“As if being stranded on an alien planet wasn’t bad enough,” groused the lanky blond-haired man standing next to Perry, one Michael Liberty, if he recalled correctly.
And really, the platypus had to agree. Despite the various horrors he had glimpsed while wandering the halls of one of Syntech’s fine space-faring vessels, nothing could have prepared him for the sight of yet another friend being brutally ripped to bits by a monstrous alien. But this… this was truly something else.
Droog sneered in the face of the other survivor’s collective scrutiny, the midnight black of his shimmering carapace stained with blood— some of it his very own, mind you, but the rest indubitably came from the shredded carcass of their fallen feathered friend, her lifeblood slicking down the carapacian’s front in thick, syrupy droplets. His bared teeth, Perry noted with the type of special attention only a prey animal could manage, were perfectly jagged and shark-like, the points glistening wetly with viscous crimson fluid.
Now, Perry was only a platypus. What’s more, he was a genuine Australian by birth. Thus, he was intimately familiar with how Mother Nature tended to work. Unfortunately, he was also quite domesticated. After years of living in the States and being trained from a young age to carry out tasks no reasonable person would expect of an ordinary semi-aquatic mammal, Perry had grown accustomed to a life of comfort and rationality.
Nothing about Droog crouched over the remains of Perry’s friend, gore and other disgusting giblets dribbling from his fanged mouth, was comforting or rational. But, again, Perry’s genetic code was literally programmed to handle seeing his fuzzy little animal friends torn apart. He could bear it, and use his training to—
A crunching of leaves came from behind Perry. So strange, that something as mundane as a leaf should exist on an alien planet, but that wasn’t the main focus of Perry’s attention at the moment. No, the primary focus of his attention was the sight of Misha shifting onto his feet from where he’d been leaning against a tree, the dour look on his face seeming carved from the most unforgiving of granite slabs.
The once cheerful Russian man slowly glanced around, committing the carnage strewn about the forested area to memory. The sadness had left, and rather than the ferocious fury Perry might have expected to erupt from his fellow mercenary, there existed the considering look of a cold-blooded killer, a kind of dead-eyed stare that Perry had only caught the faintest glimpses of when they had battled their way out from the dankest, darkest bowels of the Ark.
It occurred to Perry, then, as he watched Misha take one great, lumbering step forward, then another, the deep lacerations across his body seeming to trouble him very little overall, that Misha had all the marks of a family man. While the man was not a gentle giant by any means, his broad smiles and reassurances had proven to be more than enough to bolster their small party to the escape shuttle. His willingness to place himself in harm’s way to defend Della, and in general to act as a broad-shouldered wall of meat and bone between Syntech’s employees and danger, cemented his image in Perry’s mind as a protector, not unlike a mama grizzly bear with her cubs.
And now… well. Now, it seemed that Diamonds Droog had awakened that bear.
There was a strange glint in Misha’s eyes, though a shadow had fallen over his features. Not happiness— for who could show joy in the aftermath of such great loss?— but something much darker. Matching the man’s gaze was like being caught between the jaws of rage incarnate, where no sane man would ever wish to find himself.
The heavy weapons specialist’s signature minigun lay forgotten upon the ground as Misha’s weighty, ponderous footfalls brought him closer to his target. His body leant forward, like a hound on the scent, or perhaps a mad bull preparing for his thunderous charge.
“So. Little insect-man thinks he can trick me? Pretend to be different from mouse-man?” the large Russian asked. A resounding crrrck-ckk-ckk! rang out as he cracked his knuckles, like the sound of dry kindling popping in a campfire. “We will see.”
Droog, having already risen to his feet at Heavy’s approach, only scowled further. Though he was intimidatingly tall to someone of Perry’s diminutive size, he had absolutely nothing on the Russian behemoth bearing down on him.
Despite this, the carapacian’s clawed fingers flexed at his sides, his milky white eyes narrowing down to murderous slits. Even if he appeared unarmed, it was clear that he wouldn’t go down without a fight. It was almost admirable, really, and if Droog hadn’t just been chowing down on his friend’s remains moments before, Perry might’ve considered it a real David and Goliath scenario.
“Who’s pretendin’?” Droog drawled, one claw-tipped finger picking at a piece of—eugh—gristle caught in his frighteningly sharp teeth. “I’m not one of those disgusting things, if that’s what you’re suggestin’.”
Heavy chuckled. It was not a pleasant sound. “Then you will be simple to crush, bug.”
Perry’s eyes widened, darting between the two survivors squaring off. An out-of-his-gourd gangster versus an equally deranged, grief-driven mercenary… yes, this could only end well.
It was only when Misha had drawn within ten or so paces of Droog that a light weight landed on his arm. Turning his head with an agonizingly deliberate slowness, the Russian beheld one Ronny Syntech, the much smaller man’s hand placed in a staying manner on his arm. It was enough to give him reason to pause, a slight crease appearing between his brows.
Seeming about ready to shake to pieces, Ronny shook his head. “I-I won’t let you do this, Mr. Mikhail. It wouldn’t do for someone contracted by Syntech to attack a civilian, even if he is acting a bit… erm… off. Think of the potential assault and personal injury lawsuit!”
At first, the mercenary seemed fully prepared to shake the lawyer’s grip from his massive bicep, even going so far as to curl his lip at him in clear aggression. Finally, though, the mercenary relaxed enough for Ronny to feel comfortable about letting go of him.
Throwing a sharp glare at the still wary and watching Droog, Misha emitted an ugly rumble of a laugh. “A stain under my boot will not press charges.”
For a moment, Ronny seemed to actually consider that as a valid defense. Thankfully, he snapped out of it with a shake of his head. “No, no, let’s not be hasty now. That’s— we can’t do that. We don’t know for certain if he’s one of those… creatures,” Ronny added, shuddering.
“Can’t!” the large Russian exclaimed, throwing his hands into the air. He jabbed one meaty finger into Ronny’s face; the other man eyed it warily, certain that the merc could brain him with a single flick, but Heavy only continued to rage. “Can’t?! Only babies would say such things. We crashed on strange planet, our friend Duck is dead, and I am surrounded by BABIES!”
Finished with this declaration, Misha made to lumber toward Droog once more, ignoring Ronny’s stuttered protests and feeble attempts to physically stop him, when a dreadful, bone-chilling screech came from somewhere beyond their little cluster at the center of the forest, the cry echoing through the trees with all the subtlety of a gunshot.
All activity in the clearing immediately ceased. Heavy’s steps ground to a halt, and even Droog paused in his hateful glaring to glance around, shoulders hunched. Each survivor seemed to hold their breath, eyes turned to the foliage around them— waiting for what, Perry did not know. A repeat appearance of the alien that had attacked them earlier, perhaps, or maybe an entirely new bestial menace to contend with. Whatever it was, it seemed to have fallen silent once more… possibly content to continue the hunt now that its targets had stopped causing such a racket, Perry imagined.
Perry’s gaze flicked to Misha, searching his face for some clue to his thoughts. His fellow merc met his eyes for the first time since Della’s demise, a strangely somber expression worming its way onto Misha’s face, and the platypus tipped his fedora in return.
A silent understanding passed between the two hirelings: they still had people to protect. Liberty and Syntech were counting on them. If Droog was left behind or injured in the process… well. There had been many great losses today; what was one more?
The heavy weapons specialist turned a fierce glower on said Dersite, who seemed to have grown less tense in the meantime, for he promptly stiffened as Misha’s glare returned in full force.
“I am not done with you yet,” said Misha. “And I do not forget.”
“And this is me not giving a fuck,” spat Droog. He had the good sense, however, to step away from the bloody chunk of flesh he’d been partaking of, though he eyed it hungrily after.
Perry made a mental note to avoid that guy, considering he had a taste for small critters now.
Snorting aloud, Heavy walked over to pick up Sasha, the familiar weight of the minigun settling comfortingly in his grip. His eyes travelled downward, catching sight of some of Della’s bloody remains. A heavy sigh gusted from his chest, his proud shoulders falling into a dejected slump.
“There is no time for proper burial,” he said, casting a cautious look at the quiet trees around them, every faint rustle of leaves arousing suspicion and terror. “The monster hunts us as we speak. But I will say few words from book I once read.”
Misha knelt down on the ground, placing one palm flat to the earth. His eyes closed, a sad smile on his face. “‘One thanks some people for being alive at same time; I thank you for having met me, for being able to remember you all my life.’”
Perry removed his fedora, holding it flat to his breast with great solemnity. He only replaced it upon his head when Misha was on his feet once more, a new and unsettling light flashing in his eyes.
The platypus sighed softly. This… could only get worse.