautja.

Even Oomanity's violent games had no real bite to them— none of the combatants ever seemed to die or lose anything, apart from esteem. And even then, the reward in money would usually soften a blow to their pride. None of it ever seemed to matter...

Then again… on the other hand, Yak-a'Shen knew that there was some justification to the ways of the Pyode Admeha. Oomans, as can be observed by anyone that hunts them, have an intrinsic aversion to bloodshed and violence— it was simply part of their nature. Even their strongest warriors suffer from adverse effects long after battle— regardless of any actual injuries they may have incurred.
Even when an Ooman becomes consumed by bloodlust, rage, fear, and adrenaline — one of the very things that made them as dangerous as they are — they were not guaranteed to walk away from any victory without mental damage. They simply don't gain satisfaction from killing an assailant or enemy, not in any way that lasts. Any Ooman that does is regarded as mentally insane— a Bad Blood in their society.

Yet, they still fight, in spite of it…, Yak-a'Shen mused.

The real difference between an Ooman "soldier" and a Yautja warrior, is that the Ooman doesn't kill for fun or for bringing glory to their Clan, or… "Nation" as the case may be. The Ooman won't be interested in collecting trophies from battle fields and remembering their past exploits. No— more often than not, they fight because their fellow man is brought in harms way. They fight to protect their loved ones. They fight to defend the honor of their… "nation" due to an ingrained sense of… "patriotism".
Those last two might apply to the Yautja as well, but it is so rare for Clans to fight each other, in this age, that all of it is limited to hunting and competition, at this point.
When an Ooman takes up a weapon, he doesn't do it for personal honor. He does it knowing that he could very well end up being killed— he does it to fulfill a duty. And, in Ooman society, death is considered an overall bad thing with no actual value. To put oneself in life-threatening situations, despite there being no benefit involved, and all for the sake of others is… oddly humble.

The only question, now is… which is more honorable: to be born with every inclination to enjoy combat and accept death, or to fight despite being averse to combat and in fear of death? Yak'a-Shen supposed it depended on perspective, but that didn't truly answer the question— only added a layer of complexity. To the Oomans, what mattered was prosperity and harmony— not necessarily that everything was safe, but that everything made sense, and that every problem had a solution ready to fix it.
Yautja enjoyed many of the same virtues, but in addition to that: there was also the interplay between Clans and the universal imperative to prove one's worth in combat, and to bring glory to the name of one's family— one's "tribe". Oomans might have had a similar inclination, but not in so many words; for the Yautja, the standing and advancement of one's Clan was a blatant part of everyday life. If you were not bringing glory to your Clan by taking Trophies and accomplishing deeds of import, then you were at least helping others do so, in your stead.
Anything less was a failure.

It brought Yak-a'Shen back to an old, internal debate that he occasionally pondered over. He couldn't decide if the Yautja race was collectivist or individualist. If they placed more value in the interests of the entire consensus, or if they held an individual's will and interests above societal control. One could argue that, since half of the point of engaging in large-scale conflicts (like the one that he was charged with exploiting, now) is to bring glory to the Clan, that the Yautja were collectivists. But, adversely, Yautja society also placed high importance in the honor and ascendence of individuals— no person could be separated from their property or accomplishments without some variety of demonstrated need. It was why, if you were honorable and had become a notable figure: you would be considered more trust-worthy than another who is less so.

… Yak-a'Shen's heartbeat sped up in dread as a new idea made itself known. An idea that would undoubtedly set off another tirade of debate, and one he would likely agonize over for the next ten years. "Is trustworthiness based entirely on past Honors and glories fair? Is there not a duty to treat famous people with more suspicion, so as to mitigate the chances of them using their power for ill? Are those who have earned their glories not entitled to that implicit trust, given their trials and tribulations? Does any of this actually matter? Should I bother discussing it with anyone? Has there already been a long sequence of discourse on this very topic, and are my thoughts wasted on it?".

Oh, Paya, not again..., he groaned to himself internally.

These were simply a few of the many things which commonly plagued Yak-a'Shen's thoughts. It never really interfered with his position as Clan Elder, but that was only due to his uncanny ability to put his pondering on hold just long enough, and just in time, to complete his work at the last possible moment. He wondered if other Elders had similar internal conundrums— if any of his contemporaries were a veranda's stroll away from proposing sweeping political reforms. Then again, Yak-a'Shen the Spry himself was surprisingly young for being an "Elder", so maybe his little one-man-debate was simply the thinking of an eccentric young one… not that such a possibility was, in any sense, favorable.

A small, sharp pain in his hand caused Yak-a'Shen to snap back to reality. He looked down and saw that he had drawn blood from his own palm. Adding another scar to an already impressive collection of similar injuries on the very same extremity— his right hand having been transformed into a gnarled mess of scars and scabs. A result of many, many years of being trapped in his own mind.
A minor genetic defect, at birth, had afflicted him with an easily-distracted mind and a proneness to fall into deep, enrapturing thought (known in most circles as "Arkazir's Quandary"), and so, he often found himself doing nothing but sitting and thinking, obsessively, for a matter of cycles, at a time... and ending up with a deformed hand after many decades of it. He supposed that that's what he got for philosophizing when he should have been focusing on the task at hand—... how long had he been sitting on his chair?

Yak-a'Shen kicked with his heel, spinning his chair, and swiveling around to face the back of the command-bridge— after a moment, he estimated which of the several technicians before him, standing at their consoles and screens, was the least busy.
"Ara'Nei-us", he called out.

The technician he addressed typed in a short series of commands on his console's monitor, prior to turning to Yak-a'Shen.
"Yes, Clan Leader?", the skinny, green-skinned male asked, pressing a fist to his chest and bowing his head, respectfully.

"How much time has passed since I walked onto the bridge and sat on my command-chair?", Yak-a'Shen inquired, raising a brow, and leaning forward, slightly.

The male's head tilted to the side for a few seconds, before he replied impassively, "approximately fifteen units, sir" (3).

Yak-a'Shen silently spun his chair back to forward-position, and looked at the console-screen before him, bracing his chin on one palm. He didn't bother checking if Ara'Nei-us returned to his work, and didn't really care, at the moment. Yak-a' frowned to himself and started looking over the information he had at hand, for the hundredth time— tapping the screen and rearranging the layout to get as much of the information on-display at once. He looked at the top of the monitor, and saw that the time was 8•31 Active— more than half-way through the Waking Hours.
Yak-a'Shen had a problem. A pauk-na big one. He was supposed to have been coming up with some next course of action, this entire time— for at least three Civic Days, really. The entire ship was relying on him to take advantage of the crisis on the planet, below, and decide how best to earn glory for the Lar'ja'Kte (4) Clan.

After all, any and all information they were capable of gathering about the events on the Ooman planet had been gathered. Every piece of evidence and every course of action had been considered. They now knew everything they needed to know about the Kiande Admeha Hive on "Gaar-dee-ahn 625" and its history. By all accounts, now was the time to act. At this point, Yak-a'Shen had no excuse for dawdling. And that's what he was doing, if he were honest— if any of his fellow Elders caught him wasting time, like this, he'd probably get in a fair amount of trouble.
The entire point of his being here — of being in command of this expedition — was to swiftly and decisively take advantage of the infestation. The head-start given to the Dark Blade Clan was something that only came about once an age, and if Yak-a'Shen failed to capitalize on it before the other Clans woke up, as he'd been charged to do so, it would be a failing of ignominious proportions.
Part of him theorized that he'd been given this task by the Adjudicators partly because his colleagues wished to see him fail and lose esteem...
And it wasn't that they were wrong to do so— if anything, it was an expected part of Clan politics, that each man test his colleagues and make sure to root out weakness. What offended Yak-a'Shen, personally, was the two-facedness of it— if the Adjudicators and his fellow Elders had said to his face that they wanted to test him and his initiative, he could accept it.
As it stood, though, he had no real choice but to go along with the farce...

Yak-a'Shen's mandibles clacked together in thought, as the fingers of his left hand drummed against his arm-rest. His eyes scanned the information in front of him on the monitor, once again, wracking his brain on what to do with it.

The Ahgai'Palak infestation had reached the point at which there were multiple Royal Guards of the Queen. The size of the Hive had spread across multiple Ooman "cities". Approximately... ninety "kilometers" in diameter, at this point. This Hive was even bigger than the one that Yak-a'Shen had been sent into with his brothers, the day that he cleansed a Hive and earned his title as "Elder". What's more is: the Ooman military had completely blockaded the perimeter of the infestation, and were sending their warriors into the Hive regularly— like fools.
He couldn't very well order for all the ship's warriors to drop onto the planet and start hunting— the Hive, as it was currently, was far too large and organized. It would quickly result in all of the ship's Unblooded being isolated and slaughtered, needlessly. The Honor Code may encourage bravery and daring, but it equally scorned stupidity and unnecessary waste of life.
At the same time, however, a Hunt would need to be conducted, and if at least half of this ship's Young Bloods didn't take home their first Kiande Admeha skull, the trip will have been a waste...

No other Clans had been informed of the infestation on this planet as of yet, but that would quickly change. Yak-a'Shen had two or three more days, at most, to deliberate over the issue, and he'd already wasted two.

So... having had no other ideas up to this point, he defaulted to an old saying commonly trotted out for the benefit of educating pups— a trope, really, used to demonstrate how Elders do their job. Yak-a'Shen asked himself: "what would be the most unlikely, the most impressive, and most outrageous story that could be told about this hunt? What would make people's mandibles go slack in awe? What would solidify the Lar'ja'Kte Clan's place as one of the most successful and powerful in the galaxy? What would make my leadership skills sound the most impressive?". In any other circumstance, he would have gawped at any of his colleagues using such a standard unironically, but... he was officially out of ideas.

Yak-a'Shen's mandibles clenched together concentration, hand stroking his chin as he thought...

"The most unlikely story". What counts as "unlikely", exactly? Is it unlikely so long as having it told to you makes you balk at it? Is "ridiculous" the same as "unlikely? What examples can I remember?... are there examples I've ever heard? Well... there was the time someone told me that a Brawler of the Silver-Fist Clan killed a Gro'Tye with nothing but some Strength-Vambraces and a propulsion-harness... that made me squint at him, and it was certainly surprising when I found out the story was true... but on the other hand, it is not as though I was "impressed" by it. That might just be due to my habit of overthinking things and using logic to wave away phenomena... and if the feat could be replicated a few hundred times by other members of the Silver-Fist, it would certainly add up to something impressive... is that the entire point? Orchestrate something impressive whenever there's a chance to do so, just to pad out the number of notable feats in the Archives? Certainly not surprising, if true, but I feel like there should be more to it than that... shouldn't there be? Is that all my job is? Just... hamstringing my constituents in certain ways just to make a spectacle of something completely banal? Sounds more or less correct, but who and how many hunters would I even send down there? What handicap could I enforce that would make it impressive? What would—

Then... it happened. Like the strike of one of Trumaiak's thunderbolts, his mandibles went slack in epiphany.

Slowly, his eyes began to widen as an idea quickly began to form in his mind— called into being by the question of who and what and how. Suddenly, all of his anxieties were completely dissolved, and for the first time in this month's Term: he felt a sense of true optimism, after so many cycles of constant stress. He leaned forward as his excitement kept building.

Yes... yes, it could very well work! Yes! Yes! Paya's bones— I am brilliant!, he thought, a Yautja grin pulling at his mandibles, as his tusks clicking together.

He played the scenario over in his mind, nodding to himself as it kept sounding better by the second. He would send in a single man to kill the Ahgai'Palak Queen, and her Guards! One male would enter the Hive, at the height of its strength, and cut out the infestation's heart at its core, with minimal armament, and no support. Once the Queen was dead, the Hive would be induced into a Female Culling, sending the Hive into disarray; at which point, the Hunting Ship's entire crew of Unblooded would fly down to the planet, and a great many would be able to conduct their Chivas without being slaughtered, wholesale.
But... who to send in? It would have to be one of high enough rank that it wouldn't be impossible, but a small enough reputation that the feat wouldn't be brushed off as "mundane"...

Yak-a'Shen already knew the answer to that, even as he considered it. There was an old acquaintance of his aboard this very Hunting Ship— one who was much more skilled than he or his rank would let on. An Elite, Veteran Ki'cti-pa N'yaka-de (5) named "Zazin-Vor'mekta the Blue", whom Yak-a'Shen had met about forty years ago. Learning of the accolades that Zazin-Vor'mekta had earned in that time had come as no surprise to him. He would get the job done, there was no doubt of it. Yak-a'Shen knew better than to doubt Zazin-Vor'mekta's skill, and if he were honest with himself, his new idea was rooted, from the start, in having Zazin-Vor'mekta be the one to make it happen.

The Elder was about to press the button on the monitor in front of him that would allow him to address the entire ship and call the Spear-Master up to the command bridge, but hesitated. Should he go and talk to the Veteran himself? Perhaps having Zazin-Vor'mekta's excursion down to the Hive be a secret would help in some way… it would certainly keep the Young Bloods from swarming the man with questions. Yak-a'Shen leaned back in his chair, mandibles clenched in thought, brow furrowing as he debated internally.

Then again... this will be the first time that I'll have given him an order... and since he's my elder... ugh— not looking forward to that old debate... I already feel awkward enough wearing this cape, when half of the ship's warriors are old enough to be my sire, he thought.

... maybe he should just make an announcement over the ship's intercom... but seeing as though this is the first order Yak-a'Shen will have given to Zazin-Vor'mekta, should he not go and do so in person, at least as a show of respect? Just to make it clear that he didn't think himself to be greater than the man— despite the fact that Yak-a' was higher in rank? Or would it be better to treat the assignment as something mundane and make it known to the ship for the sake of professionalism?

Eventually, Yak-a'Shen stood up from his chair, walked out of the command-bridge, and went to find the Veteran.


Yak-a'Shen had had to ask for directions to Zazin-Vor'mekta's room. As odd as that sounds, a Clan Elder being unable to navigate his own ship. But, as it stands, Yak-a' had only been on this Hunting Ship for less than two terms, and had only needed to leave the Command Bridge twice, so far. He hadn't needed to memorize where every member of the Hunting Ship kept their things or slept— he doubted that any Elder would.

In any case, as he strolled down the hall of the Ship's rear-most dormitory, and approached the door to where Zazin-Vor'mekta resided... he began to hear a strange noise emanate from the inside the room...

It sounded like some variety of music, but he'd never heard anything like it, before. It certainly wasn't a Yautja war chant. Nor was it an Arcturian melody or Water Phantom duet. Not an Amengi chorus, either. Not Drukathi, not Quadran, nor Arragoan. Not Reaper, either. Certainly not Hish-Qu-Ten in origin— the chances of it being from the Hish was slim, since the Hish speak the exact same language as the Yautja (6). And this music was... definitely not of Yautja-Hish origin. Its instrumentals were loud, powerful, and aggressive, yet the foreign voice mixed in was oddly... melodic and smooth. A very strange, very... effective combination.

Since this Hunting Ship was of an older model, what with metal, crimson-bronze floors, walls, and ceilings — along with vapor from excess artificial atmospheric emissions layering the ground, obscuring the floor from view — the walls did less to block out noise between rooms. Thus, Yak-a'Shen was able to easily listen to the strange music filtering through the door before him. Which made him all the more curious.

Yak-a'Shen had studied many, many types of music on his downtime. It had been one of his earliest passions, second only to hunting. He'd examined music from all corners of the galaxy and sampled many types from most sapient organisms that existed in the Great Spiral (7). The music that he heard from Zazin's' quarters didn't match any that he'd studied. The only possible source that it could have come from are the Oomans. He wouldn't know, given that the Oomans are the only species he hadn't examined the music of. For one simple reason: their music was simply far too varied and expansive. He'd long ago put off investigating it, saving it for "last".

If the music that Zazin-Vor'mekta was from Oomans... well, he supposed it wouldn't matter. If anyone had an issue with it, they could simply go to Zazin' and kick up a fuss, themselves. Yak-a'Shen couldn't be sure, yet, though...

Temporarily distracted from his concurrent anxieties, Yak-a'Shen raised a fist and knocked on the metal door thrice. The music almost immediately stopped (just when Yak-a' could have sworn he'd recognized a word or two, just then), leaving only the sound of muffled footsteps. A few seconds later, the door slid open, to reveal the Yautja in question, Zazin-Vor'mekta.
The Spear-Master wore a full set of Phoenix Armor, derived from the hide of a Vy'Drach from Yautja Prime's infernal deserts. An imposing visage, to be sure— large shoulder pauldrons, and a Bio-Mask reminiscent of a jawless skull.

Immediately, Yak-a'Shen felt as though he was out-of-line. Not only was one as young as himself wearing a cape— a sign of his (technically) "well-deserved status", but... well, he... the man was just so much taller than him!
Zazin' stood at least a Nok (8) higher than Yak-a'Shen's comparatively small height of seven-point-six Noks. Probably even more. And while Zazin' may have appeared somewhat lanky — especially when compared to Yak-a'Shen, who had a far more average build — this skinniness belied physical strength that could rival that of an Ahgai'Palak Royal Guard. Granted, Yak-a'Shen could do much the same, but he felt the feat was more impressive in Zazin's' case.

Even now, the metal-and-hide, bronze, full-body set of armor worn by Zazin-Vor'mekta was sleek, and streamlined... yet also covered with various scratches and collateral damage that only served as a reminder of how much more experience Zazin' had.

And now, here Yak-a' was, thinking to give orders to one of the most experienced Ki'cti-pa N'yaka-de's in the Lar'ja'Kte Clan, when he himself only had about half as many trophies as the Yautja before him. A Yautja who, despite being older, was supposedly of lower rank than Yak-a'!
And to think, it wasn't so long ago that Yak-a'Shen was but a Young Blood, and was receiving advice from the very Yautja that stood before him. Yak-a'Shen... the so-called "Elder", the so-called "Clan Leader"... could not help but feel like a pretender when people like Zazin' and beyond would be more capable of the job.

Yak-a'Shen had already prepared for what he suspected might come next. He didn't believe that Zazin-Vor'mekta would remember meeting Yak-a' before. Other than having to explain that, Yak-a'Shen supposed that the Spear-Master would possibly mistake him for one of the Ship's Young Bloods, or perhaps not believe that Yak-a' was a Clan Leader. Which would inevitably warrant an impromptu showcase of the three Kiande Admeha Queen-skulls in Yak-a'Shen's quarters— as well as the four Royal Guard skulls and twenty-or-so Matured Sain'ja (9) skulls. Which would probably make the entire conversation rather tiresome.
As such, Yak-a'Shen felt altogether apprehensive and dour about the affair, fully prepared for the doubt and the questions and the incredulity...

All of that had seemed inevitable... until the next six seconds happened…

Zazin-Vor'mekta, apparently registering who it was that had knocked on his door, suddenly stood a bit straighter. Not exactly "standing at attention" or "saluting"— not the way that an Unblooded was expected to do in the presence of their superiors. But instead, simply... showing a degree of respect. Even the Yautja's voice and tone was inoffensive, as he said, "Oh! Elder Yak-a'Shen. I wasn't expecting your company. Are you in need of something?".

Yak-a'Shen had never been outright insulted or disparaged before, due to his unusually high rank. The most he'd ever received were arrogant remarks from a Young Blood, whom he quickly punished. One could say that he really had nothing to "fear", by doing his job and commanding the way an Elder should. But, for some reason, after Zazin-Vor'mekta addressed him with such deference, and not just a grumbled "yes, sir?"... he suddenly felt a lot better— more confident. He somehow felt as though he'd just been injected with a Health-Shard— a certain jolt of energy. "Galvanized", one could say.

Accordingly, Yak-a'Shen suddenly found himself straightening up, hands meeting behind his back, and speaking in his "Elder voice", a curt, yet impassive, official tone.
He spoke, not putting any particular thought as to what he was saying, "Zazin-Vor'mekta! I was only made aware of your presence on this Hunting Ship a day or two ago, if you can believe it". Yak-a'Shen quickly continued, gesturing vaguely with his right hand, "I wanted to speak to you when I found out, but could not find an opportunity until now".

The Ki'cti-pa N'yaka-de nodded silently, crossing his arms.

"Ah. I see— there must have been some variety of error in the computers... may not have properly registered my transfer to this Hunting Ship...", he said, trailing off. Something seemed to occur to the male, as his head tilted to one side. Looking to the side for a split-second, Zazin-Vor'mekta asked, pensively, "do I... know you from somewhere, sir? You seem familiar".

Yak-a'Shen's voice took on a slightly awkward cadence, gaze shifting downward, as his feet shuffled on the spot, saying, "uh, yes, we, uhm, we have met before— though back then, I was but an Unblooded on Yautja Prime... you...", he brought his eyes back up to Zazin's' Bio-Mask.

"You were giving me and my fellow Unblooded—", he suddenly paused, squinting as he second-guessed himself, "well, at first it was a lecture... then it turned into a full sparring-session… and then you somehow managed to cook up an impromptu tournament, to see which one of us could beat you one-on-one". Yak-a'Shen's voice shined with a small amount of mirth at the memory, a grin pulling his mandibles. The faintest sound of a chuckle could be heard.

Zazin-Vor'mekta's head recoiled in obvious surprise, his waist-length plaits swaying with the movement, "oh, of course! I remember that, now! I was doing a favor for the Matriarch of that village and decided to try my hand at teaching", he remarked at length while nodding, clearly fond of the memory.

Yak-a's' mandibles flexed in surprise, brow raising. He'd... never considered why Zazin' had come to the village, in question, before. He was suddenly very curious, and asked, "a favor? What for?".

Zazin' shifted his weight onto his left leg as he began to explain, "oh, I wanted to purchase an old Plasma Glaive from her. It once belonged to her sire, and she wanted it to be used by an Elite, in honor of his memory, but, at the same time, she also wanted something in return for my taking it. So, instead of money, she had me pay for the Plasma Glaive by...", he waved his hand in a brief, vague gesture (perhaps thinking of the words), "... doing something for her village", he said. Yak-a'Shen nodded in understanding. That would certainly explain why the matriarch had gone to the trouble of watching the entire farce, where before, she'd been a complete recluse...

"So, not knowing what else to do, I went ahead and decided to train the Young Bloods", Zazin' finished, shrugging.

Yak-a'Shen hummed musingly, thinking of something to ask to fill the air, as he'd forgotten quite why he was there— "the Plasma Glaive was used by her father? An antique, then?", he remarked with a feigned, mirthful snort. He did wonder why an Elite like Zazin' would want something so aged.

Zazin-Vor'mekta gestured vaguely off to his left as he responded, "well the issue was, he only managed to purchase a Plasma Glaive at the very end of his life. The man was so old, at the time, that he dropped dead mere units after coming home with the thing", he said, shrugging again, his tone colored with a hint of morbidity.

He continued, "it was in mint condition by the time I received it. I've only managed to use it four or five times, so far, though...", he explained, trailing off while shaking his head, his voice showing a hint of sudden annoyance.

Yak-a'Shen nodded silently— before suddenly remembering his reason for coming here. After a few moments of relative silence, he spoke...

"I think I have the perfect opportunity for you to use it, again ", he stated.


Yak-a'Shen nodded to Zazin-Vor'mekta as the hatch to the tyioe-ti (10) folded upward and sealed closed. A glass shield quickly sealed over doorway to the small escape vessel, stopping the vacuum of space from touching the insides of the ship, as the tyioe-ti ejected from its cradle. The one-man vessel's thrusters activated, and Zazin' was quickly being carried down to the surface of the planet below.

He had listened to Yak-a's plan, and liked the sound of it. The Elite had gathered what equipment he'd need (his Plasma Glaive, a Plasma Caster, a few Proximity Mines, and a Scimitar [11]) and departed immediately.

As Yak-a'Shen walked back to the Command Bridge and sat on his chair, he wondered if his plan would prove to be flawed. He wondered if he was sending Zazin-Vor'mekta to his doom— if he was wrong…

... no. Surely not. Zazin' himself agreed with the plan. Besides, it was his decision to go down there— if he does get killed... well, at least they can't say that I ordered him to do something suicidal. After all... I never gave an "order", he thought, mandibles clicking as he stared out at the void.


Meanwhile...

In the span of forty minutes, Anteros was able to find, both, a first-aid kit and some apples— which he put in a plastic bag. He'd found the first-aid kit in what he could only assume used to be a free clinic. He found the apples inside of a random fridge. As far as he could tell, the abandoned grocery store in which said fridge resided was still wired into a privately-owned back-up generator, which granted the immediate area some limited use of electricity. Whereas, the rest of the Commercial District had... spotty electric power, at best.

He'd been able to find these items so quickly because the apartment in which he'd left Samantha in was a lot closer to said Commercial District. Thus, the trip to and from was fairly short.

As it was, now, Anteros was walking down a hallway of The Apartments, the plastic-cased first-aid kit in his jaws, the plastic bag of apples impaled and hanging from his tail as he held it aloft. He was pretty sure that the direction he was walking in was that of the apartment that Samantha resided in. Hopefully, she was still there.

Anteros had been thinking of what to do after he got back to Samantha and sorted out the wound on her arm— got rid of the Hive Resin and patched it up properly. He supposed he would do his best to make sure that her leg got healed up. They would need to move quickly, in order to find a way off of Guardian-625. How exactly he would get that goal across to her was a mystery to him. And whether or not Samantha would agree to go with him, should he succeed in communicating his intent, was also up for debate.

He hated beings unsure of things...

At times, it annoyed him that he had had to be the "oddball" of his Hive. That he couldn't simply remain utterly transfixed on the needs and goals of the moment, like his Hive-mates. No, instead he had to think rationally and constantly ponder the implications of various turns of events, as well as planning ahead for future possibilities. It was causing him no small amount of stress— stress that could be considered needless, but which he had to deal with anyway. If only he could "rewrite" the Ancestral and have it focus on the goals he actually cared about, instead of the things he didn't...

As Anteros padded down the hall at a semi-brisk pace, head and tail held up in a regal fashion, his claws leaving minute scratches in the carpet, what he knew to be Samantha suddenly became visible in the distance. Her heart, a feint-but-clear blue beacon in an endless ocean of nothingness that he perceived to be the world. His only reference point for things like distance, volume, and depth perception being his echolocation.

As he'd hoped, she had stayed within the apartment, but appeared to be... doing "pushups" on the floor... and she began doing "crunches", as Anteros continued to close the distance between himself and the apartment.

Alright, then... guess she got bored of waiting, he thought.

He wondered if Samantha's go-to response to boredom was to exercise, or if it was simply the only option available to her—

He abruptly stopped walking.

In the next moment, Anteros's pondering mood promptly ended. Like cold water being splashed onto a sleeping cat, his thoughts were instantly overtaken by dread and alarm. He could feel his heart begin to pump blood at an accelerated pace, his veins suddenly burning. Had he possessed eyes, they would have gone wide in shock, as a second "beacon" emerged from the infinite black fog that obscured the limits of his senses. A very bright, very large neuro-electric signal that could only come from one thing, with the way it was moving so quickly towards what appeared to be its destination...

A Hive-mate was making its way to Samantha— a Xenomorph had found her.

It was sprinting on all-fours down the same hallway wherein Anteros walked. On their current paths, both him and the Xenomorph had a straight, face-on trajectory towards the apartment that the Human female was in— completely oblivious to the incoming threat.

If Anteros did not hurry, Samantha would be dead within the next five minutes. And if Anteros intervened, he would make himself a clear and present target for the Hive— there was only one way this could end if he wanted to save her life...

He had a decision to make. Saving Samantha would be a blatant affront to Mother's wishes, and the directive of the Hive as a whole. It would also, undoubtedly, call for blood to be spilled. Either from him, or from this Hive-mate. As it stands, Anteros still had other options. He could simply stop moving— simply stay where he was and allow for the woman to be slain. The Hive-mate and Mother would believe he had no involvement, and he could find a way off of Guardian, on his own...

The Unknown protested the latter course of action, heavily. Not that it needed to. Anteros's decision had already been made, and he knew it. The Ancestral was silent.

The thin, plastic box in Anteros's mouth dropped to the floor as the spot he'd occupied was left vacant— his form already moving at full sprint down the hallway. The bag of apples fell to the floor a second later, spilling its spheroid contents across the carpeted floor.

Anteros charged toward the invading Hive-mate with a fervor and effort that he'd rarely ever exerted— snarling and panting with each bound. His spine and tail straight as a broad, as his legs and feet were reduced to mere blurs of brown beneath him. The image of the Xenomorph in front of him, which was previously but a dot on the horizon, quickly grew in size as he closed the distance. Before three seconds had passed, Anteros had built up speed that could rival a predatory bird in attack-swoop, and had already halved the distance to the apartment.

The invader had stopped running and was about to stand up to its full height in front of the door to the apartment Samantha was in. Two seconds later... Anteros

Not wasting a single newton of energy, he leaped forward— his form a mere flash of amber that soared over a distance of more than five meters. Midair, his right arm brought itself backward, as his left tucked itself against his side.
His right arm launched forward in an overhand swing...

When Anteros's closed fist slammed into the side of the Xenomorph Soldier's head in a downward arc, (his precision worthy of more than a few accolades) it did so with the force of a speeding car. A high-velocity sledge-hammer blow that sent the Xenomorph into an impromptu flight. The hit wouldn't be enough to instantly shatter the Soldier's skull, but it certainly would have made for a nasty concussion. He didn't stop there...

As if with practiced ease, Anteros's legs came forward — naught more than a millisecond after his fist had struck — and kicked, striking the Soldier's ribcage and "kidney-area" with a visceral "crack". Both, allowing him to execute a dropkick, and stopping him from following his target in a tumble. Instead, Anteros dropped to the floor on his back, replacing the invader's previous position in front of the door to the apartment.

A painfully loud screech of surprise and shock came from the Soldier as she was sent tumbling across the floor of the hallway, limbs flailing in every which direction.

Anteros immediately rolled back onto his feet just as the Soldier managed to halt its momentum, and started to gather its senses. She would be dazed, and confused. Normally, Anteros would not have hesitated, and would have taken advantage of the female's current disorientation. But he had something he had to do, first. Anteros stomped forward on his two hind legs with a deliberate, brisk pace.

Just as the Soldier stood to her full height and saw him, Anteros was already standing directly in front of her.

The female Xenomorph Soldier in front of him was alarmed and confused— it did not smell any hostile scents, and therefore did not know where the attack had come from. Anteros patiently waited for his presence to be properly registered by her. She was slouched over and had started drooling at the fact that there was an obvious threat somewhere in the area. But her tail was lashing about in a manner which could only entail extreme confusion.

Her left hand was hovering over the right side of her ribcage. Its claws faintly ghosting over the surface of her exoskeleton before retracting in what looked to be pain. Anteros must have broken one of her ribs with that kick of his.

Eventually, it must have finally clicked in the Soldier's head that Anteros, the Hive-mate in front of her, was responsible for her injury. He could tell because she suddenly became extremely still— even her tail froze in the air and stiffened abruptly. He imagined that such a conclusion was inconceivable to her. And because it confused her, it scared her. The thought of a Hive-mate brazenly attacking another Hive-mate was utterly absurd, in this female's mind. Anteros knew this because thoughts and feelings of distress and internal crisis were being (rather loudly) broadcast from her head. She began to slowly step backwards. He simply advanced, not allowing any distance between the two of them.

Now that Anteros could get a closer look... he knew this Soldier. She was at least three months old, with small spines running down the middle-length of her skull. She was at least seven inches taller than Anteros, and was much more bulky, given her Caste. Anteros remembered her because he'd once been assigned to watch over her as she molted from her Newborn state— due to the majority of the Workers in the Hive being busy with constructing a massive, underground tunnel. He'd once given her the nickname "Gangshi".

She didn't seem to remember him, though...

Almost as soon as Gangshi began backing away from him, Anteros felt a familiar buzzing sensation within his skull. A feeling that once brought him some semblance of comfort, now only brought feelings of derision and paranoia. Mother had noticed, just as he knew she would. She had felt pain and confusion in the Soldier and was going to great mental effort to concentrate and extend her telepathic reach so far.

"Anteros!", he heard her scream at him, from within his own psyche. He'd never heard her deliberately "raise" her "voice" before, least of all in English. She usually just screamed her head off in a roar whenever she got pissed. He had to wonder why she was suddenly putting in an effort to sound animated, now, when on any other occasion, she'd do the bare minimum and end up sounding utterly robotic.

Anteros bared his teeth at Gangshi, knowing that Mother would be seeing through the Soldier as a medium with which to view him, "make this quick, Mother", he responded, curtly, his tail raising over his shoulder.

A wave of overbearing shock and anger pulsed through the Hive-mind, "why did you attack your sister?!", she demanded.

It was then that Mothers' focus suddenly shifted toward the fact that there was a Human being not twenty feet away.

"Capture that human and return to the Hive. Immediately", the Queen ordered. Anteros wasn't sure if she was simply temporarily overlooking his act of aggression, or if the presence of the Human was truly that distracting to her. But it didn't matter.

"I'm afraid I cannot do that, my Queen", Anteros stated impassively. "This Human is off-limits".

Feelings of shock from Gangshi, and unexpected rage from Mother made themselves known to him.

"What is this?!", she demanded, a bit dumbly, apparently not figuring it out, yet.

It was only then that Anteros allowed his previously restrained feelings of contempt for Mother and the Hive to filter through the telepathic link, as he replied to her query. "Do me a favor, Mum...", he mentally spat.

"Don't bother trying to call me again. I'm done with you— and the Hive. You have nothing left to offer me", he said with finality, teeth bared, as he "cut" the mental link that had been established through Gangshi and to Mother.

Like the signing of a contract, and with the speed of a viper, Anteros's tail blade found itself thrusting into Gangshi's sternum, only to burst out of the other side, severing the spinal cord. Anteros's' "sister" was instantaneously rendered a lifeless husk.

The recently-made corpse hung loosely from Anteros's weapon, all appendages going slack as the invader's tail dropped and thumped lightly upon hitting the carpet.

Anteros promptly raised a leg and kicked the corpse away like yesterday's garbage.

Gangshi's corpse dropped to the floor anti-climactically. Instead of a "spread-eagle" position, her body simply fell onto its side. Her limbs continued to twitch, her form curling in on itself, somehow. Her jaws spread open with a sickly creaking sound, and stayed locked wide— her Piston Jaw slowly creeping out from the back of her throat. Her arms spasmed in a sporadic pattern, fingers staying locked in an "attack" position. Acidic blood quickly began seeping in a mild, yet fast current, spilling onto the carpet and overtaking the surrounding air with an acrid sizzling. But not just a "sizzle"— a "burn", a "crackle", and a "hiss", as wisps of barely-visible green vapor sprayed from the disintegrating carpet.

None of that was of any importance to Anteros.

The one detail that did stick with him, however... was the sound. The sound of three-hundred pounds of exoskeleton and muscle hitting the floor. A loud, reverberating "thump" that Anteros could feel vibrate into his feet and up his legs. That one sound found itself replaying over and over in Anteros's' head as he turned, dropped to all fours, and walked away, back toward the apartment. It echoed into nothingness as he got closer to the apartment door.

It was official. He was now a fugitive. Mother would likely send her Soldiers to destroy him.

And he couldn't find any reason to feel particularly strongly about it, one way or the other.

Though, the current situation did present a problem. Anteros's time-table had been shortened significantly— if he was still planning to leave Guardian with Samantha, then his deadline to do so was now extremely short. At most, he'd estimate that they would have two days — maximum — to get the Hell out of dodge. If Mother sent more Soldiers to kill him, he was not entirely convinced that he'd be capable of handling them. He'd managed to kill Gangshi because she was taken completely off-guard. Because she was relatively young, and was nowhere near fully grown.

A fully matured, Carved Soldier, at six months of age, stood at least eight feet tall and had enough strength to completely tear an adult, armored Human male in half. Down the middle. Anteros had witnessed a six-month old Soldier reduce a fireteam of Marines into what can only be called "bloody ribbons". If that.

So... Anteros was not certain he'd be able to handle more than one Carved Soldier at a time.

All the more reason to leave as soon as possible.

He briefly contemplated why he did what he'd just done. Wondered if there had been any other choice. But he found that there wasn't. If he'd simply killed Gangshi before any dialogue could be exchanged, Mother would just send more Soldiers to investigate the area, and they would be very thorough. In which case, fleeing the scene of the crime with Samantha wouldn't be any less difficult than it was, this way.

Speaking of which..., Anteros thought, as he reached the apartment door and stopped to stand in front of it.

Samantha had heard everything. Not the conversation, but, she'd (more or less) heard what had happened. Except, if her racing thoughts were anything to go by, she had no idea who was fighting or who had won. Other than that, the only thing she'd heard were growls and footsteps. And now... she was afraid and paranoid and anxious. Again...


66... 67... 68... 69... 70...

A very thin sheen of sweat shined on Samantha's forehead as she continued doing pushups, staring intently at the green carpet beneath her. The bed to the right of her, and the door to the apartment to her left. She'd spent the past... twenty— twenty-five(?) minutes exercising in the space between the bed and the door.

It had been almost thirty-five minutes since the Amber Demon had left her in the apartment. About ten minutes in, she realized how stupid it was for her to simply sit there and wait— especially when she had had ample opportunity to follow after the creature. She wasn't quite sure what had happened, but her recollection of exactly "why" she'd decided to stay in the room was foggy at best. She supposed that that was what her mother had always meant whenever she made remarks about Samantha's tendency to "space out". Though, Sam never really thought of that as a bad thing. If she was spacing out, it meant that she was thinking really hard. And if she's thinking enough to cause her to become absent-minded, whatever she happened to be thinking about must have been important.

And, in this case, Samantha was confident in the opinion that it was important, this time. To her, at least. She wouldn't dream of trying to say the same for anyone else. She was the kid in middle school who paid more attention to documentaries about insects than she did the latest celebrity news... whoever the Hell that happened to be. And insects were her least favorite subject, so one can imagine how much more time she spent watching things about mammals and reptiles.

Predictably, one can imagine how good of an opportunity it was to her, that she was able to observe and study a God-damned Xenomorph, up close and personal, with zero repercussions! It was a "friendly Xenomorph"— what more of an excuse did she need to start obsessing over the complicated science of xeno-biology? This was everything she could have dreamed of, not so long ago.

... 89... 90... 91...

Of course, now that she'd been stuck in a room with nothing to do but workout for the better part of the last half-hour, she didn't particularly agree with her past-self's motivations, at the moment.

... 99... 100...

Samantha slumped and collapsed on the floor with a grunt of relief, before almost immediately turning over onto her back, bringing up her knees and placing her hands behind her head. She then started doing crunches.

1... 2... 3... 4... 5... 6... 7... 8...

She wondered if doing this was actually going to be beneficial, at this point... she was pretty hungry from going without food for the past three days... and she was about as muscled as she was going to get without higher caloric or carbohydrate intake. Though, she supposed that it was the best way to stave off boredom for the moment. And it would help her get used to how inflamed her left leg was. After doing a bunch of stretches and massaging the limb, she'd found it be less injured than previously thought.

...17... 18... 19... 2—

She froze mid-crunch, hearing rapid thumping sounds to her left. Outside of the apartment. She shot to her feet and backed away to the rear corner of the room, left side of the bed.

What she heard next could be summed up with the words "grunting, growling, thumping, and screeching". First (what Samantha assumed to be the footsteps of a Xenomorph coming down the hallway on the right) abruptly stopped. Then a different set of footsteps came from the left, and also... stopped, before being followed by a loud, alien screech. Two heavy objects seemed to hit the floor at the same time— at least one of them was apparently sent tumbling across the ground, off to the right. More footsteps. For a while, she could hear nothing but feint growls and grunts, before a noise that sounded akin to a hole-punch, putting a circle through a stack of paper, could be picked up. And... faint sizzling. Then more footsteps... which were coming towards the room that she was in.

The footfalls (seemed to) stop in front of the door to the apartment. For a solid seven seconds, nothing happened, before these same footsteps walked down the hallway, to the left, at a slow pace.

Needless to say, Samantha was utterly puzzled. And disturbed— don't forget disturbed. Ever.

She couldn't even begin to ponder exactly what had just happened. Mostly because she knew that trying to imagine what might have happened would drive her bonkers with anxiety...

What she knew for certain was that there was at least one Xenomorph outside of the apartment in which she'd taken refuge, and there was no safe way to know whether the Amber Demon was there. Samantha was now extremely aware of the fact that this "hideout" wasn't even remotely hidden. Not from Xenomorphs.

The actual problem was that she had nowhere to run or go, in case her life was actually in danger. There was no way that the Xenomorph outside the room hadn't detected her, by now.

So, here she was, backed up into a literally corner and gaping like an idiot— trying to figure out what to do.

Which wasn't helped by the sound of footsteps coming back down the outside hallway— louder and faster.


Anteros bent down and picked up the bag of apples and plastic aid-kit. His fingers awkwardly attempted to wrap around the too-small handle of the first-aid kit, before he gave up and simply brought it up to his mouth so he could hold it in his jaws.

His lips peeled back to reveal the shiny-bronze fangs which could crush the plastic package in their grip. Anteros's' legs began to strain from standing upright, forcing him to oblige their discomfort and drop to all fours with a thud.

He raised the apple bag in one hand and used his tail to carry it once again.

He turned on the spot and began walking back towards the apartment.

Anteros... was grouchy. He tended to be given he'd killed a Hive-mate and become a fugitive to his entire species— understandably.

So, one can imagine his frustration at the fact that Samantha had now reverted back to the "paranoid fight-or-flight" state that he'd first found her in. That he'd spent the past two days trying to get her out of.

More fear— more mistrust. Fucking wonderful.

He asked himself how much more time and effort it would take to bring Samantha back to an amicable state. To facilitate the ability to leave the planet with her. He asked himself, honestly, if he would be able to actually do so with his current capabilities.

And he didn't like the result.

Anteros had refrained from trying to speak to Samantha, because he was unwilling to risk any adverse effects. He'd gotten a seizure as a direct result of trying to kill her, then he'd been consumed by murderous intent as a result of someone else trying to kill her. Then, he'd found himself in a similar rage when she had been injured. The idea of something equally bad happening by attempting to telepathically communicate had stopped him from trying, before.

Well... fuck it, I guess. I can't bloody do that, can I? She's gone all twitchy, and there's no real way that I can think of to have her find a way off of Guardian-625. And then take her with me. I'll just have to suck it up and give it a go, he thought.

Anteros began making his way toward the apartment, feet hitting the carpet a bit more forcefully than was necessary.

He stopped in front of the door and dropped the first-aid kit and apples on either side of the doorframe. He stood and reached for the handle.

Now it's time to really say "hello"..., he thought.


Five months ago...

Prometheus found humanity...

The tired man in a worn, old coat was beginning to feel the pain. Nigel Williams found himself reminded that he only had so much time...
As the aches and pains only increased, and as his coughing fits built in frequency and intensity, that same song kept popping back up in his head, again. He wasn't sure why, but any time he was reminded of his mortality, its lyrics echoed in his mind, and his mild fears were assuaged.

"Slaved to a new Black Gold,

Following the beat of the chemical.

Search this electric soul,

Falling at the feat of a pedestal..."

And, as ever, the next few lines refused to materialize in his throat. It was getting a bit annoying.

It had been a few days since the amber Shadow had first spoken to him. For a Xenomorph that had never spoken the language before, the beast learned English remarkably quickly! By Human standards, anyway— apparently, from what he could glean from his new friend, there were no others of his kind that had ever tried the same.
Each day since they had met, the amber Shadow would come back and spend broad swaths of time with him, asking him questions about Humans and Human life. It would occasionally leave to do some task or another, but would always return before more than a few hours passed. From what Nigel could guess: the beast was directing the others of its kind to avoid harvesting him, and to focus on the others in the Hive.

Nigel wasn't sure how to feel about being spared, like that. Being given special treatment. But to a degree, he had the sense that this was important. That playing along was important. On the positive end, he had convinced his new friend to release him of his restraints to allow him to stretch. Nigel still, largely, had to stay put and somewhat act as though he was still secured in his prison whenever other beasts came near, but while the amber Shadow was around: he could enjoy some amount of freedom, at least in the six-foot radius around his spot.
Nigel coughed long and hard, for the umpteenth time that day, feeling his joints scream in protest at the strain of it, before proceeding to ramble...

"We don't really know what happens when we die. We've spent an inordinate amount of time coming up with ideas of what we think might be the case, ever since we first gained awareness— animism, to begin with, then you had the Babylonian pantheons, the Greek and Roman pantheons. Shinto, Norse beliefs, Chinese tradition, the Abrahamic faiths. Bahá'í was a neat one. I think there's at least a few municipalities that support it. Then of course, you've got the Real Lifers and various technophobe cults popping up more recently. The Monastic Order of Arceon tried to bomb a planet back into the stone-age, I believe. The desire to have faith in something... deeper than what we have in our own lives seems only to grow more intense, these days. I don't know that I blame any of them for wanting something better— something that feels real amid all our sterile luxuries and bureaucracy".

The beast replied, after a moment.

"You don't seem to think of these things as `real`. But you also respect them. Greek mythology, in particular. Why?"

Nigel smiled. One of the quirks of telepathic communication, as he'd learned, was that a good half of the explanation was unnecessary. He answered—

"Well, why not respect them? I can't truly know for certain whether any of them are truly the answer, nor that there's even an answer to find. But all of them matter. They all matter because they're Humanity's way of coming to conclusions about questions that every single one of us struggles with. Even in Greek myths, where the explanations can get particularly literal: all of it means something. Any good story will mean something to anyone, no matter how old it is or how far removed it is from your context".

There was a long pause.

"Why aren't you afraid of death?".

Nigel smiled again, though a bit bitterly. It was refreshing to be asked such straight-forward questions by a person who wouldn't judge him, and couldn't judge him.
The amber Shadow had greatly increased its skills in communication. He no longer got headaches, and its voice had developed from a breathless, whispering screech into something like an androgynous teenager.

"I've been ready to die for a long, long while, mate. A rare, debilitating bone-cancer that was only kept in check by implants and medications will do that to you, after a year or so. And there's no real escape for me, here. I either die to the disease, to one of your kind, or giving birth to one of you. No point worrying about the things I can't change or control".
Nigel looked to the beast at his side, "besides, I was more or less coasting before all of this happened, anyway. I have nothing left to do, nothing to give, and nothing to take from this world. And I am very tired".

He coughed again, letting out a long wheeze that felt like it was tearing his throat. He cleared his throat, and scooped some water to drink from a puddle in the crooks of the resin on the floor. He knew full well that his friend could likely sense precisely what he wasn't mentioning.

"Nevertheless, you have questions for me. And I'll stick around to answer them however I can, for whatever time I have left".

There was another long pause. Before the amber Shadow replied...

"Why is Sisyphus supposed to be thought-of as happy?"

Nigel wanted to laugh at the change of subject, and went on to explain...


(1) "Ahgai'Palak" is a Yautja word that I made up— I've always found it odd that the Predators had a word dedicated to describe Humans (other than "Pyode Admeha"), but not Xenomorphs. The terms "Kiande—" and "Pyode Admeha" mean "hard meat" and "soft meat" respectively.
As far as I'm concerned: both phrases are umbrella-terms to describe prey, and how difficult they are to hunt/defeat (or the inherent renown one gets from killing them). The Predators call Humans "Ooman", so I consider it inconceivable that they wouldn't have a term for Xenomorphs, which are a species extremely important to their culture and way-of-life. So, I made one up: Ahgai'Palak, meaning "spiteful-talon".
Yes, they
do call the Xenomorphs "Serpents", but I find it weird that they would even have a word in their language like that, or that they would use it to describe Xenos when Xenomorphs look nothing like any snake, at all, ever.

(2) "Cataclysmic".

(3) I came up with "Units" on a whim, since I couldn't find any measurement of time that Yautja use. For the sake of simplicity, let's just assume that a unit is 100 "earth-seconds", that 50 units makes a Cycle (analogous to an hour), and that twenty-six Cycles is a Yautja Day, with 14 Waking Hours and 12 Dormant Hours. And that they communicate time-of-day with: X•XX Active or Passive, which... would essentially be more or less the same as #:## A.M or P.M.

(4) Rough translation of "Dark Blade". Those of you who bother to do extensive research will know that the Dark Blade Clan is the one in which Scar, Celtic, Chopper, and Scarface are in.

(5) "Spear Master".

(6) If anyone's wondering why I'm referencing the atrocity known as "Predator: Forever Midnight", it's because I find the idea of the Amengi's existence and enslavement to the Super Predators perfectly acceptable. I also believe that "Hish-Qu-Ten" should be the "name" of the Super Predators. Given how it allegedly means "people who take territory", it seemed to fit with the "Super Predator M.O".

(7) What I imagine the Yautja would call the Milky Way galaxy.

(8) A "Nok" is a unit of measurement, roughly equivalent to thirteen human inches.

(9) "Sain'ja" means "warrior".

(10) "Escape Pod".

[11] Note, "Scimitar" does not mean a hand-held sword. It was seen in the AVP movie— it's basically a longer, thicker wrist blade which can't retract inside of one's gauntlet, and instead simply slides up and down the forearm.

So… the Yautja are finally here! Hurrah!