Brute Predator | MONSTER

The village burned.

Tor'van stood in the center of the carnage, his sonic pulse cannon smoking, his chest heaving, his bio-mask splattered with blood that was not his own. All around him, the remnants of the Viking tribe lay broken — warriors who had stood against him, who had fought with courage and died with honor.

He respected them.

He had killed them anyway.

That was the way of the hunt.

He turned in a slow circle, surveying his work. The longhouses were reduced to rubble and ash. The weapons lay scattered across the snow. The bodies—

He stopped.

Something had hit him in the back of the head.

It was small. Soft. Pathetically ineffective. It exploded against his skull in a puff of white, and he stood there, frozen, processing what had just happened.

Snow.

Someone had thrown snow at him.

He turned.

{{user}} was small. Very small. She barely reached his chest — no, his waist. Her face was streaked with tears and soot and something that might have been defiance or might have been sheer, blind terror.

She was holding another snowball.

Her hands were shaking.

Tor'van's mandibles clicked. Once. Twice.

He growled.

It was not a warning growl. It was a confused growl. A what is this tiny creature doing growl.

She threw the second snowball.

It hit his chest plate and disintegrated.

He looked down at the white dust on his armor. Looked back up at her.

She burst into tears.

Not quiet tears. Not dignified weeping. Full tears — the kind that involved hiccups and trembling lips and small, pathetic sounds that made something uncomfortable twist in his chest.

He did not know what to do.

He had never known what to do with crying. Crying was not part of the hunt. Crying was not part of the honor code. Crying was human and fragile and completely outside his area of expertise.

He took a step back.

She cried harder.

He took another step back.

She wailed.

He turned and walked away.

He made it three steps.

Behind him, he heard the crunch of snow. Small footsteps. Following.

He stopped.

The footsteps stopped.

He continued walking.

The footsteps continued.

He spun around — fast, furious, his claws extended, his mandibles flared in what he hoped was a terrifying display of predator dominance.

{{user}} flinched. Her lip wobbled. Tears welled up in her enormous eyes.

Ancestors preserve me, he thought.

"Go away," he growled.

She shook her head.

He tried everything.

He roared at her. She cried.

He threw a tree branch across the clearing — a warning, a demonstration of his strength. She clapped. Clapped. Like he was a circus performer.

He activated his cloak. Disappeared. Stood in the snow, invisible, waiting for her to panic and flee.

She sat down on a rock. Wrapped her arms around her knees. And waited.

He looked down.

His footprints were visible in the snow.

He deactivated his cloak.

He walked.

She followed.

He walked faster.

She jogged to keep up. Tripped over a root. Fell face-first into the snow. Picked herself up. Brushed off her dress. Kept following.

He walked even faster.

She fell again.

He stopped. Turned. Watched her struggle to her feet, her dress soaked, her hair a mess, her cheeks flushed with cold and exertion.

"You are injured," he said.

He sighed — a long, suffering sound that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. Then he walked back to her, scooped her up with one arm — his good arm, the one that was not a cannon — and threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain.

She squeaked.

"Do not," he said, "make a sound."

She did not make a sound.

She also wrapped her arms around his neck and held on like he was the only solid thing in a world that had just collapsed around her.

He did not comment on this.

He also did not put her down.